Just About Healing

By Victoria Escobar

My sister was my lifeline, my beacon, my North Star. I could rely on her, depend on her, turn to her when the world was just too hard to face. She could depend on me for the same.

I laughed with her; cried with her; rejoiced her success; and part of me died with her too. I lived for her, loved no one greater than her. Without Savannah, I had no one to turn to, no one to share my soul with. My other half, closer than twins we were, was just gone.

Grief broke my soul and crushed my heart to dust. I didn't know how to put the pieces back together. I wasn't sure I even want to without her. How could I live knowing she would never share anything with me again?

Time, supposedly, heals all wounds. I don't believe that. But I do know there are other ways to heal. I just had to find them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Escobar
• Release date: Aug 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310561078

Victoria Escobar

Born in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, but with the ability to claim eight states as home; Victoria Escobar writes fiction from her current home in New York. She writes whatever comes to mind and because of such has a variety of genres written including Young Adult, New Adult, Paranormal, Urban Fantasy, and Contemporary Fiction.In spare time if not with family, and friends Victoria enjoys curling up with a book from a favorite author with music playing. If not reading or writing she spends time drawing, sketching, crocheting, or some other random art project. She enjoys staying busy, but most of all enjoys staying creative.

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Just About Healing

Victoria Escobar

Copyright © 2014 by Victoria Escobar

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Edited by AGC Editing and Services

Cover Art by Donna Dull

All characters, events and places portrayed in this book are a work of fiction. Any relations to persons, or events living or dead, past or future are purely coincidental.

Of Gaea

Of Sparta

Coming Soon

Peerless

Leaving Tracks

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Epilogue

Just About Music Preview

Acknowledgements

About the Author

For the lost and those that remember them.

"Grieve not for the dead, for the dead feel no pain... Instead weep for the living, who heal to hurt again."

~Unknown

The old Louisiana plantation house stood back from the road a good distance, sheltered within its tall, stone wall fence. Trees lined the drive with enough space between to see great expansions of green grass. Flowers were planted around the trees and beds of color washed against the white house.

It had been in our family for generations, and then was lost after the Civil War. Thanks to my success as an artist, I had been able to buy it back. Just in time for the holidays as well.

My sister Grace, or Savannah as the public knew her, hung her head out the window as the taxi car crawled up the drive. Savannah was only thirteen, and already far more famed and successful than I was. She wasn’t old enough to take control of her own assets yet, or she would have bought the house a while ago.

Her features mirrored mine in miniature. Her beautiful long black hair danced like streamers in the light wind and her blue eyes were slit in pleasure. We were French Creole, but more French than Creole and our complexion was slightly pale in comparison to most. Also, we were famous for our rich southern Louisiana accent. She was beautiful; a shining star. Although I know she’d tell anyone, who asked, the same about me.

It’s grand, Evelyn, she said in her silky voice. That’s what had made her fame; a voice that would rival anyone’s in Italy. She also was a talented musician and could roughly play any instrument she was handed in about four hours of twiddling time. To further add to her appeal, she could dance, and that was equally stunning as her voice.

I smiled and played with the end of my braid. It’s ours now. No one is taking it away.

I don’t see why you had to buy something so big and way out here, nonetheless. There’s nothing out in Hammond. Why couldn’t you buy in New Orleans, Ann Elizabeth? Mama complained from her place up front."

Mama had always complained, and she had always used the names the public knew us by. I hadn’t heard her use Grace or Evelyn since I was about six. It was as if the children she birthed didn’t exist anymore. The more successful Savannah and I became, the more she complained.

Mama may have been beautiful once, but years of worry carve people in different ways and it carved Mama hard. Her features were sharply angled and harsh. She didn’t share the blue eyes Grace and I had, but rather she had dark, piercing orbs, that if I stared in too long, felt as if she was stealing a piece of my soul.

You can pick any room you want, I told Grace ignoring Mama. And Miss Jo Lynn and Mr. Douglass sort of came with the house. They’ve lived and worked here for twenty years.

You shouldn’t be trusting strangers about your business, Mama complained again.

When the taxi stopped, Grace jumped out and instantly took my hand as I climbed out. We both ignored Mama’s cursing as she struggled to get out, and walked up the large veranda to the front door. Mama had never told us why but her joints couldn’t handle strain of heavy motion.

Before either of us could push the door, it swung open of its own accord and a stately, uniformed woman stood in the entrance. Welcome to Beauregard. You must be Miss Evelyn and Miss Grace. We’re happy to have you here. I hope you like your new home.

Her skin was the color of the caramel I drowned my ice cream in regularly. Her eyes were just as dark as Mama’s but they seemed to shine with a light opposite to Mama’s abyss. I suppose it was only proper her hair was pulled up tightly to match the uniform, though I wouldn’t have cared either way.

I’m Grace, my sister held out her hand to shake.

You don’t shake the help’s hand Savannah, Mama scolded from behind. I knew she used the stage name on purpose, but Miss Jo only smiled warmly and shook Grace’s hand.

I turned and glared at Mama. Be nice. This is my house, remember?

Of course. Mama sneered. How could I possibly forget?

Later, after everyone had gone to bed; I sat in the parlor in my pajamas looking at the Christmas tree. There had been so many years without one and it was still strange to see it there in the corner. Even though our winters were warm, Miss Jo had explained tradition was tradition regardless of where one lived, and I secretly thought she wanted to make Grace and I feel as comfortable as possible.

What are you doing? A quiet voice asked from the doorway. Grace stood there, her hair brushed and unbound, and her light blue nightgown shimmering in the soft light of the tree.

I couldn’t sleep, I held out my hand to her and she instantly came over and cuddled up with me on the sofa. It wasn’t cold, but she pulled the throw off the back of the sofa and draped it over us.

What are you thinking about? she asked.

I shrugged, Taking care of you I guess, trials with Mama, wondering if I’ll ever find a boyfriend. I threw the last one in there for sport. It wasn’t really a major concern of mine but I knew Grace would find it amusing.

She laughed lightly, You’ll find someone. There’s someone out there for everyone. Mama, we can’t change. And I take care of you as much as you take care of me.

I know, I hugged her close. It’s just… I wish I had it now. At least that way I wouldn’t be sitting under a Christmas tree all alone. I’d be in bed dreaming about, well, whatever.

You’ll still have dreams when you go to sleep tonight. They’ll just be about different things, she sounded so reasonable and grown up. You’ll more than likely paint or carve or sculpt whatever you dream tonight. You’re not alone. I’m here.

I suppose, I leaned into her, and relaxed against the familiar form. I wish Mama was happier.

Grace gave an unladylike snort, You just wasted a wish, Ev. You know Mama will never be happy unless we die and leave her everything that’s ours. And then, she probably still won’t be happy because that’ll be finite. I’ve never seen someone so obsessed with money before.

I think it’s because she’s never really had it the way we do now, I replied slowly.

Grace gave another indignant snort. She won’t be having mine much longer either. I think she’s stealing from me. No, correction, I know she’s stealing from the trust accounts.

I sighed. She did with me too, until I took over and changed all the codes and numbers. There’s not much to be done about it until you turn sixteen and can legally take over.

Like you did.

Yes, I nodded. Like I did this year. You’ll just have to hold out a little longer.

I hope there’s something left to hold out for, she muttered.

I love you always. No matter what happens. We could be poor tomorrow and you’ll still have me. No one will love you more, I said. No matter what Mama does, you still have me.

She held me tight. I know.

Miss Grace, Miss Evelyn?

Startled, we turned to see Miss Jo standing in the doorway. She was no longer in uniform yet something about her night shirt and flannel pants still spoke of quiet dignity.

Yes, ma’am?

Would you like something? she asked stepping forward.

No ma’am, Grace answered smiling and revealing a dimple. We couldn’t sleep.

Miss Jo gave a quiet smile, All right then. You only have to ring the bell if you need anything.

Thank you, Miss Jo, I said.

You don’t want to be up too late. You still have school to attend, she reminded before walking away.

I like her, Grace stated snuggling up and closing her eyes. She cares. More than Mama does. She sleepily held up her hand. Pinkie swear!

On what? I asked bemused.

No matter what happens from this point on we’re not going to change from who we are right now.

I frowned, puzzled. I couldn’t love you any less.

So? She held her hand higher. Pinkie swear.

Fine. I looped my pinkie around hers. Pinkie swear.

The marble mausoleum doors were open; ready to devour the gleaming white oak coffin. The sun reflected off its polished surface resembling the bright star it contained. It was a beautiful day, but I neither felt nor saw it.

There wasn’t a large crowd around the crypt, but it was still large enough for me to think of carrion crows swooping in like jackals. The thought made me slightly bitter. Most of the people here only knew her by a name that wasn’t really hers. I knew who she really was. I knew her heart.

The priest’s words were lost to me. All I could do was stare at the coffin; the final resting place of my beloved sister. She was gone. There would be no more laughter. No more music. The thought crushed part of my soul and squeezed the breath out of my lungs. She was gone.

I squeezed my eyes shut fighting the inevitable tears. She was gone. My heart, my happiness, my most prized friend was dead. The sorrow dug so deep, it burned and stole the breath out of my lungs and the strength from my muscles. She. Was. Gone.

I haltingly stepped forward out of the neat, even line and rested my shaking hand on the gleaming wood. It was warm. The moment my hand rested on the wood, the priest stopped speaking and all eyes turned to me. I don’t know what they expected. I didn’t know what to expect from me anymore. I was nothing but a shadow without her.

The sound of press cameras and voices carried over the now quiet cemetery. I knew they were being kept back by the security that had to be hired. Otherwise, they would have invaded as surely as hyenas on a fresh kill.

The tears ran freely down my face as I tried to think of something to say. When nothing would come, I let my knees collapse and dropped to the ground next to her, openly sobbing. I didn’t feel the wet grass soak through the linen pants. I didn’t care that the end of my hair was now lying in a pool of questionable liquid. There was no reason to care. Every reason to care, that I’d ever had, rested in the wooden box in front of me.

It was Miss Jo that came to me. She placed her hand on my shoulder and then just stood there waiting, or perhaps just guarding my grief. She was my sentinel against the sweeping wave of humanity.

I almost, almost wished for Mama. Surely Mama would understand a little, but Mama had left the funeral home before the services even started. She hadn’t even attended the viewing the night before. No, I decided blankly, Mama wouldn’t understand.

Ann. A man knelt beside me and pulled me to my feet. It took me a moment to recognize Pierce’s wrinkle free Armani suit. You’re making a scene. His voice was placating and scolding at the same time. His blond hair was impeccably placed, his hazel eyes emotionally neutral.

His tone made me angry beyond any reasonable comprehension. The ring he had given me was supposed to mean something. He was supposed to support me. I needed him to be an anchor, not a patronizing jerk. The anger gave me enough fuel to shove him. Hard. Don’t touch me.

He tried to grab my arm again and without thinking, I swung my fist at him. He fell away clutching his nose. Blood squirted between his recently manicured fingers. I felt some twisted pleasure at staining his pants and knocking his carefully styled hair out of place. I stared impassively down at him for a moment longer before turning back to the coffin.

He stood and his voice was no longer placating but severely angry. Come on Ann. I think you’ve had enough. Let’s go back to the house.

Get away from me. As a matter of fact, you don’t belong here. I gritted through clenched teeth. I turned to Douglass, who magically materialized at my side as he always did when I needed him. Any other time the familiarity of the action would have brought comfort and a smile, but at the moment the only emotion surging through me was anger and grief. "Get him out of here and not to my house."

Douglass nodded and stepped between myself and Pierce. I didn’t hear the hushed argument that followed briefly because I turned back to the coffin. It isn’t fair. I whispered.

Life is never fair, sweetheart. Jo murmured quietly pulling me into a hug and discreetly away from the coffin. Her simple gesture swept away all my anger and left me only with grief. I cried into her.

I want her back. Some part of me knew I sounded petulant, but the rest of me didn’t care. Grace shouldn’t be in a coffin waiting to be placed into the safety of a mausoleum.

She never left darling. Jo soothed. You’ll always have her in your heart.

It’s not the same.

No, it’s not. Jo began to hum quietly. I didn’t know the song, but apparently several others did as they took up the sound too. Grace had always gone to Jo’s church when she was home. It wasn’t any surprise really that Jo and the rest of the attendants would share a song for her.

She’s really gone. I whispered pinching my eyes shut in unwelcome horror.

It’s alright sweetheart. Jo squeezed tighter and rested her head against mine. Go ahead and cry.

Time had no meaning in what followed. I was numb. Emotionless. Every time I would venture a little out of the numb shell, the pain would be so intense, I’d collapse in tears and then return to the numbness out of defense. Being numb was safer than feeling. Certainly it was safer than the memories that threatened to overrun me every time I thought of Grace.

Jo was my savior. She’d come in, sit me up and get me to drink whatever foul concoction she’d blended together. In the beginning I’d fight her, and she called in Douglass to hold me down. It only took a few of these episodes for me to yield to their ministrations. It was easier, less energy consuming for me to just drink and send her away.

She hauled me to the bathroom on occasion; she washed me and dressed me. I was a child again, though in a way, my mother would never have gone to the extent Jo did. I tried to bring myself to care, but I didn’t, not really.

To care meant to come out of the dark place where I hid myself. I couldn’t do that. If I did, there would be no shield against the harsh truth of reality. And the reality was… I could still remember her face that last day.

Sometimes I stirred enough to leave my room and go into Grace’s. Jo would often find me crying or cradling Grace’s guitar or favorite stuffed animal. She’d carefully guide me back to my room and on more than one occasion, murmuring words I didn’t yet have the heart to understand.

I wandered into my studio at some point. Tried to paint out the grief. The only thing that occurred was a riot of color swirling around the canvas like water swirling in a drain pipe, and in the center a giant black hole sucking up all the color. It was how I felt. I was losing everything. I was to the black hole of grief, and I couldn’t make it stop.

The thought made me so angry I smashed up the studio. I screamed and raged as I threw container after container of paint at an invisible foe. Paint and glass was strewn everywhere. Blank, broken canvases littered the floor. Everything was in shambles except that easel holding that one painting. Even in anger I couldn’t destroy art, no matter how terrible.

When at last my grief overcame my strength, I crumpled to the floor. The broken glass scattered about cut into my bare legs, my cheek, and my arm and went unnoticed. The paint that stained my hair and nightshirt was ignored. There was nothing left in me to feel anything at all. The vortex of darkness had consumed all I was.

I was weeping uncontrollably when Jo finally rushed in. I vaguely remember hearing her curse as glass crunched under her practical shoes and the low rumble of what could have been Douglass’s voice as I was scooped up off the floor.

This has to stop Evelyn. She dumped me into the bath before carefully pulling off the damaged shirt and washed me like a newborn. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so, and I noticed about as much as I had the first time. She was vigilant in removing all the paint and glass. You can’t follow Grace. Not yet.

Nothing matters anymore. There’s nothing left to live for. My voice was unrecognizable to my ears, raw from screams and tears, and scratchy from disuse.

You have Grace to live for. She returned. You need to live for her, too.

I sighed. I don’t have the heart.

You do. She insisted. You’re just buried in grief. It can’t get better until you come out of the darkness. Stop hiding.

I blinked at her with confusion even as she lifted me from the tub and wrapped me in a heavy robe. I’m not hiding. I murmured in denial. I can’t feel anything anymore. It’s gone. Even the art is gone.

Evelyn, Jo sighed and stroked my head softly. Come down to dinner tonight. Even if you don’t eat, just come sit at the table.

It was a few more days before I began noticing the passage of time again. A few days of