Mysterious photographs

I found two more mysterious pictures in my mother's nightstand drawer. She'd never mentioned these people before, so I asked her about them.
She came out with it, "They were my parents."
So that was it. These are the missing pieces to my puzzle. I decided I wanted to know everything there was to know about these people.

So I cornered mom. Absolutely cornered her. I just knew there was a lot of things she wasn't telling me, and some of them she didn't even tell my dad. I asked her for their names and everything she remembered about them. Her father was Edward Bellingham, and he'd been an artist and photojournalist who traveled the world. Her mother had been a German immigrant, Daniella, who only married him because she was pregnant.

I woke up at 3 am with my novel, "Interview with a Mummy" on the brain. It was a book I started after I left Egypt the first time, and I knew that in order to make the deadline the publisher set, I would need to buckle down and finish the book, even if it meant late nights. What's funny, about when I started writing this book, was that Aunt Margaret had notes in her laptop about a historical novel that was set in Egypt.

Freedom

One good thing about my birthday is that I'm a YA, which means I have the freedom to come and go as I please. Even though I'm still in my parents' mansion (I don't know for how long), they have no more say-so over me. I can disappear in the dead of night and they can no longer say a damn thing to me.
Which means I can stay in perhaps my favorite place in town -- the cemetery -- as long as I want.

The night after my birthday -- which happened to be Halloween night -- I decided to go to the cemetery after I'd come from the library. I didn't see my grandparents' ghosts milling around, but I did see Aunt Margaret's! I was a little bit surprised, but I found that I could talk to her just like I did when she was alive -- but only when she was present.
"Aunt Margaret?"
"Yes, dear Savannah?" Her voice cadence hadn't changed, except it had taken on a more ethereal quality. She then took a good look at me. "Oh my, you grew up!"
Hearing her speak surprised me, because she hardly said anything to any of us while she was alive. She left her words behind in her laptop and in the volumes and volumes of books she published.

Then she did something even more surprising. She reached for me and hugged me. I wanted to hold on tight and not let her go at all. But it wasn't flesh I was feeling. It was hollowness. It was something I can't even describe. She wasn't my aunt anymore. She was a shell of herself.

She leaned over rather conspiratorially and whispered that "the afterlife really isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"What do you mean?"

"There's really nothing to do! You sleep and then you glide around this dastardly place at night. Being a ghost really isn't good."

I suppose I like the idea of the unknown, and the ghost state is the unknown for me. If only there was a way to ease her unhappiness...and make her afterlife better for her...

A new project

I started a new project the day after my birthday. I know, you must think I'm completely off my rocker -- and maybe I am.

I'm putting together the Plumb Family Scrapbook.

As most of you know, one of my big interests is genealogy. It's one of the main reasons I started this blog.

I went to my favorite photographer and had this formal, glamour shot taken for the scrapbook. In it I'm wearing the dress I wore to Aunt Margaret's funeral, and yes it is in the same style as a dress Aunt Margaret herself wore. It wasn't intentional, but it worked.

My late Aunt Margaret traced the Plumb side of the family back ten generations in her book, A Practical History of the Plumb Family. She researched records in England, Ireland, and Wales and found that a concentration of the Plumbs from whom we're descended came out of this one town in Yorkshire.

I'm also trying to research the Jolina, Bellingham, and Alto branches of the family tree. The Jolina branch is from my paternal grandmother, Jamie Jolina. Information on the Jolinas is scarce indeed. All I know is that their name is derived from the French word for 'pretty,' jolie. I do suspect that Jolina wasn't the actual family name -- trying to find THAT will be a challenge.

Information on the Bellingham branch (my mother's) of the family tree is even more scarce. What I know of my mother's background is this -- I know she was 'adopted' by a benefactor named Edmund Browning after a hurricane pretty much wiped out her hometown, killing the rest of her family, and her benefactor died well before I was born.

I know that after her benefactor died, she was involved with a man who called himself Cyclone Sword, and that he was the father of her twin daughters, Cylene and Clarice.

I know scarcely more about the Alto branch (Noah's) of the tree. I know his maternal grandparents were from Italy, and they came over to Sunset Valley with little more than my paternal grandpa did.

Ari is a computer whiz, and with her expertise on internet and such, we set up a website -- plumb-family.org (Author's note: not a real site). With it we're seeking to contact Plumb relatives all over the world. I know of Plumbs in England, certainly, and I've heard from someone in Wales.

Making this project more challenging is my father's indiscretions. He'd be the first to tell you that as a youth he did some things he's not proud of, and he readily admits he did those things. He slept with a lot of women and some of them got pregnant, hence, my brothers. I know even less about their branches of the family tree.

Party Time Part 1

So, ever since Aunt Margaret left me her laptop, I've been going through it, and I actually think she's got parts of 20 books in there. No, I'm serious. She had all these unfinished manuscripts and concepts for books that she never actually put to paper. There was one where she wanted to explore the afterlife. Maybe she 'crossed over' to research that one?

I've never been a big believer in reincarnation. I always thought it was a hokey construct meant to satisfy people who missed their relatives after they died. But I've been itching to go to the cemetery again, if for no other reason than to see if ghosts really exist and there is a 'heaven' or at least some kind of half-life purgatory.

If that isn't enough, Darrel is completely ignoring me. He actually showed up to my house and plopped down on the sofa and didn't speak a word to me. He doesn't return my phone calls.

I've been spending the last few days planning my birthday party, and I have to tell you, the constant emails and IMs trying to get people to show up has been exhausting. I had to line up a DJ. My dad paid for the rental of the Old Pier Beach for the afternoon.

So when I went to Darrel's to invite him personally, he wouldn't even come to the door. Instead his stepfather just stared at me. Darrel, meanwhile, wouldn't even give me the satisfaction of blasting his insults to me face to face. So, I had to talk to him behind the barrier of the door.

"Are you coming to my birthday party Saturday at Old Pier?" I asked.

"Why? To stare at some toffee faced brats running around in swimsuits?"

I took offense. "Who are you calling a toffee faced brat?"

"If the shoe fits, sister --"

By that time I was steaming mad, about ready to kick down his front door. "Look, Darrel, I'm the damn cause you passed trig this term, and this is the thanks I get?"

I turned around and stomped away, trying to fight the tears that were trying to stream down my face.

The funeral

I went down to my favorite boutique and picked out a gown to wear to Aunt Margaret's funeral dinner. Set me back several thousand simoleans, but hey, Aunt Margaret was worth it.

The obituary I submitted to the local paper got published. It was something about seeing it in black and white that really got to me. It was, like, man, she really is gone. And she's not coming back -- at least, not in human form.

Dad was really having a time of it, trying to potty-train Sebastian. I mean, he really shouldn't be still potty-training at his age. He's about to turn elder!

After I'd changed into my gown, Noah came into my bedroom (got to get used to saying my bedroom, as you see, I've redecorated Aunt Margaret's bedroom in my favorite color, blue, and dad said when they first moved in that's what color it was originally). He tapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, sis."

I knew it was him by the way he spoke to me. His voice was soft and kind, like dad's. Pretty much anything sets me off these days, even something as minor as someone saying 'hi.'

"Just make sure you don't embarrass the family."

I rolled my eyes. "Since when have I ever?"
Noah looked at me incredulously. "More times than I care to count. Do you need me to rattle them off?"

"You know, sis, I'm really proud of you. You got your grades all the way up to where you're now up for valedictorian. You put all this together for Aunt Margaret. You know what, you're becoming quite a young lady. You look great tonight."

I smiled. I couldn't tell him mom had done most of the work arranging things. "Thanks."

Then he pointed out my choker. "Say, is that Aunt Margaret's? I remember seeing that in a photograph."

"Yeah, it is. She gave it to me a few simdays before she died. She said it belonged to her grandmother in England."

"Well, it looks great on you."

When I went into the banquet room, I ate the cheesesteak and I caught sight of Windy eating the baked angel food cake. "Say, Win, is it good?"

"Yeah, it's delightful."

I knew Windy had had some tie with Aunt Margaret, exactly what tie, I wasn't entirely sure. But the way Windy had told me, apparently she'd come to lecture her class and stayed behind to sign some books.

Windy's family was of Pakistani origin. Her grandfather, Iqbal, had come over to Sunset Valley with his two boys after he split from their mother. His third son, Adrian, was born in Sunset of a Simerican woman.

"So," I told Windy, "I heard a noise coming from the upstairs bathroom, and it's what we all dread, it's the Reaper. He showed up while my aunt was taking a dump."

"You sound excited about having seen him," Windy noted.

I had to admit I was. Ever since I was little I've had this curiosity about, well, things little girls just aren't supposed to be curious about. I think it's the story Aunt Margaret used to tell, that when mom was pregnant with me, she spent a lot of time in the cemetery late at night fishing for deathfish for her secret recipe.
"So, Savannah, you're up for valedictorian?" Windy asked me, desperate to change the subject.

Oh boy. News travels really fast around here. "I suppose so," I said, "I was as surprised as anyone when I found out."

"Why should you be? You're smart, and you know it. You have as good a chance of getting valedictorian as any of the others in the running."

I had to admit, Savannah Rachel Plumb, class valedictorian, had a nice ring to it.

After dinner, I heard Noah down in the basement, and HE, not my father, was playing the elegy! Everyone, my dad included, gathered around to hear him play it. Apparently my dad had taught it to him. I wonder if he chickened out of performing it and then let Noah do it instead.

The day after Part 2

Dad, of course, is completely and totally gutted. His only sibling is gone. I wish I knew what to say to him that hasn't already been said. Complicating matters is that his own elder birthday is just a few simdays away. If imagining mom as an elder is difficult, imagining dad as one is darn near impossible.

The only thing that seems to soothe him, of course, is his music. When I walked in that evening, he was in the middle of the floor with his guitar, almost as if he was in a trance. I didn't recognize the song, but mom told me later it was the one he'd written for Aunt Margaret, called "Maggie." It's got a haunting rhythm with a quiet tempo. Seems he's got a song written for pretty much everyone important in his life. I wonder if he's gonna perform it at her funeral service. Seems like it'd be a fitting tribute.

Speaking of her funeral service, I finally got started on that obituary for the paper. I spent the rest of the evening in the library working on it. After searching Aunt Margaret's laptop, I found that she'd written her own obituary; I simply worked from that template, adding in details as I saw fit.

"Margaret Niamh Plumb, daughter of the late Nigel Plumb of Sunset Valley and the late Carolyn Finney Plumb of Thirsk, Yorkshire, England, passed away on Sunday evening, week 22, Day 1. Age 105 Days. She is survived by one brother, Nathan Jolina-Plumb of Sunset Valley; five nephews, Nicholas Frio, Noah Plumb, Nathaniel Ursine, William Tripp, and Sebastian Plumb; one niece, Savannah Plumb; and a host of other relatives and friends..."

The day after Part 1

I cried myself to sleep in Aunt Margaret's room, in her bed. I didn't even have the heart to go upstairs in my own bed. Dad has said that it's mine for as long as I wish it, although it will likely be redecorated to my taste.

We had an incredibly close relationship. In many ways she was like my second mother. Now that she's gone, I'm not sure I know how I can endure.



Dad told me that I could skip school today, but somehow, I'm not sure Aunt Margaret would want me to. I decided, probably against my better judgment, to go.
It was the hardest day of my life. I couldn't concentrate, all I could think about was Aunt Margaret. Everybody sensed that I seemed distracted. Of course, it was bittersweet that today I found out I was in the running for valedictorian, along with Cassidy Reynolds (the brown-noser) and Lawrence Lum, and the scholarship that comes with it. I'm not sure how I got in the running, though, but I was a straight-A student until I got to high school.



I went home, changed clothes, and went through the motions at work. Then, in a fog, I went to the art gallery. Somehow immersing myself in the beauties of the brushmasters soothes me when I'm down.



Ari, of course, spotted me there. "I knew I'd find you here," she'd said.
"Why would you be looking for me?"
"You weren't at the lit club meeting today, I was wondering what happened. I actually thought you wouldn't talk to me after what I said the other day."
I shook it off.
"My aunt died."
"Meg Plumb? She-- she's -- she's dead?"
I nodded.
"When?"
"Last night, after dinner. The Reaper showed up while she was taking a dump."
"Boy, what a way to go, eh?"
"It's strange. I mean, she -- she's gone now. I miss her."
Ari reached for me and gave me a hug. "Savannah, I'm really sorry. Really, I am."

A Birthday and a Death Day Part 2

While dad was downstairs feeding Sebastian, I was still in the bathroom, bawling my eyes out. It hit me that I'd never lost anyone close to me before, and I wasn't real sure how to deal with it.

Then I heard dad call downstairs. "Savannah!"

When I went downstairs, I knew without knowing.

The look on his face said it all. He was going to the cemetery.



And he wanted me to come with him. He would leave mom at home with Sebastian. He needed to do this, after all, Aunt Margaret was his sister. And he wanted me along.



It was a drive neither of us wanted to make, a ride neither of us wanted to take, but both of us knew we had to do it. I couldn't bear to tell him about the fact that I had grandma's journal. Or the fact that I'd been going to the cemetery nearly every night in hopes of seeing her ghost. I couldn't bear to mention those things. Not now. Now, though, he wanted me there with him. Not mom. Not Noah. Not Billy or Nicholas. Me.



"Hey, dad, wait up!" I called to him in the thick soupy night air. At this time of the night the fog starts to roll in from the sea to our southwest.

I pretty much had to walk dad into the cemetery once we finally did meet. The poor guy, cemeteries are sooo NOT his thing.

We stood there, just the two of us (and the ghosts emerging from their slumber), contemplating on what had just happened. Dad had placed Aunt Margaret's tombstone right next to the graves of his parents.
Right then, dad reached over and grabbed my hand. His was a simple gesture, yet it meant so much. He didn't have to say anything.

"Dad," I whispered, "I miss her too."

And we both stood there and sobbed.

What comes next, I have no idea. Who's writing the obituary for the paper? Believe it or not, probably mom or me. I'm not sure dad has the strength to compose this. His strength is music, not words. When is the public funeral service? We don't know. Noah's wedding? That's up in the air, too.
All we knew was that at that moment, we were united in our loss.

A Birthday and a Death Day

Mom had her birthday/retirement party. It was a fairly typical Shandie Bellingham affair, which meant lots of food, cake, dancing and lively conversation. Of course, now she prefers to refer to herself as "Shandra." Okay, mom. I get it.

I have to admit, I'm not entirely sure how to deal with the fact that mom is an elder. It is definitely something I have to get used to. I'm used to having her bound around here, with energy for three, doing everything. There isn't anything she doesn't do around here, really. She wrote children's books. She paints. She cooks. She gardens. She fixes the toilets when they break. I swear, I actually think dad wouldn't be anywhere near where he is if it weren't for her. Why? Because my dad is a space cadet and would forget his head if it weren't attached to his body.

Some old guy in coveralls asked me to dance. I knew I probably should have said no but, after having had some of mom's 'jungle juice' I said yes anyway. I glanced over at Noah dancing with Clarice.

But our joy would be short lived. For little did I know that the pictures above would be the last ones of dear Aunt Margaret alive.

She passed away that very evening, just as the guests were leaving mom's party.

I heard a noise coming from the upstairs bathroom, and sure enough, it heralded the arrival of the great Grim Reaper. That's the thing about the Reaper. He never announces his arrival until he's actually there.

I knew this day would come, I feared this day would come, but the less you think about these things, the less prepared you actually are for them when they happen.

She died as she'd lived, with a book in her hand. Something you have to remember about Aunt Margaret, she had as strong a passion for books and reading as my dad has for music. You don't write 26 novels and have a collection of books as varied as any library without some love of the written word.

Dad, of course, was completely devastated. Aunt Margaret was his only sibling, and as she was significantly older than he, didn't really spend much time with him as he grew up. But as time passed they became really close.

But, as these things happen, life does go on, and Dad went about the business of dealing with Sebastian. The little guy, he has no clue of what just happened. He needed his evening meal.

Ari

Man, I can't tell you how glad I am to have my car back. It feels sooooo goooood.



So, anyway, I decided to go and turn in my story for school, right, and turns out my Simlish teacher made me write it so she could put me in the school literary club. I was, like, oh, great, I get to hang around with the geeks. But she tells me that Aunt Margaret (who's only, like, Sunset Valley's most successful novelist ever) was in the writing club, as well as my father before he left school. "With those kinds of credentials," she tells me, "you should be a shoo-in." She didn't care if the story was any good (IMO it's crap); all she cared about was that she had a Plumb in her club.
"What if I can't write worth a crap?" I protested.
"I've seen your essays, Savannah Plumb," she said. "You can write."

At the literary club meeting I met this girl, Ari Moore. She'd just moved to Sunset Valley from Riverview, and the teacher matched us up so she could catch up on our Simlish assignments. Apparently the schools in Riverview aren't as good as here (no offense).



So I rode cross town to Ari's place in the dinky yellow school bus. While we were on the bus we talked some more: her real full name is Ariana Southerland Moore, she's a junior (like me), her parents were killed in some accident so she's staying in the old McIrish place on Oak Grove, across the street from the Paines, with a family friend named Cherry (I'm not kidding) Kanto.

"You comin' or not?" she asked brusquely. "You followed me here, not the other way around." I told her I was, I couldn't walk that fast in these heels, and it's not every day I come to this part of town, even though the Paines, old family friends of ours that date back to my grandma, live here.

I recognized an easel and a guitar and a chess board; either those belonged to Ari or they were for the previous owners. "Wha'd you say your name was?"
"Savannah Rachel Plumb." I was careful to enunciate 'Rachel' as 'ruh-shell' and not the typical Rachel. "My mother's idea, I'm afraid."
"Cute," Ari said. Everything on her was black -- her lipstick, her hair, her sweater, even her hat. The only spot of color on her was her ripped jeans. "Say, you're not related to the author Meg Plumb, are you?"
It hit me that Ari's "Meg" was actually Aunt Margaret. She'd kill any of us if we called her anything other than Margaret, but for some reason my dad seems to be able to get away with calling her Maggie. I knew my parents were famous, but this was the first time I realized Aunt Margaret was probably as famous as they are. I mean, I knew she wrote books, and I knew she wrote a lot of them. "Um, yeah," I squealed, "she's my aunt!"

"Meg Plumb is your aunt?!?" The ground-bound Ari leapt for joy. "My god, she's a literary genius! I've read all of her books at least once. I love her Moon Colony series. I keep a copy of the first Moon Colony book right next to my bed. I've read all of them, but that one was my favorite."

Now she had me curious. "Why?" I asked her.

"I love the main character, Syna (pronounced like "Sheena") DeLorean. At first she starts out like your typical spoiled princess, 'cause she's the daughter of the NASA chief, but when she's thrust on the mission and things start happening to her and the crew on the colony, ya know, she -- she gets a backbone. She takes charge of the mission, tapping into a strength she didn't know she had."

Hmm, gonna have to ask Aunt Margaret about that one.