Electra had not been allowed to repaint her pale blue bedroom walls. Her response was to paper over them with posters and throw scraps of black lace over all her lamps, defiant self-expression that her family no longer cared to critique. She had never liked this house, but she had carved out this one room as her own, extending herself into it before it could get its claws into her.
When Electra opened the door she was surprised to see her younger sister sitting on her bed. Chrysothemis looked tiny and bright against the dark blankets, like a stubborn yellow flower poking through gravel.
“Chrys? Why are you in my room? Are you okay”
“You told me I can come in here,” she stared at Electra blankly.
“Is something wrong?” she asked again.
Chrysothemis shrugged, and Electra noticed she was holding an unfamiliar book.
“What’s that?” she asked, “it’s not one of my books?”
“No, this girl gave it to me.”
“What girl?” Electra frowned.
“Don’t remember? She had a gray dress.”
Electra hadn’t seen anyone in this part of the house today, they were all busy with the preparations for tonight, and that got her suspicious.
“What’s it about?” She asked.
“Um,” Chrys tried to remember, “A myth I think? Something about a war. And a bird. And a princess who died. I got bored so I stopped reading.”
Electra sat down by her sister, and took the book from her. She flipped through the pages, then looked back at Chrys, and said “don’t pay too much attention to stories.”
Chrysothemis eyed Electra’s wall of bookshelves and said, “you like stories.”
“I like books. I know what’s fiction and what’s not. Don’t listen to myths and legends.”
“You like myths,” Chrys remained unconvinced.
“No,” Electra said firmly, “I believe in the gods. There is a difference.”
Chrysothemis wasn’t sure what she thought of that, but she didn’t want to keep arguing, so she nodded. It seemed to satisfy her sister, who pulled herself together, setting the offending book carefully on one of the far shelves. She turned back to Chrys and brightened, “It’s good you’re here actually, we need to talk about tonight.”
“I already know.”
“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”
“I’ve been at things before.”
“There are going to be a lot of photographers and people trying to ask you questions.” Electra tried.
“I know!”
Electra sighed, “I’m just say—”
“If you would just—”
“I’m telling you—”
“Chrys!” Electra snapped, “Listen to me!”
Chrysothemis went quiet and Electra tried to ignore the twisting parts of her that hurt when she saw her sister wilt like that.
“This time is different,” Electra said, “dad is coming back and that’s important to a lot of people.”
“Why?”
It hit Electra how small Chrys was, how small her world was.
“Lots of reasons,” she sighed, “Don’t worry about it. Just, it’s different.”
There was a pause, Chrys stared at her hands and Electra tried to rationalize asking a ten-year-old to tell lies about a dead sister she’d never known.
“I’m just trying to make sure you’re not surprised or overwhelmed or whatever, okay?”
Chrys nodded, and Electra continued, “the reporters are going to be talking about him a lot and people might try and ask you questions.”
“So what?”
“So, you never met him,” Electra said, “We need something for you to say.”
“Won’t someone tell us?”
“Literally what do you think I’m trying to do right now!” Electra snapped.
Chrysothemis knew her sister did this sometimes, got really loud about things. She thought maybe Electra had more feelings inside her than anyone else did and that she couldn’t hold them all properly.
“Those people mom usually sends to tell us what to say aren’t going to help, Chrys. There’s…it’s complicated, there’s things…there’s stuff people can’t know,” Electra sighed.
“What stuff?”
“Just stuff,” Electra sounded so tired. Chrys just nodded.
“Okay,” Electra did her best to brighten, “So pretend I’m a reporter.”
“Okay?”
Electra put on a silly voice and mimed holding a microphone, successfully making Chrys smile, and said “Miss Chrysothemis, is it true that your father is Agamemnon?”
“Why would they ask that?”
“So don’t say that,” Electra said, breaking character.
“Why would they ask that, they already know that.”
“They like to hear you say it, just say ‘that is correct.’”
“Can I just say yes?”
“Sure. Okay, starting over,” Electra re-assumed her reporter character, “Miss Chrysothemis, is it true that your father is Agamemnon?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel about your father returning from war?”
“Good?”
“Wrong,” Electra said.
“What do you want me to say, Elli!” Chrys whined.
“Say that you’re excited to see him.”
“But I’ve never met him,” Chrys insisted.
“Nobody cares!” Electra said, then reassured her, “and if they bring that up it’s still a fine answer.”
Chrysothemis nodded, and Electra continued, tone growing severe, “They’re probably going to ask you about our sister.”
“But I don’t—”
“Chrys we’ve been over this, they don’t care that you don’t know her, they don’t care about anything. Not the point. When the—”
She was cut off by the sight of a familiar figure slinking into the room. Electra believed in the gods, truly and genuinely. Electra even believed it possible there were spirits of the dead that lingered in the world of the living. But Electra did not believe in this ghost. This is what she told herself every time she came face to face with Iphigenia. She looked at her now, over Chrysothemis’ shoulder and even if the apparition wasn’t real, Electra was glad that it had chosen to stand out of her younger sister’s line of sight.
Chrys looked at Electra, a question in her eyes, and seemed to be about to ask what she had started to say.
“When they ask you to talk about Iphigenia, you say,” Electra tilted her face to look her dead sister in the eyes, “my sister died before I was born, I never knew her.”
Chrysothemis started to say something, but was interrupted when Electra continued “And when they ask you to talk about what happened, what do you say?”
Electra could hear her mother in her own tone of voice, the stern expectation in it, and it made her skin crawl. But still she waited for Chrysothemis to answer.
“She died traveling, but she’d been really sick for years, I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.”
“Perfect,” Electra smiled, “exactly that.”
There was a pause, then Chrys asked, “What really happened?”
“She died in a storm,” Electra spoke gently, “lots and lots of wind Chrys, out of nowhere. She drowned. No one could have seen it coming.”
“Why can’t we just tell them that?”
Electra said nothing, turning her gaze to the ghost, who was staring back at her.
“Elli?” Chrys decided to try a different question, “is dad a bad person?”
“Of course not,” Electra said firmly.
“Cause I’m not a kid, I’ve heard things.”
“You are a kid,” Electra gave a pained smile, “and I told you, never listen to stories, especially about our family. Okay?”
Chrysothemis didn’t respond right away, so Electra repeated, “Okay?”
“Okay, yes,” Chrysothemis didn’t sound like it was okay at all, but any further discussion was cut off by a knock at the door.
“Miss Electra? Are you dressed yet? I’m here to fix your hair,” a gentle voice outside said.
“I want to wear it down,” Electra called.
“I have instructions from your stylist.”
Electra sighed, “Fine, come in!”
A makeup artist in a neat gray dress bustled into the room, carrying a case of hair styling tools and products. Electra stood, and the makeup artist looked her over.
“The dress first.”
“Not yet,” Electra argued.
“I won’t have you messing up your hair putting it on after,” the woman said firmly. Electra rolled her eyes but retreated to her closet to change clothes. After a few minutes, she stepped out of the closet in a knee length black dress. She winced as Iphigenia approached, gently readjusting one of the pouf sleeves.
“Too much black I think,” the woman in the gray dress said.
“I like black,” Electra said flatly.
“She loved blue when she was your age,” the woman said to Chrys, and adjusted Electra’s other sleeve.
“I’m going to dye my hair black.”
The woman sat Electra down and began to brush out her long brown hair.
“Are you now?” she sounded amused.
“Eventually I’ll grow up and I can do what I want,” Electra scowled.
“Well not today, I’m afraid,” she said, plugging in a curling wand.
“Do you have to?” Electra said, “It’s already wavy.”
“Just the side pieces.”
Electra nodded and the woman in gray and held her head still.
Chrys sat on the bed, watching in wonder as the woman methodically transformed Electra’s long, wavy curtain of hair into an elegant up-do. She was fascinated by the careful dance of beauty that her sister performed before all of the events they were required to appear at. Chrys had someone come braid her hair and help her with her headband and any complicated dresses. Sometimes they would give her some light makeup if there were going to be cameras, but it was nothing like this. Electra was like one of Chrys’ fashion dolls.
The woman slid two decorative hair combs into the sides of Electra’s up-do, heavy brushed gold things, like Chrys’ headband. She doused Electra in one last cloud of hairspray, then surveyed her work, seemingly satisfied.
“Come on,” she beckoned to Chrys, “let’s leave your sister to finish getting ready.”
“Remember what I said, Chrys” Electra said, and Chrys nodded towards her on her way out of the room.
...
“What are you still doing here,” Electra turned to Iphigenia. The ghost was standing by Electra’s bedside table now, examining a jar of rocks.
Electra stood, and crossed to her, “I know you’re not real, you’re just my head making things up.”
Iphigenia picked up the jar, to see it closer, and Electra sighed, “You remember those? Orestes’ collection from the park. He was so weird about it, like every time we went outside, and he saw a rock he immediately bonded with it forever. They’re all basically the same, right? Cold, gray pebbles. But he would go on about the variations of color and smoothness and stuff. Gods, he’s annoying. I took them from his room after he left. Don’t tell him” She laughed, “Or do, tell him to call me while you’re at it.”
She paused, and then snapped, “Why do I even talk to you, you aren’t real!”
Electra flopped on her bed, feeling the crunch of her hair, petrified by spray as it was. Iphigenia reached down to touch her shoulder, a spectral attempt to comfort her little sister but Electra shrugged her off and turned away.
“But if you were real though," she continued, "Would you, do you hate me, Iphi? Is that why you won’t leave me alone? Do you hate me for wanting to forget?”
Silence, then Electra saw the ghost’s hand reach over, holding out an old stuffed owl, a hand sewn gift from an aunt and uncle Electra could barely remember. She accepted the offering, but when Electra turned back, Iphigenia was gone.
After a moment, she reached for her phone and made a call. It went straight to voicemail, like she knew it would.
I know you’re getting these calls. You’ve gotta stop ignoring me eventually! He’s not your son you can’t control him just—just will you talk to me at least. It’s Electra by the way. But you know that.
Electra hung up, after assuring the machine that yes she was satisfied with her message, and closed her eyes. She screamed then, painful, loud, and afraid.
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