Page 29 of Earthly Ties

No, she is keeping the dress. As a reminder for next time—if there ever is a next time—to not be so cowardly. Even if it’s too late for a “next time” with Lucy.

Which just leaves the plant.

Before this, Esther never successfully kept a plant alive. Her mom banned her from the kitchen garden after she accidentally flooded it while trying to help. Not even the tough little aloe Cash gave her when she first started this job was safe. One birthday, her old friends had gifted her with the bouquet of fake roses that still sits on her bedside table, teasing her that she probably wouldn’t kill plastic plants. It felt like love then. Acceptance of Esther’s shortcomings. Good-natured teasing. Now, Esther looks back and sees the callousness in how those friends treated her. They must have thought she was so dense for not seeing it.

Now there was proof that they were all wrong. Esther brought Lucy’s plant back from the dead. The purple butterfly-like leaves bobbing on the long stems remind her of Lucy’s smile every time she waters it. The fragile bell-shaped pink flowers bashfully looking down call to mind Lucy’s elegant frame nodding back at her. The slight smile that made Esther’s heart race, whenever they made brief eye contact in passing.

The idea of giving it to Angel sits ill with her. Even if he wants it—if he would take care of it—what would be left for her? That plant is the only thing Esther has to care about, the only thing that brings her peace amidst the bitterness of her life. Instead of looking across the alley for any signs of life in Lucy’s old apartment, watering the plant every Friday at ten is her ritual now.

Normally, Esther would try to connect with her students or colleagues, to try to find someone worth caring about to keep her motivated. But with so many classes this semester, she can barely keep her head on straight. And next semester will probably be more of the same. Constant, thankless work, without a single person to care about, or who cares about her.

Esther takes another sip of wine, more of a gulp this time, relishing in the bitter flavor. The tannins keep her tears at bay. “I’m keeping the plant.”

It’s so hard sometimes, to keep going. Esther has always been driven—mostly out of spite and sheer willpower—to prove her worth. She’s achieved most of her professional goals and then some. All that’s left is a tenure-track position. A place she can finally settle in. But for what? She’s still alone, now more so than any other point in her life.

The sweet plant that she brought back to life is the only source of hope she has. When the plague first started, the few friends she had—the ones who said they loved her and would never leave because they were her family now—drifted away and stopped reaching out. Stopped responding the second there was an inconvenient distance between them. Then she held on to hope that maybe moving to a new city with this new job would make things better. Then Cash and his friendship kept her going.

Then all of her dreams were pinned on Lucy.

But those friends who “drifted away” grew so fucking silent, they must be actively avoiding her attempts to reconnect. Cash is dead. Lucy was never in her life to begin with, and now she never will be. No one in her family ever answers her calls—they haven’t for almost half of her life.

And so…well, Esther has this plant. This cute little purple butterfly cluster with bashful pink flowers that reminds her of Lucy.

Esther is the one who revived it. She’s the one who brought it back to life. This plant is hers now. “Yeah,” she nods, taking another slow sip of this awful wine. “Definitely keeping the plant.”

Thirteen

At the corner table of the speakeasy-style cocktail bar Angel chose, my brother takes a long look at Esther from across the table, slowly swirling the Manhattan in his hand. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Voigt.”

Seeing Angel in the flesh is like seeing a ghost, except I’m the silent specter. I haven’t seen my brother in fourteen years. It’s shocking how much he resembles Dad, the same lanky frame and sharp cheekbones. Even the way he sits, slouched back casually in his chair, the lowball glass in his hand and a slight tilt of his head, reminds me of how Dad used to sit on the porch swing with his brandy after work.

“Gotta say,” Angel says, smiling almost lazily as he finally meets Esther’s eyes. He must practice that smarmy flirtation in the mirror. “…you look much younger than I expected. It’s refreshing to meet a female who looks nicer in person than in her pics.”

My jaw clenches. Angel is barking up the wrong tree. Esther is obviously gay. But if his online persona is anything like his true personality, a little inconvenience like homosexuality would not stop him from trying to win over a new fangirl to stroke his ego. So here he sits in a dimly lit bar, all crooked smiles and smoldering gazes, directed at my Tie.

I cross my legs in the empty chair next to Esther. All those hours and hours of practicing how to cross my legs properly when I “sat,” was time well spent. The gesture perfectly expresses my silent displeasure.

“Sorry, it’s Dr. Voigt,” Esther corrects him, awkwardly fiddling with the tab of her seltzer. The waiter of this bougie basement bar gave her a sneer when she ordered something canned, instead of their overpriced cocktails. “But you could call me Esther.”

“Oh, a doctor? Impressive. You must have taken a lot of anatomy classes.” Angel winks.

Esther cringes, failing to mask her distaste with a tight smile. Perhaps to people who don’t know her as well as I do, she might have succeeded; Angel doesn’t seem to have noticed. From his perspective, why would anyone cringe at something he said? “Sorry, I’m not a medical doctor. I have a Ph.D. in Philosophy. Queer and feminist theory, specifically.”

“Ah.” Angel’s flirtatious smirk tightens into a sneer. The fuckboy mask drops to reveal the sour expression I remember from my delightful brother. “I should have expected no less from Lucifer’s friend.” Esther’s polite smile twists into a confused frown at my hilarious nickname. “I was shocked when I had to look up her number a few years ago, only to discover she had a career writing about Satanism. Then again, that’s on brand for Lucifer.”

I roll my eyes. God, he still talks just like Mom. Dramatic and preachy. Normally, I’d cuss him out for using the moniker that Mom blessed me with, which he parroted even after I told him how much it hurt my feelings. But doing that now would require talking, and if the faint, wispy white outline muttering to herself behind Angel’s right shoulder is any indication, Mom is here.

I never knew what happened to Mom. From what Angel posted, it seems she died just like I did: vanished mysteriously, with no body found. While I wish I could say I didn’t care at all, that I never worried about her, that I didn’t mind if she had fucked off and died, I did grieve her. Albeit, in the complicated, confusing way that anyone grieves their estranged parent. That is to say I suppressed my tears, until I could drown them with wine. Then I drank enough to forget my moment of weakness, the lapse of compassion for someone who never showed me any.

But lo and behold, here she is, haunting the only person she cared about more than herself—Angel.

I shake my head, completely unsurprised. Not sure what else I should have expected.

Luckily she’s very faint, just a whisper of an outline and a hazy voice from my nightmares muttering to herself; she probably can’t see me. She doesn’t seem to have noticed me yet, at least. Thankfully. Harriet said the last sense ghosts lose before they move on is hearing. So I’m staying quiet, rather than risk getting yelled at.

“Wait, is Lucy short for Lucifer?” Esther asks incredulously.

“Not legally,” Angel chuckles, shooting her a crooked smile. “Spiritually, let’s just say the shoe fits. She was the root of all evil that troubled my mother, even after Lucy abandoned us.”