Page 4 of The Cult

“Then why does every woman over forty who does yoga look like their faces are covered in weathered leather?” my mother asks with a chuckle.

She’s met a total of one yoga instructor in her entire life, and that’s what she bases her beliefs on. I could explain to her for the umpteenth time how that one particular practitioner liked the sun too much and that isn’t a common theme with most yoga instructors, but I quickly decide that’s not a windmill I want to tilt at today.

Changing the subject, I say, “Mom, I’m over at Rina’s. She’s not here. Do you know where she is?”

I make sure to keep my voice calm and my attitude as casual as possible to avoid her overreacting. I know my mother. The woman jumps to conclusions like Superman leaps over tall buildings. It’s like second nature for her.

“Hmmm…let me see. What did she tell me the other day? She mentioned something about that girl she met in town who loved daisies. God, I have no idea why. Daises are the poorest of the flower kingdom. I’ve never understood why anyone would carry daisies, of all things, in a wedding bouquet, but nowadays, anything goes, I guess.”

She’d talk about how bad this particular flower is for the rest of the day, so when she takes a breath, I quickly ask, “Do you remember her name? I don’t think she told me anything about her. Is she from that group Rina was telling me about a few weeks ago? What is it called? Golden something?”

All I can think of is golden arches or golden showers, neither of which is right.

“The Golden Light,” my mother answers with a huff. “I bet they do yoga.”

The smugness in her voice is hard to ignore. I swear in a past life my mother must have died doing something involving stretching. Maybe she was stretched on the rack in medieval times. I can see her mouthing off to some church official and ending up being tortured back in those days.

“Okay. I’ll talk to you later, Mom.”

“Is that all you called me about? To ask me about your sister? You two talk far more than she and I do. Is something wrong, Lara?”

Quickly, I answer, “Oh, no. Nothing’s wrong. I just loaned her a sweater a few months ago, and I need it.”

That lie doesn’t really make much sense considering the time of year, but she caught me off guard with that question.

“A sweater? Lara, all the weatherman could talk about is how much hotter this July is than any other July in history, and you want to bother your sister about a sweater?”

She isn’t buying my fib. She’s probably a minute or two away from starting up that helicopter of hers, so I need to calm her down in a hurry.

“You know how I hate air conditioning, Mom. Not everyone is like you and loves the fake cold.”

That’s always the best policy with her. The off me and on you trick. It never fails to make her focus on herself and not on me.

“I’ll have you know that air conditioning is sometimes the only thing that keeps me sane since these damn hot flashes became a part of my life. You’ll see. Give it thirty years and you’ll be a fan of air conditioning. I hope I’m still around to see it so I can say, ‘See? Air conditioning isn’t a bad thing.’ Trust me, Lara. It’s a godsend.”

And with just a simple mention of my dislike of air conditioning, my mother is off to the races and not even thinking about my sister. Good. Now to escape this conversation and find out what’s going on with Rina.

“Mom, I need to go. I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll talk to you later,” I lie before pressing END on my phone’s screen.

Calling my mother was actually the second to last resort. The true last resort is using the key to my sister’s apartment that I promised I’d only use in cases of dire emergency. I’m not actually sure this situation is dire, but I’m worried enough to go into her apartment uninvited. If she’s in there safe and sound, then I’ll apologize and happily go on my way.

I turn the doorknob and open the door before slipping the key back into the special pocket in my purse. Listening for any sounds, especially the TV, I hear nothing but silence. It’s deafening and makes a chill race down my spine. My sister always keeps her TV on when she’s home. She says it’s like background noise and makes her feel like she isn’t alone.

As I slowly walk through her apartment, I look around the living room and see nothing out of the ordinary. A half-full glass of soda sits on the coffee table in front of that green couch she got from Goodwill. Thank God my mother isn’t here with me because I’d have to endure another round of her complaining about how furniture should never be secondhand.

Everything looks the same as it always does in this room, and when I take another glance at the glass I see no mold growing on top of the cola, thankfully. That means it hasn’t been sitting out for days and days.

I take a sip and nearly gag. It’s flat and warm. Does that mean she was here recently? Since her apartment is always a comfortable seventy-two degrees year round, not necessarily. All it means is sometime recently she was home and had a glass of soda.

As I turn to walk toward her kitchen, a terrible thought fills my mind. What if she’s here and I’m about to find her lying on the floor hurt? Or dead?

Oh, God. I don’t think I could handle that. Rina and I are best friends in addition to being sisters. For all but two years of my life, she’s been at my side as we grew up with parents who instilled in us that no matter who we meet in this world, each of us has a best friend for life because we’re sisters.

No, I can’t think of her being hurt or worse. Rina’s okay. I know she is.

I gingerly step into her kitchen and look around. There’s no sign she’s been here for much time recently, but that’s not surprising. My sister hates cooking, and she ends up eating more meals out than here in her place. Her kitchen basically serves as the spot for her refrigerator since it holds the soda she drinks constantly.

Opening up her refrigerator, I see the evidence of that. Four bottles of Coke, one bottle of ginger ale that’s been in there since that New Year’s Eve party she had, and an unopened bottle of water take up the top shelf, and below on the lower shelf a block of yellow cheese sits alone.

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