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It's a door. Open door, meant for walking in. "Where am I?" She tries again. "Who are you?" "Hello, Joyce." Madeline inclines her head politely. Her face is devoid of expression, it troubles Joyce a bit. "Please sit down." "Who are you?" "I'm Madeline." Joyce repeats, her voice less unsure. "Where am I?" Madeline looks at her calmly and does not say a word. Joyce stares at the white room around her. She feels as if there are four white walls, but she cannot see them. The space seems to bend instead, a certainty of clean enclosure in protective sphereshelter aura of _otherworldly_. Different from before. It vaguely recalls an old milk commercial...of milky spaces. She senses a room, feels certain of it, though if pressed she would not know why or how she knew it, knows it doesn't matter. So she stops trying to digest her unquantifiable surroundings. A round card table, the kind in little Italian bistros or small coffee shops in caffe-loving countries. Checkered red-white table cloth would be expected, maybe some pasta and a rotund man with a moustache singing with an accordion. But really it's just a table, and two chairs. One with a stranger checking her closely as though for flaws. Curious, curious glance. Joyce asks, "Am I in heaven?" "No." "This is...this isn't hell?" Madeline says, "This is not hell." Joyce looks down, and notes the smoke has cleared. Her feet are nude, and when glancing under the table she notices the other woman's black pumps. Along with the suit, this detail of leather, of professionalism suddenly has Joyce a little embarrassed. "What do we do now?" "We sit." "And what?" Madeline continues to be as devoid of expression as a rock cliff wall. She answers, "We wait." Joyce wonders of asking this woman if she is an angel, but thinks the better of it. //She's still looking at me. Why is she looking at me like *that*?// Madeline's stare is calm, cool and collected. It implies nothing. It agitates Joyce, but she decides this stare is, on the whole, also unimportant. The tension gradually eases from her body. Madeline smiles, so briefly that Joyce is not sure if she saw it. Nevertheless, she is comforted. She smiles back. The silence is... It is neither threatening, nor laden with tensions. It is not blissful. There seems to be no larger import. Not that harps and choirs were to be expected anyways, or maybe gnashing of teeth/ hair follicles ripping at the roots/ a devil's violin/ (whatever, a daughter would shrug) or noisier if this were the other place. It just is. Without dilution. And light. (as opposed to leaden). Silence. It is...nice. Joyce decides, yes she likes this place. Joyce asks, " How long are we waiting for?" "You'll see." "You like being mysterious. You like having the advantage." Madeline smiles for sure. "I did." Joyce hugs her arms to herself, looks at the other woman as though she'd told her something devastating. "I realized I had so much to lose. Floating upwards, I mean. Or not? Wherever this is. And it was strange because I thought it would be serene immediately. And it wasn't 'I will lose much' or 'I have missed much' but 'I am *going* to lose much.' As though it weren't after the fact. I couldn't tell that I'd become worried suddenly after and not during." She pauses. "I couldn't tell that I was dead." Madeline bends to reassure her, "You're a lovely woman. You were very good." Joyce asks skeptically, " 'You were very good'?? That sounds like something a Vulcan would say." A beat before she continues, "And I have no idea whatsoever where that came from." "What I meant to say was that you were very kind." "Weren't you?" Madeline says, "I believed in the utmost good." "With your life?" "Yes. I suppose. I did. It really doesn't matter." "I wish you hadn't said that, " Joyce replies instantaneously. "I'm sorry." She interjects, "I want to see about my daughters." "Don't worry." "How can I not?" Madeline says it slowly. "To everything there is a season, and all that. If you can believe it." Joyce smiles, reminisces. "I danced to that song in a field." With sun flowers or daisies. "Good for you. I've not had the chance to dance in a field. Sounds pastoral." Joyce announces, "Now you're being sarcastic." "I mean it. Good for you." "Hmm." Madeline has what might be amusement in her raised eyebrows, as though appraising something for purchase. "I don't like bugs. Except maybe aphids." "Didn't, " Joyce corrects. Madeline speaks, "I still don't." "What good is prejudice now?" "I just told you a secret." Madeline rises from her chair and cups Joyce's cheek in a palm. Surprised Mrs. Summers observes, "You're warm." "I know." She kisses Joyce soundly with a softness that surprises them both. Full in the mouth, a wordless greeting which salves the remnants of Joyce's inquisitive half-doubts. Joyce is awed. "Thank you." Madeline is close-lipped but smiling. "You took the words right out of my mouth." "Where are you going?" "It's your turn to wait." Madeline is walking away. And Joyce speaks loudly at the turning profile, "How much longer before you decide to let go?" To which the other woman halts, half-turns. // I'll be fine. Thank you for your concern, // Madeline thinks. Maddy thinks of all the difference between this fresh-dead mother and herself, her work. She likes to think she was a good mother herself. //Don't worry about me,// Madeline considers. Not actually saying out loud, but just. Still. Something akin to //That really has no place here, affection.// At least it's what Maddy perceives. But Madeline knows her thoughts are colored, she knows herself too much and thinks endlessly. She understands she could be wrong. Besides it seems as though here there are no Players. Madeline decides to thank Joyce. She walks with careful measured steps, back to the woman still sitting in a chair, Maddy bends and gives Joyce a nice, warm hug. Kisses Joyce on the cheek for good measure, dove feather gentle. "You know...I always think I ought to have kept my feet bare more often." Madeline turns and walks away. "How will I know?" "You'll recognize her." Mrs. Summers sits at the table by herself. A haze is returning, puffs of smoke but not smoke. Shrouds of misty something, and Madeline is parting through and almost gone. Is she walking through the clouds? Suddenly the walls have ceased. What's happened to the door? It's a hypothetical question. Joyce supposes, yes, it is as it should be. Everything feels nice and mellow. Joyce recalls a Corona ad, a laid back feel of normalcy in the shade of palm tree. A peaceful beach, the sound of a calm susurration of waves. She hopes Madeline will kick off her shoes. Later. Whatwhere and whenever. In a tone which cannot be called recognition nor acceptance, lacking tensions or mood of anything but _being_ while thinking //It's different here. That's all there is to it, just different-// Joyce calls out to the retreating figure. "I'm not worried." Joyce wonders if she's really hearing the strains of Bob Marley vouching that everything's gonna be alright. To which Madeline replies sincerely: "Good." |