Mourning Melanie by Ronald Schulte

The whistle from the teakettle jolted Gloria awake. She hadn’t meant to nod off like that, with the hot stove and all, but the funeral had sapped every last ounce of her energy. Even after changing into dry clothes she still felt damp from the relentless drizzle she’d endured at the cemetery. Now all she wanted was put her feet up and relax.

Before she poured the hot water into her mug, she plucked out the tea bag and held it to her nose. She could smell cinnamon, orange zest, hints of licorice. The tea was homemade; she’d found the small canister of tea bags amongst the pile of offerings from all of the well-meaning family and neighbors. She was swimming in a pile of fruits, meals, snacks, desserts, and drinks that she’d never finish. But the tea was a nice touch; she’d run out of her favorites, and hadn’t made it to the store for more. It would do for tonight.

As she carried her steaming mug back to the recliner, Gloria reflected on how alone she truly was. There was no one left. She’d buried her husband years ago. Then it had been Lola, the family’s beloved cat. Burying her daughter today was the final straw. It was more than anyone should have to bear.

With her feet up and comfortably tucked under her warmest blanket, Gloria cradled the mug in her hands for a while, letting the warmth radiate through her fingers, her palms, her wrists. She lifted the mug closer to her face, hesitating long enough to savor the aroma and the warmth of the steam on her cheeks. Finally, she brought the mug to her lips. She shuddered as the tea moved down her throat, through her chest, into her stomach, warming her from the inside out. She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

When she opened her eyes, her daughter was standing in front of her.

Gloria screamed. She dropped the mug into her lap, scalding her thighs. She threw herself out of the chair and ran into the kitchen. She ducked behind the island in the center of the room and grabbed a frying pan from the cabinet underneath.

“You needn’t hide, mother. I can’t hurt you.”

The voice pierced Gloria’s soul, sent shivers down her spine. Had she popped the wrong meds again? Gloria tried to slow her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It was the stress. Had to be.

“Won’t you speak to me, mother?”

Not the stress, then. Gloria slowly stood up, shaking like a leaf now. She was covered in sweat. Her stomach was all clenched up in a knot. She wanted to vomit.

She forced her eyes up, away from the floor. The tears came on suddenly, silently, unbidden.

“Are you sad, mother?”

Melanie looked just as Gloria would want to remember her. This was the young vibrant Melanie, the Melanie from before, the Melanie that wasn’t emaciated and consumed with sickness.

“You aren’t here. You’re dead. You’re dead!”

“Yes, mother. I’m dead. But I’m here. Are you sad?”

“Of course I’m sad! My little girl is dead! I’m all alone now!”

“You aren’t alone, mother. I’m here. Besides, why are you sad? Isn’t this what you wanted? Why would you kill me if you didn’t want to be alone?”

A terrible cramp clenched Gloria’s gut in reaction to Melanie’s question.

“Kill you? Oh sweetheart. What a terrible thing to say. It was the sickness, that god-awful sickness. I tried everything to save you…”

“It’s okay, mother. You don’t need to lie anymore. You know, I always thought it was strange that you gave me the same medicine that you used to give Lola, the same poison that eventually killed her. I asked Daddy if you used the same stuff on him. He said no, but close enough. Why did you hate us so much, mother?”

Gloria vomited onto the countertop. As she wiped her mouth, she realized that she’d vomited mostly blood. She clutched the frying pan in both hands and tried to work her way around the island, toward Melanie. Gloria made it two steps before a spasm of pain ripped through her body. She collapsed, dropping the frying pan and sending it skittering across the hardwood floor. Melanie watched impassively as Gloria’s body convulsed.

“Know why you can see me, mother? I talked to Aunt Fiona after I died. Everyone thinks she’s a nut, but she really does have the gift. A real-life witch! Can you imagine? Those tea bags she made you are special. They contain a few pinches of my ashes, you know. That’s why you can see me.”

Gloria tried to get back to her feet but she could no longer move her legs. She could barely breathe. The pain was unbearable. Her vision started to blur.

“There’s another special ingredient in the tea, mother. I think you know what it is. I told her not to, but Aunt Fiona thought it was for the best. She used a really big dose, mother. You wouldn’t believe how much. She said you wouldn’t taste it. She said it would be quick.”

Gloria’s vision faded to black, and Melanie slowly faded from view. As Gloria lost consciousness, she heard one final whisper in her ear.

“She said it would hurt.”

—

Ronald Schulte is an avid reader and writer of speculative fiction. His work has previously appeared in several online and print publications including Theme of Absence, The Literary Hatchet, Bewildering Stories, and Fiction on the Web. He lives in upstate New York with his wife, son, and twin daughters. Follow Ronald on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ronaldschulteauthor/.