My mother, Alice, is dead. She lies in her casket, arms firmly at her sides, eyes sown shut. She probably didn’t want it to be that way - her eyes I mean. She would have wanted them to be open, cold and gray, so she could continue to watch the world for just a little longer; though by now she would undoubtedly be bored with the darkness.
I stood over her casket at the funeral, looking at her solemn, painted face. She was wearing her summer sun dress. Not my first choice, and most certainly not my father’s, but it was one of her very few requests.
- No more than ten people at any given time at the service or the reception
- Don’t visit me more than twice a year, my birth and deathdays will be fine.
- I want to wear my sun dress. The one with the sunflowers on it.
She wanted to wear her straw hat as well, but we talked her out of it, saying that the brim would get bent by the lid of the coffin, as well as her own head because she would be laying on it. She agreed that she didn’t want to wear a bent hat for all eternity.
I stood staring at her for a long time, not blinking. My sister, Betsy, came and stood next to me. She didn’t look like my mother at all: different from her in almost every way to be honest. The only thing she inherited was melodramatic skill. She was dressed like Jackie O., thick rimmed sunglasses and all. Her black, double breasted skirt-suit thing had big white buttons and white trim around all the edges. She had dark brown hair, light hazel eyes and fair skin; a stark contrast to our mother’s dirty blonde, blue and nicely tanned features.
“You’re waiting for her to wake up, aren’t you?” she asked me. “You know they’ve already sewn her eyes shut. And done all that other stuff to keep her from rotting before she goes in the ground. She isn’t waking up.”
I turned my stare to her. She looked back and smiled.
“I feel the same way, so don’t worry,” she said choking back tears, “like this is the grand finale of it all.”
I knew what she meant.
“How’s school?” I asked, trying to get as far away from it all as possible.
There was a sudden pause in the tears, a short, squeaky breath in - held. . . held. . . and then,
“Shut up Richard,” she said and stomped out the huge oak doors of the chapel.
I remained, looking next to myself at the empty space where she had been standing. The compressed air arm slammed the door shut and snapped my gaze to the back where I noticed my father was sitting in the last pew. He had a small, sharply pointed, beak-like nose, making it difficult to look him in the face for very long. He was dressed like he was ready to go on a business trip to the Bahamas.
Khakis, Hawaiian shirt, navy blue blazer and topsiders--no socks.
My father was a rich idiot. I shouldn’t have been so hard on him, at least not on that day, but if you wanted to sum up his existence in two words, those would be the ones. His father was rich too, but not an idiot. He was a self-made millionaire, inventor of the juice box. I never knew him. Not because he died before I was born or anything, but because he thought the same that I did about my father, he wasn’t too excited about being reminded constantly of the mistake he’d made. The obvious irony about the situation was that my father inherited the family fortune because he was an only child: probably the only thing my grandfather planned poorly.
The juice box company that he started doesn’t exist anymore. My dad sold it because he didn’t know anything about money, business, life. My mother had taken control of the financial matters after that. He just sat at home with the newspaper, pretending to read something important. As I looked at him sitting in that last pew, heels together, knees apart, hands folded neatly between them, quietly crying to himself, I felt sad but not sorry. Sad and angry.
* * *
The first time my mother told me someone was sick, I believed her wholeheartedly. Sick was the word that she always used. Sick lost its meaning. First it meant sad, or dead. Sad because it made me sad to hear that someone I knew was in that condition. Dead because she said they would be soon. It didn’t take very long for it to mean lie.My friend Jacob was the first, and I was seven. I had been unhappy in school because I didn’t have any friends except for him. I wanted to be able to play on the jungle gym with all the popular kids, but I was restricted to the monkey bars, because none of them liked me.
“Richard, honey, tell Mommy what’s wrong,” she said one day after school. I was reluctant at first, because I didn’t want her to know I wasn’t a popular kid, but I gave in.
“None of the kids like me at school. Only stupid Jacob plays with me, but he’s boring,” I confessed.
“What’s wrong with Jacob?” she asked. “One friend is better than none, right?”
I just looked forward at the glove box in front of me. She couldn’t understand. In truth she really didn’t understand and that’s why she told me what she did.
I suppose it was because I had generally been a happy child until then. Before first grade, I never had to worry much about friends. Everyone was friendly, and when someone wasn’t, I could simply ignore them and move on. In first grade, everything changed. I got to play on the big playground. I got to bring my lunch to school. Most importantly, I saw the big kids. I saw what they did and how they interacted, and I wanted it. I wanted to be like them and have what they had - social structure, hierarchy, a caste system.
Things did not fall out as I had hoped. I blamed most of my poor social status on Jacob, an awkward, red haired boy who liked to color a lot. He would follow me around at recess, talking to the back of my head about He-Man and Skeletor, and I couldn’t stand it.
My mother probably wanted to save me from telling off the only friend that she thought I would have throughout the rest of my education. Or maybe she wanted to save Jacob from being told off by the only friend she thought he would have.
“Oh, Richard, you shouldn’t be upset with Jacob.” I looked over to her, because she sounded like she was going to burst into tears as she said that. I wasn’t sure what to think.
“Why not?”
“His mother called me today and told me that he’s very sick.”
It occurred to me that Jacob had not been in school. My first thought was that it must be a cough, nothing to worry about. His mother had probably mentioned it in passing when they had spoken on the phone earlier that day. Looking back some years later, I realized that my mother never knew Jacob’s, at least not as more than mere acquaintances and certainly not enough to warrant a phone conversation. I tried to figure out how she could have possibly known that he wasn’t in class. It had to have been by some coincidence, and nothing else.
She drove by their house and saw him through their living room window.
He called for me to come and play, forgetting that I was in school.
A lucky guess.
“He wasn’t in class today,” I replied. “Does he have a cough? Or is it worse...like a tummy ache?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, bringing tears to her eyes - a trademark, no doubt something she picked up from hours of soap operas and Hallmark specials. “I’m afraid it’s worse than that. He’s in the hospital. It’s very serious.”
* * *
My father stood up as I walked toward the door. I knew he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. He was afraid of his own children. It wasn’t a physical fear, though he had never physically disciplined me or Betsy. It was a fear of sounding stupid. He was clearing his throat, shuffling his feet and swaying his arms. I knew he was afraid I would bite his head off if he spoke to me.“Hey Richie. . . nice service, wasn’t it?” he said as if we had just stumbled into the funeral of a stranger and sat in the back to watch--like we were college buddies who were out looking for a good time and thought it would be good for a laugh. I only stared at his white and pink ankles just above the heel of his topsiders exposed by his hiked up khakis.
“Dressed like you live in Hawaii, yet you’re the whitest man on Earth,” I thought.
I looked up and met his eyes. He had a very confused look on his face, eyebrows raised, mouth partially open, and I realized I had made that statement out loud.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just think that maybe you should’ve dressed a little more appropriately, for Mom’s... you understand, right?”
“I just thought since she was wearing her sun dress, it would be appropriate.”
“I suppose. You’re both wearing what you’ve worn just about every day of your lives. It wouldn’t make sense to stop now.”
“I brought a suit, though,” he said. “It’s in the car, I could change for the reception if you want -”
“Dad, you’re fine. It’s just going to be Grandma, Aunt Camille, and maybe two or three other people who don’t care what you’re wearing.”
“Right,” he said.
He stared down at the aisle carpet, blue and gold paisleys on a deep red background. I leaned over to try and enter his line of sight, but he quickly shot his gaze up and over my shoulder, as if something important or interesting caught his attention. I looked in the same direction, only to see a stained glass window depicting Saint Matthew.
“It’s time to take the casket out to the hearse,” I said
He turned his gaze to my eyebrows.
“I’ll get Betsy.” I turned and left him still fixed on the spot where my eyebrows had been.
I walked outside and down the short staircase to the driveway that circled around a pattern of yellow, blue, red and white flowers. I could tell from where I stood that you would see a bullseye flying over them in a plane. Betsy sat on the curb of the center piece facing the front of the church.
“We have to take the casket,” I said.
She put her head in her lap and hid behind her arms. She was taking this a lot harder than I thought she would.
“You really still want to know why?” I asked. “Do you honestly think she would have been willing or even able to tell you?”
Betsy remained where she was. I crossed the driveway to her and sat down. From this distance I could hear her heaving, jerky breaths. She was in that post-uncontrollable-sob where you breath with a constant hiccup and your nose pours snot. I put my arm around her.
“Do you really think she was a bad person?” I asked.
“You must be joking,” Betsy said lifting her head slightly and shooting me a blood shot glance. “She was horrible! It is inconceivable that someone could do the things she did to us and still be considered a good person.”
I sat silently, watching a lone ant scurry aimlessly on the pavement. I couldn’t have agreed with her more.
* * *
There were many people, lots of stories to tell. Despite their numbers, only a few truly got to me. The first ones, of course, but once I caught on to her, recognized her style, could judge her performances against others from the past, they became incidental. They didn’t matter, especially after going through so many crying nights and panic attacks in the beginning. There was, however, one that came later that I did believe. Even looking back now, I know why I did - I had to believe her. To not would have been inhuman. It would have meant the end of me.At ten years old, I was confident that I was going to be my parent’s only child. My grandparent’s only. Betsy came as a surprise to all of us, especially my parents--a product of failed contraception. I reacted as any spoiled only child would; I wanted to get rid of the new baby.
In my heart of hearts, I didn’t really want to hurt her. I wanted to make sure that she had a good home. I paid an older boy with a deep voice to call in an ad for adoption in the newspaper. We had desperate couples who had tried everything to conceive, single women who felt they didn’t have the physical attributes to marry let alone get lucky, and pairs of men who lacked the desire for natural conception showing up on our doorstep for weeks. Not to mention the social worker who came with a court order to have Betsy taken away because my parents had not gone through the “proper channels” to have her put up for adoption. My mother quickly figured out who the guilty party was and sat me down in the rocking chair that rested in the corner of Betsy’s room. She knelt down in front of me. I turned my head, but my eyes could not escape hers.
“How could you do such a thing Richard? How could you?”
“I don’t know...” I mumbled.
She looked at me, trying to build up tears. I knew she what she was going to say. She didn’t try to reason with me anymore - she’d been cutting right to it recently.
“I didn’t want to tell you this, but your baby sister is very sick,” she whimpered, those same conjured tears filling her eyes.
I rolled mine, pushed her away, and escaped from the chair.
“You always say that.”
“Richard....Honey....You don’t understand....” she said as she collapsed into her lap, crying uncontrollably.
This was a performance I had not seen before. My experience shouted in my head telling me not to fall for it. I turned and looked at her crying on the floor. I could feel my throat get tight, and I tried to hold back the tears, but her lie swelled inside cracking what I knew to be the truth. It finally broke free and I ran over, throwing myself on her back, trying to wrap my short arms around her.
“Is she going to be okay?” I asked.
“We’ll see honey.... We’ll see.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“The doctors don’t know. But they’re trying real hard to make sure she’ll be okay.” We were both sobbing harder than ever before. This had to be real. It had to be this time. I apologized over and over again, saying I would take it all back if I could.
After a few days of moping around she broke the wonderful news to me. The doctors said that Betsy was going to live. I ran into Mom’s arms, and as soon as she wrapped them around me I knew she had done it again. It was the same hug, a very distinct hug. Her right arm under my left, her left over my right, a tight embrace, swaying me back in forth in it and a straining “MmmmmmmmMM,” issuing forth followed by a long sigh. I didn’t get mad, though I probably should have slapped her across her face. Instead, I decided that I had to protect my sister from it, and I pledged I’d never fall for it again.
* * *
I pushed open the front door to the chapel and held it for Betsy as she entered. I followed behind her, and tapped Dad on the shoulder as I passed him down the aisle, and his head snapped up.I took one last look at her face. I wanted to be sad. I wanted the thought of never looking at her face again to effect me profoundly. I can’t say if it did or didn’t. As soon as the numbness began to subside, and some semblance crept back into my chest, I slammed the coffin lid shut, allowing the numbness to quickly return.
We lifted the coffin, which felt like it was at least twice my mother’s weight, and carried it out to the hearse; Aunt Camille’s 1986 Oldsmobile station wagon. Mom didn’t want us wasting money on a hearse when her sister had a car that was completely capable of transporting her body a few hundred yards to the grave site.
I followed behind Camille, alone, in my car while Charles drove Betsy and my father in the Lincoln. I had never been that interested in paying someone to drive for me. My father, on the other hand, hadn’t driven in twenty years and I don’t think Betsy ever had.
We arrived at the site, and carried the coffin over, placing it on five green belts that would soon lower the coffin to its final resting place. Seven of us stood around the coffin, looking at each other searching for what to do next. Camille cleared her throat and spoke up.
“Well, I suppose I could start us by saying a few words. Alice.... was...... my sister.” This was followed by a long silence. I wasn’t sure if that was going to conclude her speech. Camille never had a way with words. She looked like a man: short hair, blue jeans, work boots, and a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and frayed at the shoulder, open, over a yellowing t-shirt.
“Even though things were rough....between us.... these last couple of years,” she continued. “I’m still sort of sorry to see her go.” This was agonizing. I had to interrupt to get it over with before Grandma, my dad’s mom, started in on the eulogy.
“I think we’re all sorry to see her go,” I said. I saw Grandma start to open her mouth, but I cut her off.
“I think the best thing to do now is to wish her the best in... the afterlife... or wherever, and go eat some cake and ice cream back at the house.” I scanned the six faces and saw what I could only assume to be silent approval. I whistled to the workman to come over and lower the coffin into the grave. Once the straps were removed, we stood around the gaping hole and looked in. Betsy knelt down and picked up a handful of soft, fresh dirt. She tossed it in and walked away. Everyone else followed, but without contributing to the filling of the hole. I stayed behind, contemplating Betsy action, and decided to do the same. I scooped up as much dirt as I could hold in both my hands and threw it in. Suddenly I felt release. Weight lifted off of my head and I leaned over again, throwing more dirt on top. I got excited, and just kept shoveling as much dirt as I could into the hole.
“Hey buddy, you gonna fill the whole thing in? I got the bulldozer to do that,” said the workman. I stood, wiped the sweat from my upper lip and walked away.
* * *
I didn’t believe her when she tried to use Grandma. I can honestly say I didn’t believe her for a second. She hadn’t tried it for quite sometime when she told me that Grandma had a brain tumor. I laughed. I wasn’t trying to be malicious. The way she said it just sounded so funny to me. Mostly because she hadn’t tried that sort of thing in many years and her reason for trying it again was because I refused to come home from school for Thanksgiving.“I’m nineteen years old Mom. I’m going to have Thanksgiving with Jenny’s family this year, and that’s that. Did you seriously think I would believe you?” I wanted her to admit that they had all been lies. Every last one of them. I wanted her to apologize. It occurred to me, however, that we had never actually spoken about this issue before, so I really didn’t know how she was going to respond.
“I don’t understand,” she said, “why wouldn’t you believe me?” This was beyond all comprehension.
“Mom, I know all about the little game you play. You tell me someone is sick and dying and then I’m supposed to get all sad. And after a few days or a week you tell me they’re going to be ok, and I’m supposed to be happy and relieved. But they were never sick in the first place! I just talked to Grandma a few days ago to tell her I wasn’t going to see her on Thanksgiving. She’s fine. I know, ok - I’ve known, I - just know.”
Click. That was the last time she ever told me a lie about someone and it was the last we ever spoke about it. I didn’t go home for Thanksgiving that year. Or Christmas. I called though. Betsy told me that everything was fine, but she wished I could have been there. I asked her about Mom, and she told me that Mom was ok. Then she asked me when I got out of the hospital, because she hadn’t heard from Mom that I was better. I sighed and calmly told her that I was fine and hadn’t been in the hospital. She understood.
* * *
I pulled up in front of the house and let myself in. Everyone was sitting on the couch in the living room, silent. I went straight to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. There was an assortment of bottles on the counter, but they were all empty. Jim Beam, Jack, The Captain, Grey Goose, Bacardi, nothing was left except for a single bottle of sour apple Pucker.“Way to stock up for the reception Dad,” I shouted from the kitchen. “You could’ve at least bought new bottles.” No one said anything.
I poured myself a glass of Pucker and walked out to the living room. I stared at the drink while I walked. It was vividly green. The light coming through the large window made it glow like a neon bar sign. I looked up and noticed that everyone had their eyes on me.
“Did I do something?” This was very uncomfortable. I thought back to the burial.
“If it’s about the dirt, then, well....I can make no apologies.”
“Richard, what are you even talking about?” Betsy said.
I noticed that she was holding a video tape in her hands.
“Is that -”
“It’s from Mom. The family lawyer gave it to us.”
I looked over at Mr. Jennings who was standing in the corner of the room. He had a little grin on his face and gave a little wave with the tips of his fingers.
“Have you seen it?” I asked him.
“No, your mother gave me specific instructions for the viewing of the tape. Only you and Betsy are to see it and neither of you are to discuss it with anyone.”
I looked back at Betsy. She wasn’t crying anymore. She knew as much as I did what was on it.
* * *
I finished school in only three years and went straight to a cubical. I didn’t mind. I had always envied kids whose dad’s had normal jobs, and I told myself I would be normal one day too. And I finally felt like I was. I went to visit Mom, Dad and Betsy on the holidays and some weekends and things felt normal. Betsy even stopped coming to me for confirmation on what Mom was telling her, so I could only assume that it had stopped all together.One beautiful Easter Sunday, Betsy and I were sitting on the verandah, enjoying the warm weather, some honey-glazed ham and each others’ company. The last couple years had been good for both of us.
“How’s school?” I asked. She rolled her eyes.
“No one understands me.”
I laughed but quickly covered my mouth because it was full of food. Typical high school response.
“Why do you say that? You have friends, right? Mom’s been telling me all about the boys that’ve been calling. They must understand you.”
Betsy looked shyly at the ground and a little smile cracked the corner of her mouth.
“She wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
“Well she did. What’s the big deal anyway? At least you have the opposite sex knocking on your door. I haven’t had a date in years.”
She laughed at that but also covered her mouth to keep food from flying out.
“You have me,” she said with a big smile on her face.
“That is true. We have each other.”
She turned her head and looked out over the lawn. I kept my eyes on her. She was contemplating a big question. I wondered what it could be. Maybe help with school work. Maybe advice about guys. But those seemed too small for the time she was taking to think about what she was going to ask. This was bigger.
“Richard, can I ask you something?”
“You just did,” I said.
“No - shut up,” she said smiling, “Seriously though, this is important.”
“Of course, ask me anything you want.”
She sat still for a minute, holding her breath.
“Why do you think Mom told us those things? Oh - nevermind. Dumb question, sorry.”
I wanted to answer her. I really did. I just didn’t know how. I hadn’t thought about that subject in quite some time. I sat staring at my plate of ham, scalloped potatoes and green beans. I didn’t blink.
“You don’t have to answer,” Betsy said. “It was a dumb question. We can talk about something else.”
“No, no. It’s fine. It’s just that I haven’t thought about that in a while. I almost forgot
that it happened, it’s been so long, you know? I guess the only thing I can say is that she thought she was helping us.”
“What do you mean, helping us?”
That was clearly not the answer she was looking for. And it honestly wasn’t what I had expected to say. I was going to say, Because she was a horrible, selfish person, but now I think she knows it was wrong because she doesn’t do it anymore. That is what Betsy wanted to hear. It’s what I wanted to hear. But I felt that it wasn’t the truth. I could’ve switched it to that. I could’ve said, Just kidding. But I didn't. I knew that I really wasn’t kidding.
“Maybe she wanted to bring us all closer together, but she didn’t know how. I know when she told me you were sick, I was really scared. I just wanted her to hold me and tell me you were going to be okay. I believed her. And when she did tell me you were okay, I never felt so happy in my entire life. I ran into her arms and squeezed her so tight, I was so happy. Of course the hug is what gave it away.” Betsy nodded her head in agreement.
“It also changed what I thought about you. When she first told me, I was sorry about what I had done, and I wanted to take it back. I told myself that if you got better, I would do my best to take care of you. Then when I realized it was one of Mom’s, you know, I knew that I had to protect you from her.”
“I understand,” she said, smiling at me. I don’t think she did though. She didn’t look content with what I told her. It wasn’t enough.
I stood and stacked our plates and silverware to bring back inside. Betsy grabbed my arm as I walked by her towards the door.
“Richard. Thanks for looking out for me.”
* * *
Dad had put a T.V. in almost every room in the house so that no matter where he went orwhat he was doing he could be watching his favorite shows or the game or the news or whatever. We went into the third sitting room in the east wing of the house. It had the smallest T.V. I didn’t want Mom to be bigger than me.
I turned it on and popped the tape in the VCR.
“You ready?” I asked. Betsy nodded her head. I hit the play button and took a seat next
to her on the couch.
Mom appeared on the screen in her sun dress and straw hat.
“Is it on?” she said to the person behind the camera. “Yes? Okay. Richard and Betsy. Look at you two. My babies. I’ve been so proud of you. Both of you. And I’ve been so happy to see you happy. I’m sure you know what this is all about, so I’m going to get right to it.”
I jumped up and hit the pause button.
“I can’t,” I said, “I don’t want to hear what she thought it was. I’m satisfied with what I think, and I know she’ll ruin that for me.” Betsy stood up and gave me a hug.
“Okay. But I have to know. I promise I won’t tell you what she said.”
I walked back out to the living room.
* * *
Two days before the Fourth of July, Mom called me at work. I was actually happy to hear from her because I had just been promoted to a middle management position in the company. I was getting a raise, a bonus, and a company car.“That’s sounds nice Richie. I called though to tell you something. Important. I... I’m dying Richie.” Time stopped. My throat closed and my neck grew stiff. I couldn’t breathe. I was so angry.
“Why are you doing this?” I said softly. My hands tightened. Tears and snot started to
come out of my face.
“Richie, I -”
“I thought we were done. I thought you...were done. Why?”
“Richard,” she said sternly, “now listen to me. I know that certain things took place in the past. Things that would lead you to assume that I am not telling you the truth. But goddamnit.... I am telling you the truth.” I heard the phone hit the floor.
“Richard.” My dad had picked up the phone.
“Is it true?” I said.
“Why would anyone lie about such a thing? Honestly Richard, I’m surprised. You’ve made her very upset....Anyway, she has a malignant tumor in her liver. The doctors don’t know how it got there, or how they’ve missed it for so long. But it’s there.”
“How long?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How long does she have?”
“Oh...uh.... Well they can’t say for sure. At the very least she has less than a month. But she could live for many more years, ya know?” Dad said chuckling.
“Keep me posted,” I said and hung up.
* * *
No one said anything at first. The only noise heard was the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. I sat down on the arm of the couch, between Camille and Dad, picked up an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table and took a big bite. I chewed loudly, smacking the peel and flesh in my mouth, sucking all the juice out first and then swallowing. Everyone had their eyes on me again.“Where’s Betsy?” asked Dad. I looked at him and continued to chew. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s watching the video.”
“Why aren’t you watching it?”
“Didn’t want to.”
“Well...why not? You know I think you’re mother -”
“Dad please. I just didn’t want to watch it, that’s all. I know what it’s about. I don’t
need to hear it from her mouth to know what it’s about.” He paused, deciding whether or not he should ask me.
“Well...what is it about?”
“Don’t answer that,” said Mr. Jennings. “Her will clearly states that you are not to talk about it to anyone.”
“It’s just about history Dad, that’s all. She rewrote history.” I looked over at Mr. Jennings, who thought for a moment but then leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.
“She rewrote....I don’t understand,” said Dad.
Betsy appeared in the doorway, and signaled for me to follow her back to the sitting room.
“Richie, I want to know what you meant by that,” he said. I turned back to him.
“Someday Dad.”
I entered the room. The T.V. screen was black and I could see Betsy’s reflection in it. She was sitting on the couch. I sat next to her again. She took my hand and interlocked her fingers in mine.
“So what did you -”
“Shhhhh.” Her hand was warm. She reached her other arm around me and squeezed as hard as she could.
“I understand now,” she said and smiled. I knew exactly what she meant.
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