Absentees, Avatars, Angels

She has nine guests on New Year’s Eve: three absent, four imagined, two from behind the Veil. Hers is the only beating heart in this room, and - it does follow - in that heart she carries them all. She sets the table for ten. 

But first she cleans the house, she wouldn't like mum to find the usual mess. The hoover seems sluggish; for the first time this year, she checks the bag: it’s full, so full that she swallows a small cloud of dust, trying to empty it. Also, it breaks. 

So she walks out in search of bags for the hoover and strawberries for margaritas. She finds such clear air, such a perfect amber-shard of this, the last day of the year, that she forgets the shops and walks into the park. Two magpies sit on a bald branch, then four, then six, then seven. She murmurs the rhyme: two for joy, four - a boy, six, ummm, gold, seven: a secret never told. What can she make of that? A rich lover, a great new seam of secrets and surprise, stories under the skin? Breathe in, breathe out. Each breath: pure sunshine. 

She stumbles to the shops eventually. Finds a set of hoover bags that might fit, buys strawberries and raspberries - for margaritas, the best-ever drink for weirdos. There is also champagne in the fridge. Dad loves to see people going silly with the joy of it, that rush of hope, and the pop and the fizz, the fireworks that announce the new year.

What will it be then? Champagne or margaritas? Both? Isn't it too much? How much do absentees, avatars and angels drink? 

She spots a cafe and sits down to write this story, about her party. (She can write it down already, write it and then simply follow the script: open the door and walk into dad's all-enveloping hug. Make them smile and chat with ease - despite how different they all are. Make Moona outrageously romantic, fingertips tracing shivers down her back. Make Zefira shy and quiet (although perhaps that is too much to ask: would never work). Ensure that Amar leaves his dark blue gloves in the hallway, that Zinzi sings along with dad. She can make the food delicious, on page, even if she's too lazy to cook, when it comes to it, tonight.)

She gets home eventually and the hoover bags fit. She tidies and cleans and carries the recycling out. A robin is now sitting on the magpies' red branch, beyond the fence. A red tablecloth would be nice. She gets back in, gets the tablecloth, sets the table for ten.

Her absentees, her avatars and her angels arrive. 

‘Hmm,’ mum says after a long, searching glance about, ‘the place looks acceptable. What did you cook?’

‘Lamb.’ 

‘Mmmm, smells good,', says dad, then chants, 'I-can-not-wait!’. 

‘What about Moona, and what about them?’ mum spots the one hitch in the plan: possible vegetarians.

‘Moona will eat organic, free-range lamb, and as for them’, she points to her imaginary people, ‘I can make them carnivore, if I want.’

‘And did you?’ mum won't drop it.

‘Yep, just did: they all hunt, and they eat what they kill.’

'So... they hunted a lamb?' she hears Cheeta. She had no clue that he'd been listening.

'Well, I thought it was clear', she says pointing to the oven, 'that I am the hunter tonight.' 

‘But more to the point,' Moona intervenes, 'why are you alone tonight?’ 

'Look who's talking' she snaps. They turn to watch, with mild interest - so she enlightens them. She waves her arms at Moona, 'you, YOU! All the way from South Sudan!'
‘But he's right: why?’ mum persists.

‘I’m not alone’, she protests, ‘I’m with you.’

‘With us? Look at us,’ mum becomes belligerent, daring her to see them for what they are, angels, avatars, absentees, and to see herself too, with her lights and lonely, laden table: she is plainly mad.

‘What’s wrong with us?’ asks dad. She cracks up. He always sees the best in everyone and all. He always knows how to bring that smile back.

‘Quite,’ she agrees. She’s been using the word ‘quite’ far too often, lately. Such an old-fashioned, English thing to say.

‘What’s wrong? mum roars. ‘We’re not…’

‘Shhh’, says Andhu. He isn't always sure how to behave or what to say, but he knows very well what mustn't, mustn't ever, be said. 

‘Hey, we’re fun anyway,’ says Zefira.

‘We’re the only ones she's invited’, says Zinzi, because that is, like her, logical and kind.

‘That's because we're around,’ says Kiwi.
'And because she likes us,' adds Moona.

‘Likes? Or loves?' Cheeta wants to know.
‘Either way, I love her. That's all that matters,’ booms dad across the room.

And Amar says, out of the blue:

‘This is the best party ever.’ 

And she says, a little choked up:
 'Well, happy new year, you lot.'

And they shimmer and leap, like flames, and stay with her till dawn.