Surprise! The Grim Reaper Is Your Uncle!

Ophelia was on her second cup of coffee, tapping the table as she stared intently out the window. The only thing that stranger had told her was that he had a mohawk and that he was pretty tall. "Can't miss me," he said.

And yet— "Ophelia?"

She jumped and turned toward the voice. Sure enough, it had come from a gangly man with a dark mohawk. He was much paler than she expected. But although his face had a distinct, bony look to it, she could see traces of her aunt's features in him.

"Yeah," Ophelia sputtered. "Sorry, you scared me. ...Nervous?" She then realized that that was probably just the handle he used online. Laughing to ease the tension, she added, "Oh, man, I never even asked your real name."

"That's it," he replied curtly, almost interrupting her.

She repeated, "Nervous," trying to hide her disbelief.

"Mhm." He sat down carefully, resting his cane on the wall behind him. His eyes darted to a few random points in the room before he seemed to remember Ophelia, at which point he gave her a crooked smile and said, "Hope I didn't keep you waiting long."

"No, you're fine," she lied. Now that the two of them were here, ready to speak, everything Ophelia wanted to ask had left her head. "Did you wanna get coffee?" was the only thing she could think of.

"No," said Nervous. After a second, he added, "Thanks. Maybe a cinnamon bun later."

"Oh. Yeah. They're good here." All Ophelia could think about now was how awkward this whole situation felt. Why on earth did she agree to this?

Out of nowhere, Nervous commented, "I'm scared, too."

"What?"

"Your leg's shaking the table."

She hadn't even noticed. "Shoot. I'm sorry."

"No need. All I mean is you're in good company." Nervous blinked a few times before glancing at Ophelia, giving her another forced smile, and returning to a stoic stare at the table. He paused, then admitted, "I wanted to meet with you because I wanted to know what my mom is like."

Ophelia raised an eyebrow. "I.. can invite her, if you want. We don't live too far from here."

To her surprise, Nervous actually started to laugh. Through the most genuine smile Ophelia had seen from him so far, he replied, "I can't meet her yet."

"..Why not?"

"I'm still pissed at her!" He answered, as if it were the punchline to a joke that only he understood. In spite of his continued fidgeting, admitting that seemed to relax him a bit. Adjusting his position in the chair, he explained, "I'm not a violent person, I swear- but if I saw her — I— I worry." He followed that up with a longer blink and a much less hearty laugh—nearly the same anxious laugh Ophelia made earlier.

Ophelia relaxed a bit, too. That laugh made him seem a little more... human, for lack of a better word. Immediately after thinking that, she cringed and internally chastised herself. Of course he was human —and she knew people who weren’t human, anyway, so that shouldn’t even be her metric here—

"Sorry," said Nervous, temporarily pulling Ophelia out of her self-lecture.

"What? No, you're good." She had no idea she had made a noticeable face. "What did you want to know about your mom?"

"I don't know where to begin, honestly... What do you think I should know?"

What a question , thought Ophelia. "Well, um.." She didn't want to sugarcoat anything, but she didn't want to sound like she hated her aunt, either. Olive was complicated; her relationships were complicated. But maybe Ophelia would start with something simple. "She's into the occult. She taught me how to use a ouija board, a pendulum, things like that."

Nervous listened with a furrowed brow as he stared at the wall behind Ophelia. When Ophelia stopped talking, Nervous glanced at her with raised brows to prompt something more.

"Oh- Well... She literally lives in a graveyard. Next to one, technically, but it's her property? You know what I mean."

"A graveyard?"

"It's not as creepy as it sounds," Ophelia began out of habit, before realizing Nervous actually seemed intrigued.

"No, it's funny." He was smiling again.

"It's funny ?" That came out a little more angrily than she expected it to. That graveyard had been the bane of her existence since she moved in with Olive.

"That's what I said," replied Nervous with an equal bite.

Ophelia dialed it back. "Well, why’s it funny?"

Completely deadpan, Nervous answered, "Of course the woman who fucked the Grim Reaper would live in a graveyard."

It took Ophelia a moment to find any words at all. She couldn’t tell whether or not he was joking. "I'm sorry— what ?"

"Did she not tell you that?" Nervous asked, as if he hadn't just said the equivalent of bigfoot’s your uncle .

"No? Is that a... saying, or something?"

"No."

Ophelia was beginning to get tired of Nervous's tone. He spoke like everyone else knew what he was talking about except her. "Aunt Olive and the— You said the Grim Reaper ? Like, the skeleton man that comes around when you die?" Her voice was shaking as if a laugh wanted to escape, but she was trying her best to stay polite.

"Yeah. He's my dad."

This guy had to be messing with her, thought Ophelia. This was a prank show or a scam or a human trafficking thing. She knew nothing about human trafficking, so it could be whatever this was. But even in the midst of her quickly spiraling thoughts, something—maybe Nervous's earnestness or maybe pure curiosity—was anchoring her to her seat. Something compelled her to go along with it. It's not like her life was all that normal to this point, anyway.

Ophelia took a deep breath to distract herself. "Your dad?"

"Mhm." He furrowed his brow and looked down at his clasped hands. After a moment, he spoke again. "It was a shock to me, too, but it made too much sense to let go. Besides, it was in official documentation, so..."

Somehow, that was even more confusing. "Like... a birth certificate?"

"DNA, lab tests—Beaker shit." He then clarified, "The scientists, not the lab equipment." Nervous tensed up at the thought of his former captors. “It’s— the Grim thing is why they kept me there. Something about outsmarting Death; typical mad science, you know?” A glance up at Ophelia and another anxious chuckle signaled he was trying to lighten the mood.

It didn’t work. Nervous hadn’t told Ophelia anything about the experiments the Beakers performed on him, just that they had happened. Seeing the actual, emotional effects on Nervous set Ophelia’s mind on images of scalpels, pliers, panels with readouts she didn’t understand. A chill ran down her spine. She squeezed her nails into her palm to try to shake the thought. “They’re not in town anymore, though, right?”

“No, but they’re somewhere.” He ran a hand down the back of his head, holding it on his neck as began to stare at the floor. He stayed quiet for longer than usual.

Ophelia wasn’t sure what to do. “...Nervous?”

Nervous abruptly returned his gaze to her, but he still had an expression that rested somewhere between angry and scared.

It felt familiar. “Just take some deep breaths,” she offered gently.

Nervous nodded and straightened up a little. His chest moved shallowly, so Ophelia demonstrated: slow inhale, slow exhale. After a few tries and a handful of intrusions of apprehensive laughter, Nervous’s breathing slowed and deepened, too.

Ophelia knew she needed distractions when things like this happened to her, so she asked, “Where are you staying now?”

He took a second to reply. “Pascal’s— the Curiouses.”

“Do you like it there?”

His face softened a little. “Yeah.” He closed his eyes tightly and massaged his forehead.

“Any hobbies? Things you’re working on?”

Nervous was starting to seem annoyed. “I play chess sometimes. And video games? What does this have to do with anything?”

“It reminds you that you’re safe now.”

Ophelia couldn’t parse the look he gave her after that. She would say it was suspicious, if it felt accusatory, but it didn’t. In fact, it was almost friendly. Nervous blinked a few times, then actually smiled at her—not to ease the tension or to brush off a cruel joke—just to smile. Ophelia found herself smiling back.

With a new hint of positivity in his voice, Nervous suddenly asked, “Do you want a cinnamon bun?”

She thought for a second, then decided she deserved not to think for just this one decision. “That would be great, actually.”

“Great.” He grabbed his cane and quickly adopted a mischievous grin. “Pascal gave me his card.”

Ophelia frowned. “He’s okay with you getting something for me?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. The guy’s got huge telescopes and two TV’s in his living room— he won’t miss two sticky buns.” Ophelia snickered as her cousin waved away the question and made his way to the counter.