InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Dead Girls Don't Write Letters ❯ Realizing the Truth ( Chapter 2 )

She had tucked the letter away, trying to forget it even existed.

While she had problems feeling like a part of her family, she did feel a kinship with their house. It was an old farmhouse, a no-frills kind of place. Brick floors, butcher-block countertops, and a baker's rack with her father's cookbooks from his gourmet phase. Glass-door cabinets that she actually enjoyed keeping spotless. Washing dishes and cleaning soothed her. Or maybe it was just that she saw some kind of result from that labor.

The next day, she stood at the sink, scooping the insides out of tomatoes, and then filling them with tuna salad. She placed crackers on the plate, popped ice cubes into the glasses, and poured the tea. Smack in the center of the kitchen, her mother drooped, gazing at her plate.

"Kikyo always put a sprig of mint in the tea." Her voice held a mixture of nostalgia and criticism.

Kagome's jaw muscles clenched. She opened her mouth and moved her lower jaw from side to side. It was a relaxation technique the dentist had taught her for TMJ. TMJ was warfare of muscles caused by stress. It gave her headaches that wrapped her in a vise of pain.

"Yeah, Mom. I remember."

"Kikyo had a touch, you know. Everything she did was, I don't know…special."

"Yeah, special. Try to eat, Mom."

"There wasn't anything Kikyo couldn't do."

Nope, she thought. Not even die.

She watched her mother maul her lunch for a minute, then totter back upstairs. She thought about telling her mother. Something kept her from doing it. She had a bad feeling. She decided she would honor the family's creed of non-confrontation.

"Well," she said to her bedroom walls. "the news had waited this long. It can wait a little longer." She tucked the envelope into her thesaurus and clattered downstairs.

"Gonna be late. Finish your lunch, Mom, and promise you'll get dressed." She called out the words as she pushed through the screen door. She didn't wait for an answer.

The rest of the day, she floated. She willed herself into a state of selective amnesia about the letter, her mother, and Kikyo.

She attended afternoon classes cocooned in isolation. In small towns like hers, tragedy was certain and direct way to celebrity. Notoriety might be a better word. People treated her as if she were contagious, carrying the catastrophe virus, but then again, they were shot full of smug that they had dodged the bullet and she was the bull's-eye.

At school, as everywhere, she was Kikyo Higurashi's little sister. Never Kagome Higurashi. She had a few school friends before Kikyo died, but none were close. She didn't make friends easily. Well, she didn't make friends at all. After living with a master of manipulation and deceit, she found it hard to believe anyone could be worthy of her trust.

Books were her friends. They were there when you needed them, and when you shut them, they closed.

As for teachers, before Kikyo died-BKD-she was a source of disappointment to them. Kikyo was silk, and she was cheesy polyester, the kind that makes you sweat and itch.

AKD-after Kikyo died-she was treated with kid gloves. The teachers tiptoed around her, avoiding any mention of the tragedy, wondering what they should do if, in one of their classes, she suddenly went crazy as a shithouse rat.

She overheard a conversation once between two of her teachers as they sauntered down the hall, carrying their stained coffee cups. Printed on one of the cups was THE THREE BEST THINGS ABOUT TEACHING: JUNE, JULY AND AUGUST.

"That talented Higurashi girl. Killed so tragically."

"Heard her remains couldn't be identified. Nothing but ashes."

"And the poor mother, having that breakdown."

"And the father. The only time he's not drinking is when he's passed out in jail."

"He was such a good journalist. The paper hasn't been the same without his column."

"The sister isn't nearly as bright as the one who died, is she?"

"No, and so plain too."

They parted then, never seeing her behind them, and shuffled off to the next class to pass out papers and words of wisdom.

Kagome never could decide whish she hated most, school or home.

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Her mother was asleep when she got home. Tucking a crocheted throw around her, Kagome flipped the TV on and watched the news. She loved the reporter with totally fake white hair. When something was fake, she wanted it to look that way. He did stories about slick restaurants with rats and roaches and lots of gross stuff in their kitchens.

Later, she heated vegetarian vegetable soup in the microwave and ate it while she read her English assignment, a poem by Edgar Allen Poe, "Annabel Lee." Story of a man who ruined his life because he couldn't get over a dead girl.

Bet she didn't write letters.

Kagome slapped the book shut. She washed her bowl and spoon and returned to the telly. She channel surfed to find a horror movie or an expose program, but had to settle for sitcoms with cute little kids doing cute little things in loving families. Her eyes glazed over, and she called it a night.

Rather than wake her mother, Kagome fetched a pillow from upstairs, slid it under her head, and retucked the light cover.

"I've tucked in the baby, the kitchen is clean, and I've done my homework." Huffing a big sigh, she headed upstairs. She'd put it off long enough. Time to read all of her sister's last words. Yesterday, she had skimmed, thinking it another old letter, this time, she had to read it all.

She sat on the bed and pulled the letter from the thesaurus. Tapping it against her palm, she turned it over and over in her hands. She dropped the letter onto the bed.

She'd bathe first. The old-fashioned tub, the kind with lion's clawed feet clutching a big ball, was deep, and the hot water eased the drawling dread and flushed her skin when she slid in. She worked her jaw and rolled her head, stretching out the bunched muscles in her shoulders. She curled and uncurled her toes as she dumped shampoo on her hair. Washing her hair was an excuse to massage her scalp; the hot water and the kneading fingers told the scalp to relax, to lie gently across her forehead and temples.

She soaked until the water cooled, then toweled briskly and wrapped her hair turban-style. Pulling a long T-shirt from a cabinet in the bathroom, she slid it over the bulky headdress, removed the towel and used it to buff the excess moisture from her hair. She dragged a wide-toothed comb through her wavy, long hair, and called it finished.

Kagome always did these in that order. She was a creature of lists, routines, and habit. Change and chaos. They were twins of different mothers.

She clicked on the bedside lamp, doused the overhead light, pulled back the soft cotton sheets, slid under, rearranged the pillows, and stared at the envelope. She drummed her fingers against the paper, then snatched it up and tugged the letter from the envelope. The first thing she saw was the date. Scrawled in Kikyo's unmistakable writing was May 20.

It couldn't be. Kikyo died in February. How could she write a letter in May, only four days ago?

Dear Mom, Dad, and Kagome,

I'm sure you are shocked to receive this letter. Like Mark Twain, I'm glad to say that the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I know, I shouldn't be so glib about this, but, frankly, I don't know how to break the news to my family that I'm not dead after all.

I decided to write rather than call, hoping that the shock wouldn't be as bad this way.

This is what happened. My roommate and I hadn't been getting along. Lots of sniping and arguing. A friend of mine told me that she could get me work with a repertory company in Vermont. The star's understudy was having a nose job and there was some reshuffling. It would be about ten weeks' work. I thought it would be a great idea. It would help if Rhonda (my roommate) and I had some time apart, and I needed the money. I needed some stage credits on my resume too.

So, of I went.

The fire didn't make the news, or I just didn't see it. I didn't know that I had been reported dead until I got back to New York. Imagine my surprise when I came back to find the apartment building had burned down. I got a room in the Y, and it was a couple of days before I managed to track down some friends. They were more than a little stunned to see me. In fact, it was seeing how shocked they were that persuaded me to write instead of call.

My friends told me the police were still trying to make positive identification, but it was slow because so many people died. Grim, isn't it? Anyway, it was assumed that I was a victim because my name was on the lease and no one had heard from me. I guess my habit of taking off without telling a soul has brought you a lot of grief.

I went to the police and reported myself as living, and told them that I would inform you of my condition myself. Please consider yourself informed. I am alive and well.

I know that all this must have been terrible for you. I am coming to town so you can see for yourself that I m fine. I haven't much money, so I'll be flying to Japan and then taking the train. I'll be there Tuesday at 5. Don't come to the station. I want to see you all first at home. Please, it's important to me. Call Dad and ask him to be there too, okay?

See you soon, with bells on my toes,

Kikyo

Kagome folded the note and tried to stuff it back into the envelope. Her hands shook, and she couldn't get the darned thing back in. Once you let the genie out of the bottle…

Her mother would be happy. With Kikyo back, she might be able to pull her life together. Her father might dry out. Everybody's life would be like a sitcom. So why didn't she feel relieved?

She knew she should go down, wake her mother, and tell her. It was only nine o'clock. She should call her father. She should be happy. She should love Kikyo. Kikyo, the great and powerful. But like Oz, there was a liar and a fraud hiding behind the curtain.

Kagome reached under the bed and pulled out the scrapbook. Kikyo Higurashi. Her life and times. She flipped through the pages, then slapped it shut, closing Kikyo out. She shoved the book off the bed and snuggled down into the pillows and sheets.

Worm. That's what Kikyo called Kagome when nobody else was in earshot. Short for worm food. All Kagome was good for, she said.

She remembered one night when she was ten and Kikyo was fourteen. Kikyo was on her way to the movies with friends and had been told to take Kagome along. She told Kagome she was going to steal money from their father's wallet to buy treats for her friends.

Kagome was not quite horrified. Even at ten, she figured the money might as well go to Kikyo's chocolate binges instead of her father's binges. She knew her father was a drunk. She was one of those kids who heard and saw it all. One of the perks of being invisible. When Kikyo was on the planet, it was like having a flash go off in your eyes. Nobody noticed Kagome when they were Kikyo-blind.

"But he'll know the money is gone, and he'll never be drunk enough to think Mom took it."

"I know how to handle it." Kikyo had said.

"What are you going to do? Blame me?" Already the burgeoning cynic.

"No, I'll tell him I did it."

She wasn't lying. When she was ready to leave, their father went to the table by the front door where he always stowed his wallet and keys.

"Let me give you some money Kikyo." He flipped the wallet open, snagged a couple of bills, and handed them to her.

"That's odd." He pulled out the bills and counted them.

His face darkened. "Did one of you take twenty dollars out of my wallet?"

Kagome, like a primed pump, got a guilty look.

Kikyo turned to her. "Kagome?" she asked quietly. Then she turned quickly to her father.

"I did, Dad. I took the money," she said.

Kagome's eyes popped open in amazement. And that affected her father just as Kikyo planned.

"You did?" her father said, staring straight as Kagome but speaking to Kikyo. "Why?"

"I wanted money for the movie," Kikyo said.

Kagome could see then, much too late, of course, how this was going.

"Dad, she-"

Kikyo interrupted. "Kagome, hush. I'll…" She paused. "Be quiet. I want to do this."

She turned back to her father. "I wanted to but candy and stuff for the others."

Kagome's face was hot and she was certain he was red.

"Kagome. What do you know about this?" Their father asked.

"She took it. Just like she said. But she's making it look like it was me," Kagome had whined. She knew she'd already lost.

"Right, she took the money and put the blame on you by admitting that she took it. Sounds a little Machiavellian to me. Do you know who Machiavelli is?"

Kagome didn't, but she was fairly certain he was related to Kikyo.

"But, Dad, I did. I took the money," Kikyo said.

"Stop covering for her, Kikyo. She not only too it, she's blaming you. Why should you try to help her?"

"She's my sister," Kikyo had said.

Their father had gotten so mad when Kagome wouldn't cough up the twenty that he ordered her to her room. She had spit and hissed, making it worse for herself, then trudged upstairs. But not before Kikyo flashed her a smug smile as she flounced out the door, without Kagome's troublesome presence, but with her father's twenty, as well as his goodwill.

Kagome dragged herself back to the present and looked at the letter one more time.

She'd tell then all tomorrow. She wanted one more night without Kikyo.