Happy

Daria Morgendorffer had rejected many clichés in her life, and the latest was the "five stages of grief." She went through no distinct stages, nor did she feel grief.
For that, you needed something to grieve about, and there simply wasn't anything.
Everyone around her said otherwise. That didn't bother her. Daria was never one to follow the crowd. The idea that she could exist, and her sister and father could not...that was just stupid. Her mother, her aunt, Jane, and all the other kids at Lawndale were all confused. Even Aunt Amy didn't get it.
"Dad and Quinn can't die. They're my easiest targets." Daria said earlier. Her aunt just chuckled uncomfortably. She thought it was a joke.
Daria could have told her. She could tell everyone this was all a big mistake, but why bother? If there was one thing she'd learned in her cautious, contrary existence, it was that people believed whatever they wanted to-except for her. She knew the truth. The funeral was unnecessary, a scene Mark Twain could have appreciated: people weeping for nothing over empty caskets. The only thing missing was her father and sister waltzing Tom Sawyer-style into the church. But their timing was never that good anyway.
"What am I going to do with all her clothes?" Mom said in the car, more to herself than to Daria. "I just bought her some new jeans. And your father's home movies. They take up so much space. But how can I just get rid of them?"
She didn't have to, of course. Quinn was coming back. She was just out shopping somewhere, ignoring the usual barbs from Sandi and completely forgetting the time. Dad was in a meeting somewhere with his nose in the Sunday paper. A long business trip, a long sleepover with the Fashion Club-it was that simple.
That was all it had to be.

As always, Quinn's room was a no-brains-land. Fashion magazines and overpriced clothes lay scattered across the floor, all casualties in her war with self-awareness. For some reason Mom hadn't cleaned them up yet. It made no real difference to Daria whether her sister came back to a mess, but she needed something to do and cleaning up was as good as anything else.
She bent down and began retrieving midriff tops and sequined belts from the carpet. Quinn's closet was carefully arranged by color, style, and fabric. It took nearly an hour to figure out where everything should go. The difference between cornflower and canary, mini and micro-mini, checkered or plaid-these things mattered. Daria never realized how her sister's fixations had also shaped her, just as her own habits defined who Quinn became. Everything was connected. She saw that now.
"Hear that, Quinn?" she would say. "You can pretend we're not siblings all you want, but I've always been a part of you. Sis."
Ewwwwww, a familiar voice echoed in the back of her mind.
Daria smirked and began sorting the magazines. The collection went back to April 1996, before they even moved to Lawndale. Holding one issue open between finger and thumb, Daria saw her sister's discriminating hand at work: circling some items, X-ing out others, scribbling dozens of little notes wherever they would fit.
Kind of cute. Wait 'til better designer starts making it... Gross! N-O... Wow, Sandi was so wrong about aubergine!
There were so many of these notes, and so many magazines. More than enough to read before Quinn came home.

"Freeloading familial phantoms, part two! Next on Sick Sad World!"
"Are you sure you're okay and everything?" Jane turned down the volume on the TV.
"Sure. Why?"
"You haven't said anything about...you know. Quinn. Your dad."
Daria didn't look at her. "What do you want me to say?"
"Well, don't you feel sad? Don't you miss them?" Jane said incredulously.
She was just like the rest of them. She didn't understand.
"Yes," Daria said. She picked up the remote and turned the volume back up.
Jane looked at her with concern, but didn't push her any further. Daria would talk about it when she was ready.

Helen's eyes snapped open and she sat up in bed.
It wasn't like the last few times, when she woke up because she couldn't feel Jake next to her and then remembered he was gone. It was a noise from downstairs-a long creaking noise, like the front door made when it opened. She'd told her husband to oil those hinges a hundred times. If he was here, she would tell him to check for burglars too. Now it was her job.
She slipped into her bathrobe and went into the hall, where the large window looked down on the front lawn. No one was out there so she started downstairs, clutching nervously at the rail.
She froze when she heard the door closing. "Daria? Is that you?"
No answer. Helen descended to the landing, but found the door locked and the living room empty. Did she imagine the whole thing? She turned the lights on and checked every room in the house. There was no one else here but her daughter, and she seemed fast asleep.
As Helen went back to her room, Daria opened her eyes and smiled. Her heart pounded in her chest. She heard it, too.
They were home.

Dinner the next night would have been eerily silent without Dad and Quinn around. But they were there. She could still hear her father comparing the lasagna to his own culinary experiments, and Quinn complaining about all the fat content in the cheese. Daria ate slowly, clinically, hiding her relief and staying out of the conversation until the moment was right.
Her mother stared down at the table, leaving her own plate untouched.
Bad day at the office, honey? Dad said.
Is it a wardrobe crisis? Quinn asked helpfully. You know, there's a LOT more to workplace fashion than Vera Wang.
Daria rolled her eyes. Some people never changed.
"Daria? Are you okay?" Mom was watching her with a worried expression.
"What do you mean, okay?"
"Well, you just had a strange look on your face."
When Daria just looked back at her without answering, she nodded and took the dishes to the sink. "It's going to take a while. For both of us. We just have to take everything one day at a time."
Yeah, kiddo! The same way I finally got over my dad! That cruel, heartless bastard...DAMN YOU, OLD MAN!
Muh-OM, quit being so dramatic. Quinn flipped to a new page of Waif and gasped. OH NO! Wrap skirts are back in and I just got rid of mine. My life is SO OVER!
"Don't get our hopes up." Daria muttered.
"What was that, honey?" Helen called from the sink.
"Nothing."
She really should pay more attention to her family. It was like she didn't even hear them.

"Oh, DAH-ria. You worry too much!" Quinn giggled and twirled stylishly in the mirror. "I am way too cute to die."
"Tell that to everyone else."
"I wish I could, but you just can't teach style," the beauty lamented. "And seriously, you were at my funeral?!"
"That's what they said. Isn't it ridiculous?"
"Yeah! Like I would ever let myself get dressed by those...patricians."
Daria shook her head. "Morticians."
"Whatever. The Fashion Club bylaws clearly state that you never turn over wardrobe anonymity to someone else. You can't have a funeral!"
"So joining the Club means eternal life? Now I know why you put up with Sandi."
Quinn held up a different shirt and squinted to read the tag. "By the way, do you think she'd notice if I wore a blend undershirt with an all-cotton ensemble?"
"Not if you put on an African ceremonial mask to distract her."
"Ha."
"Quinn? Even though you're still here, um...I'm sorry I never said 'I love you'."
Her sister smiled fondly. "You're so weird, Daria." She turned to look out the window and blanched.
Mom was walking in the front door. She wasn't supposed to be home yet!
"Daria, hurry, you have to leave!"
"What for? Don't you want to talk to Mom, too?"
"She's not as smart as you, Daria. She won't get it. Hurry!"
Too late. The doorknob rattled. Someone was trying to get in.
"Daria?" Helen called from the other side. "What are you doing in Quinn's room? Who are you talking to?!"
Daria froze, her eyes wide as saucers. Mom was supposed to go back to work today!
"Unlock this door right now!"
"Go away!" Daria shouted desperately. Her hands shook as she balled them into fists, the nails freshly painted. "I'm talking to Quinn. You wouldn't understand!"
"Daria, listen to me. Quinn is gone. Your father is gone. We need to talk about this."
Helen stepped back in shock as the door flew open.
Daria stood there breathing hard, her eyes vacant, dressed from head to toe in her sister's clothes. "See, Mom? I'm back," she said in a shrill, trembling voice. "See?"

They were wrong. Her mother, the doctors, all of them. Twenty years later, they were still wrong.
Dad never drove her and Quinn to school that morning.
He never fell asleep at the wheel while Quinn was busy with her makeup.
She didn't just sit there, too frightened to cry out a warning.
They never hit an oncoming truck that crushed the front half of the minivan and left her unconscious in the backseat.
Four minus two was still four.
Her bedroom door opened. A sharp, dark-haired woman in a leather jacket walked in and smiled. Jane. "Hi, Daria. How are Dad and Quinn today?"
Daria smiled wide. "They're okay. Quinn still doesn't like my bathrobe. And Dad says I have much less gray hair than his father did at my age."
Jane forced a smile, her eyes glittering with a thousand tears unshed. At least her old friend was happy like this, she told herself, just as she had every day since.
At least she was happy.