Repercussions

That night, Dad died.

Death and I are sitting on the sofa in my childhood living room, watching my worst childhood memory replay, with me bearing witness a second time.

From here, we watched Emman and my younger self slink down the stairs. Heavy fists pounded against the door, and I opened it, revealing the somber face of a policeman. 

He told us that Dad was in an accident. He had too much alcohol in his system and crashed against a tree. I started sobbing while Emman only stood there with a blank look on his face.

"This might sound rather morbid, but I offer my condolences to you," Death whispered beside me. "Judging from how things were going, even if he wasn't driving under the influence, he would have died of liver cirrhosis."

My younger self had just calmed down and stopped crying, but hearing Death's words, I almost broke down again. I didn't, though. Looking back at everything, his death made sense. It was shocking, jarring even, to be orphaned that young, but Death was right. One way or another, sooner or later, Dad would have died. 

"If Emman prayed at all, this would be Emman getting what he's been praying for."

I glanced at Death; his head tilted to the side in confusion. It reminded me of someone else, and I couldn't help but chuckle at how adorable he looked.

"He hated Dad," I explained for Death's benefit. "He hated Dad for divorcing Mom and me for being the catalyst."

"I'm not a master of religion, but…" Death trailed off. "I know you can't pray for someone's demise in Christianity."

"How about Buddhism?" I suggested. "Isn't their core principle 'Do not do unto others what you don't want them to do unto you?'

"So close." Death snapped his fingers with a tone as if he was talking to a child. "That'll be Confucianism. The concept you're looking for is karma."

I shrugged, trying to stifle my laugh. I never thought Death would refer to a famous Twitter meme, especially not in the middle of the news of my Dad dying.

I've already cried my eyes out during the last memory. With my eyes all puffed up, and my tear glands desert-dry, what else can a Gen-Z like me do but drop some dark humor? 

"Why is Emman taking your Mom's side?" Death asked, returning to the topic. "It was not your father's fault for getting hurt by your mother's actions, nor was it yours for doing exactly what you were told to do."

I smiled at Death, touched. "I wish I had met you earlier, Death. No one has ever told me that before. Everybody blamed me for ruining the family."

"Like who?"

"Granma and Emman." 

"Just the two of them?"

I shrugged.

"Also, I doubt you would've wanted to have met me earlier, Evangeline."

I threw my head back, laughing. "Right, because that would mean my life would be shorter than it already is."

"Going back…" Death gestured.

"Oh, right," I said. "Well, Emman was quite a Mama's boy. He looked up to Mom with such high regard and thought she could do no wrong. Believes she can do no wrong. At. All."

"Ah, let me guess." Death clasped his hands together. "Emman started dating women much older than him as he grew older?"

"How'd you know that?"

"Once again, Freud can be seen laughing from his grave."

I frowned at him.

"Anyway," I tried to change the topic, feeling slightly uncomfortable that Death himself was judging my brother's dating patterns. "After this night, my Granma took custody of me. Emman started living with Mom and the man she cheated on Dad with."

"How was it for Emman?" Death quirked an eyebrow. "How did he stomach living with the man who ruined his family?"

I shook my head.

"I don't know myself. I think it's because they–Mom and Emman–had no choice. They had no one else to go to. After Dad died, Granma immediately sold the house and Dad's other assets so Mom couldn't get anything. Not even a single penny. Granma held onto the money until we were old enough to get it. 

"How is that even possible?" Death scratched his chin, doing "The Thinker" pose. "I'm not knowledgeable about human laws, much less American ones, but–"

"She fought Mom for custody. Normally, the children go to the surviving parent, so Mom would have managed our inheritance for us. But since she was found guilty of adultery and she had already divorced Dad, she was found to be an unfit guardian." I crossed my arms and fidgeted with the hem of my sleeve. "Granma got both me and Emman, but Emman chose to live with Mom."

Death hummed.

"How was it like living with your Granma?"

There it is. The question I was most afraid to answer. 

"Living with Granma was like living with Emman, but without anybody to stop the violence."

Death's crimson eyes widened.

"She… hurt you?"

I hesitated. It took me a few minutes before I could even nod.

"Don't get me wrong," I said immediately, feeling a bit too defensive. "I'm grateful to have someone who took care of me after Dad's death. Granma cooks well, even better than Mom! She even bought me a phone when I moved into Dad's ancestral house. It's just that…"

"It came with repercussions?"

I nodded.

"My phone, something a tween would be exhilarated to have and to show off, was a great source of fright growing up. Just hearing its old ringtone immediately sends shivers down my spine."

"Why is that?"

"Granma… was rather strict. If I could not answer her calls on the third ring, she would punish me."

There was a long silence between us. Death looked at me again with his unreadable expression, eyeing me as if unsure how to proceed.

"Do you regret living with her?" He spoke at last.

I looked away, laughing.

"I honestly don't know."

As if to make a point, the In-Between started morphing. Even the sofa we were sitting on started vibrating, a sign that it was about to take the form of another object in the new memory setting. 

In the blink of an eye, we no longer stood in my childhood living room. We were standing inside Dad's ancestral home, where Dad grew up and enjoyed his childhood.

"A luxury you didn't get," Death pointed out. I simply shrugged. 

To say that the house was old was an understatement. Multiple generations of Vermillions had lived here, after all. And like a true antique house, it was filled with furniture made out of wood, so it often had this old, musky scent that simultaneously puzzles and comforts.

It also housed a hefty collection of artistic things–vases and statues stood in every corner, and old, classical paintings decorated the walls.

My great-grandad, Dad's grandfather, was a great connoisseur of the arts, and all these pieces were once his pride and joy.

There was one thing the house lacked, though: people. Even though Granma had five children, none of them had ever come to visit her at the manor. It was always just the two of us, and I've always wondered why until one day, I finally understood. 

In this new memory, Death and I watched my younger self (age 11) set the dining room table. That's when Granma entered the dining room, her 3-inch red heels clicking against the wooden floors. I was about to greet her—I was going to smile and ask her how she's been—but she didn't even give me the chance. 

Instead of a warm embrace, I was met with the back of Granma's hand. The sting burned across my cheek as she slapped me.

Hard.