I sighed looking down at the bold type on the document in front of me, “Last Will and Testament of Arlene K. Stubbs”
It wasn’t that I was particularly sad, I was just…tired. Arlene was a difficult woman; hard, taciturn and rude beyond all measure. She was my mother’s client for two decades and then became mine upon Mother’s passing. She flew into my office, a cloud of old-lady perfume, long since recalled for safety reasons and mothballs. She sniffed when she saw me and I imagined that I looked like a child cosplaying a lawyer behind Mother’s heavy oak desk. I was fresh out of law school and green, boy was I green. I had never taken a case or client before and I was so excited to show my skills that I eagerly introduced myself to Arlene, jumping up and holding out my hand.
“Celia Grover, ma’am, so happy to–”
“I do not need to know your name, child. Are you sure that you can handle my finances and fortune without blowing it all like a dime-store hooker? Look at that lipstick, my goodness. You look like a cheap version of your mother. Wipe that off and let me know when to re-enter, lest the floozy seep across the room and sully my things.”
And she was off again.
I stood in stunned silence. Mother had told me what a hard person she was but this was beyond the expectations she set for me. As I wiped off the offensive lipstick, I wondered idly if she was maybe grieving Mother’s loss and things would perhaps get better with time, when I was able to prove myself.
Spoiler alert, they did not. While I got better at handling Arlene, or Miss Arlene as she barked at me to call her, never allowing her name to fall so casually out of my mouth, she stayed the same rude and overbearing woman I assume she always had been.
When she outlined her will for me months ago, I was shocked at the emptiness. I knew she had children and “loved” ones (if Arlene was capable of love) but…they weren’t listed beyond a requisite $1 left to each with the note, “May it disappoint you like you’ve disappointed me.” Ouch.
I knew from our many conversations during the drafting that her children all left her as soon as they were able. Some enlisted in the military while others just fled, spreading to the winds like dandelion seeds escaping the weed that they were born attached to. She had four overall and I didn’t really expect to see any of them. Usually, wills could bring people from the woodwork, clamoring for their slice of the pie but I had a gut feeling that the children all knew what their mother was and did not expect such a windfall.
What I was surprised to see, what had not been there before…was my own name.
To Celia Grover, I leave the sum of $50,000 and a letter that has been entrusted to your secretary. You were a blemish to your mother’s great legacy but I appreciate your help in my final years. Take this and try not to blow it on cheap makeup.
I rolled my eyes but stood nonetheless to retrieve the letter from Fredericka. Once back in my office with the door shut, I sat and opened the letter. My stomach curdled with each further paragraph and I felt sick disbelief wash over me.
“Celia,
Despite the quite frankly, generous gift I have left you, I find myself still annoyed with you. Is that a new feeling, Celia? I imagine not.
Here I suppose I should ask if I ever told you the stories of my younger years but I know I have not. Your mother knew them and she was a lovely woman, a vault so I know she did not spill them to you herself.
When I was in my late 30s, full of naivety and the newness of motherhood, my late husband, Charles, took me to New Orleans for the weekend. I was so excited but so afraid to leave my babies behind. It’s laughable now, that I ever loved them so much but I did. They were small and incapable of guile and I loved my babies and couldn’t wait to return to them but Charles swore we needed this break.
He dragged me through the streets and I marveled at the sights. How beautiful it all was! How nice and different from our small town! But still, I missed home.
Finally, he pulls me into a hoodoo woman’s shop. She was a big woman, taller than Charles even and he was no slouch. She tried to touch me, Celia, shake my hand but I recoiled. Who did she think she was? Why would someone of her standing try to place hands upon me? Arlene Stubbs! How audacious of her.
That was my mistake, Celia. That was the one that changed everything.
The hoodoo woman narrowed her eyes and hissed at me, questioning why I moved back. She accused me of being classist, racist, sexist, all of it and all I could do was stammer. No one ever talked like this to me before. I never had to explain myself to anyone, no matter their standing.
Charles drew himself up to full height and assured her no, his wife was just nervous but she wouldn’t have it. She must have seen something in me that even I didn’t know was there.
She glared at me and said, “Ya like judgin’ people? You enjoy makin’ them feel less than?”
I shook my head frantically but what was done, was done.
I never knew a moment of happiness again, Celia.
I couldn’t look at my babies and smile anymore. All I could see were the ways they would grow to disappoint and hurt me.
In that time, you didn’t marry for love but I got lucky and managed to love Charles, grateful for all the ways he provided for me. From that point however, I hated him. I would scream if he tried to touch me and foul words would spill from my mouth without my control. He would try to reason with me and get me to hold my babies again but nothing worked. Their touch felt like a burning iron and I wanted them away from me. I finally got my wish after years of my abuse drove all of them, even Charles, away.
I tell you this, because months into this affliction, I went back to the hoodoo woman and you know what she did, Celia? She laughed. She laughed and laughed and told me that I would only find peace in death. But she also told me…she would lessen the pain I felt if I swore to pass it on upon my death. It would be as simple as me passing it to another, leaving it like an inheritance.
$50,000 is nothing to sneeze at but I am afraid it is only to be a balm on what comes next.
That is my final “gift” to you. This…curse that I have lived with and that has stolen my family from me.
I may have been judgmental and a tad bigoted in my younger years but I would have shook that woman’s hand in an instant if I knew what was coming, Celia, I swear it. I would have hugged her and offered her all my money and diamonds but I can’t. All I can do is sit and wait to die alone, solitary in my punishment.
I judged her harshly, Celia, so she made it to where people would not only feel my judgments but hear them, too. She made me a villain in a place where women were to be seen, not heard. But now all I am is heard. All I am is hated.
May you figure out how to stop this. I would love to say that I am sorry for doing this to you but I think you know that I can’t muster up the remorse. If you don’t know this now, well…you will.
Arlene K. Stubbs
Finally Free”
I wanted to laugh it all off and throw the letter in the trash but something in me believed her for a minute. I always wanted to see the good in people and this would help me continue to do that, if I could believe that Arlene wasn’t so hateful by choice but I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to burn the letter and run home and bury my face in my husband’s chest. I wanted to tell him about her letter and have him laugh it off and tell me that this wasn’t real, it was just an ornery bitch’s last attempt at cruelty from beyond the grave.
I looked at the clock and it was barely 11 but I knew Michael would be home. Since the pandemic started, he was working from home, a luxury I also sometimes indulged in. I checked my schedule and saw that my day was empty past the reading of the will but it was scheduled for 10am and lo and behold, no one came. I packed my things and went home, informing Fredericka of my early departure.
When I arrived home, I searched for Mike, wanting him to comfort me. I found him in his office, typing away and before I could feel relief, I felt…anger. Why is he just sitting here, a useless lump? When I walked past the kitchen, I saw a dish in the sink and this fool is sitting here, letting it rot and fester.
I hear my voice coldly say, “Did you plan on doing anything worthwhile today or were you going to let the rancid dishes in the sink collect bugs all day?”
His jaw drops, his smile at my arrival wiped away. I clasp a hand to my mouth and try to apologize but all that comes out is, “Don’t stare at me like an idiot, answer me. Or are you suddenly too stupid to form words?”
He looks as if I have slapped him and I feel as if I have. I rush forward and try to hug him, stammering out apologies but he shoves me away. His slight touch hurts as if he branded me with his skin. I run to my satchel and pull out the letter, racing back to try to give it to him but the office door is shut…and locked. I sob outside the door and finally think to text him, send him a message about it and thankfully, the curse lets me do it. He sends back a brief “k” but all I can hope is that he listens and tries to help me. Arlene never said if she tried to explain to people what happened but I don’t think she did. Maybe she just had more hate inside of her.
I go into the bathroom to wash my face with cool water and try to get a grip on myself but in the mirror, all I can see is a twisted, mean smile on my face. My eyes are manic and I look possessed. I wonder what Michael saw when I stormed in to berate him and I cry but the smile stays. Tears gather on my cheeks that are now sore from how wide my lips are stretched. My eyes are dry and painful and I want to rip them out and never see my face like this again. I want to scream and beg this to stop. Arlene lived like this for many years, abusing people until she was alone. She said the pain was so bad until she took the deal, agreeing to pass it on like some fucked-up chain letter from the 90’s.
I am so terrified that this will never be gone, that I will be doomed for the sin, of what?
Being too happy when I first met Arlene? Being too “cheap” looking? What did I do to deserve this fear, this terror when this is only the first day?
I need to find the woman and if I can’t find her, then I need to find someone, anyone to help me. I need to fix this. I don’t want to become Arlene.
I lay on the couch all evening, afraid to go into my bedroom and see my face in my vanity. I didn’t want to run into Michael and spew more filth at him so when he finally emerged from the office, he just nodded at me and asked me to keep my mouth shut. He told me that he would help me find out what we need to know about this “curse” but if it turned out to just be some weird elaborate scheme or mental breakdown on my part, he would leave me so fast, my head would spin. I was lucky, so lucky that Michael believed me, even in his reluctance to do so.
I nodded in agreement and pulled my phone out, sending texts in lieu of talking. I began to fire questions at him, the vibrations of his alerts not fully completed from one message before another was through.
He held up his hand and said. “Have you…seen your face today?”
I shook my head no and cocked my head to the side, hopefully conveying my confusion. He pointed to the bathroom and as I walked by him, he reached out to tentatively rub my arm. It hurt so badly, I screamed and he jumped. Tears welled in my eyes and looking down, my arm was red and raw like he had taken a cheese grater to it with his touch. His eyes widened and I could see the beginnings of belief take form in them. He was now seeing with his own eyes what this curse was doing to me.
Looking into the mirror, I once again screamed.
My eyes were bloodshot to hell, redder than I have ever seen them. Bruises bloomed from around my eyes, darkening my face with purple splotches. My lips were cracked and bleeding at the edges, sore and chafed from hours of manic smiling. My cheeks were beginning to bruise as well, whether from how far they were stretched or just another “bonus” of the curse, I don’t know but I looked like I had gone five rounds with a heavyweight champion and lost.
Tears continued to fall and sting in the broken skin of my face. I was so fucking scared and all I could do was smile. All I could see in the mirror was a monster, a woman who was paying the price for stumbling into the wrong place at the exactly wrong time.
Had my mother not succumbed to her cancer, would she still be here? Would she be the one dealing with Arlene’s final and possibly only “gift”? Would I be able to bear hearing my mother say the things to me that I said to my husband? I don’t think I could but the sick part of me, an insidious flower growing in my brain whispers, “She did it on purpose. She wanted you to suffer. She wanted you to be left to deal with Arlene alone. Maybe she wasn’t even sick.”
I whimper and clamp hands down over my ears and I can see Mike behind me in the mirror, looking horrified and worried. He can’t deny me for much longer, not when I am like this. He steps forward, stopping himself from touching me and asks me to speak. He says we need to know how deep this goes and if I can say anything without the curse affecting what I say. I search my brain for something harmless and finally settle on, “The weather should be okay today…”
He sighs in relief but I continue, “…if you can drag your fat ass out of the house to mow the lawn like I asked you to five days ago.”
Once again, his jaw is on the floor and I can see the hurt on his face. I grab my phone with shaky hands from where I set it on the counter and text him that I am so sorry, I don’t mean it.
He tries to muster a smile but it’s fake-looking, even to me. He goes into the kitchen and sets an ice pack on the counter, telling me that it’s for me. I appreciate the care that goes into not handing it to me himself.
The voice is back, “Or maybe…you disgust him. He hates you and can’t bear to touch your oily, disgusting skin. You should tell him that you prefer his brother. Tell him that he will never compare to Brandon.”
I am horrified at the direction my thoughts take. Brandon is a sore spot, the golden child to my husband’s black sheep. Mike knows that this isn’t my fault but…I don’t know if he can even shrug off insults that hit him so deeply.
I’m hunched at the counter, steeling my body like I can keep the words in. They struggle to come out anyway. “…urk…Brand…on…”
Mike raises an eyebrow, “Were you going to say something hurtful about Brandon?”
I nod and I am still fighting myself to hold it back. It hurts, like cramps seizing through my body.
“Go into the garage, I’ll go into the bedroom and turn the tv on. Say what you need to and come back in. I’ll text you when you can begin.”
What a smart idea!
“…from an idiot.” the voice hisses in my head.
I run to the garage and once I receive the go-ahead, I let it all out. I go on and on about Michael’s shortcomings, his height, his weight, his job, everything. It continues for what feels like an eternity and finally I can breathe again. It wasn’t a perfect solution but it worked for now. I feel like…I was craving a specific food, so badly. Like I wanted street tacos, covered in cotija cheese and cilantro, dripping in verde sauce…and I got taco bell. It was a valiant attempt to make it work but this isn’t going to be able to go on forever and I don’t know if, in the end, giving myself the fast food version of cruelty is going to work as well as the real thing.
I wish that Arlene was here to explain further and then I laugh. I wonder how long it’s been since anyone has wished for Arlene’s presence. Probably since the New Orleans trip.
New Orleans! I need to go there!
I go inside and shove my phone in Mike’s face once I reach him, gesturing that I need to go to where it started. He wearily looks at my phone and nods, agreeing to take the time off of work to accompany me so I don’t go off on any airline employees. It would probably be safer to drive but I don’t trust myself to do the 9 hour trip without berating Mike for something on the way.
We pack our things and though it costs an absurd amount to get a last-minute flight out, we manage it, due to the amount of money from Arlene that I forgot about in the midst of what I have taken to calling “my possession” in my head.
I cover my face in foundation and concealer, managing to somewhat hide the purple appearance but my mouth is another thing. I put a mask on and hope no one needs to see my face further under my sunglasses and n95.
We almost make it through the airport incident-free before I run into an obstacle. Mike has to pull me away from a young desk clerk that I have reduced to tears, spewing my backed-up vitriol at her. I don’t know how Arlene handled this for so long without being banned from everywhere she went, though I suppose some of her massive fortune played a part in her being able to still visit places.
We arrive in New Orleans and run to the voodoo district and I am beginning to once again feel full of hate and I am shaking with the strain of holding it in. I duck into a portapotty at one spot and scream, no doubt scaring the shit out of any passersby.
We reach a tall building, a gorgeous Victorian-style house that reads, “Madame LaFleur’s House of Worship” on the outside and go in. It’s dark and the sweet smell of incense tickles my nose and my eyes water from the smokiness of the air. We find a woman sitting at a table and I let myself feel some small relief breaking through my ever-present fear that maybe, just maybe, she can fix this.
Mike explains the situation to her while I bite down so hard on my already torn lips, I taste more blood flood my mouth. If I ever get this fixed, I fear I will have a Chelsea smile forever.
The woman leans forward and I can see in the dim light that she’s beautiful but older, her wrinkles enhancing her face rather than pulling away from it. She’s larger and when she stands to stretch and walk closer, she’s so tall, she towers over my small frame. She reaches out and pulls my mask and sunglasses off and the slight brush of her fingers burns more than any other touch has.
She tuts and tries to hide a small smile, “So Arlene got to ya, did she?”
Her slow, accented voice washes over me and I nod, feeling shame that I let this happen to me. I feel almost comfortable with her, safe until Mike asks if there is anything she can do to help me, telling her that I don’t deserve this. I want to lean into her touch, even though I know it’ll hurt but when she laughs at Mike, I know that this is without a doubt, the woman who laughed at Arlene so long ago.
“Naw, there isn’t really anythin’ I can do for you two. You let her get her hooks in, you’re gonna have to pay for that one yourselves.”
I’m indignant and full of rage, “Listen here, I did not let that monster do anything to me! My mother, the useless waste she was, gave her to me as the worst fucking present I have ever known. FIX. ME.”
Madame LaFleur smiles and sighs, “There it is. Don’t you feel better now?”
She croons and leans in closer, her nose almost to mine, “Feel it wash over you, pulling you down into the watery depths of self-loathing. Let her words fill you and guide you to the loneliness…”
I am starting to sink down into the pools of hatred I have been avoiding putting even a toe into when Mike yanks me away from her and I burn all over. I screech and he yells, “ENOUGH!”
I’m back to myself and I pull my phone out through the pain and type out, “You helped her. Please help me.”
Madame LaFleur throws her head back and laughs, a full rich sound that hugs me in my anguish, “Do what she did, then. Promise to pass it on when you’re gone and I’ll help ya.”
I wanted to say no, I did. I promise you that I did but…
I had been living in hell for a full day now and I couldn’t keep doing this. I can’t lose my husband and my dreams of having children and grandchildren. So I agreed. I shook her hand and she smiled at me and all over again, I felt entranced by her beauty.
We went home, sitting in silence. It was easier to keep the words down, though my tone often had a bite to it. My face was beginning to heal a bit though I can see thin lines sinking into my skin where my mouth was cracking.
I tell you all of this because…when I die, I need to know that the people I pass it onto will know. I need to know my pain wasn’t just in vain. I want you to know that this isn’t normally who I am and if I wasn’t so fucking terrified of what I would become, of what would happen to me to even further deteriorate my mind and body…I wouldn’t have taken the deal. But I am. I am afraid and I have to be selfish and do anything I can. Even after taking the deal, I’m still terrified that it won’t work. I am scared that a version of me is waiting to pop out and snatch anyone else’s happiness and ruin my chances at a somewhat normal life.
When I shook that woman’s hand, I had the thought that if one person receiving my curse would help my pain…maybe even more could make it a mere irritant versus a lifelong misery. For this, I want to say I’m sorry. I want to show remorse but I think you know that I can’t, not honestly.
And if you don’t know that…you will.