Page 89 of Tell Me You Love Me

“Come on.” I take Alana’s free hand and lead her toward the casket already set in place. The flowers Caroline organized. The music Oliver oversaw. The funeral director Raquel connected us with.

For the girl they declared their enemy ten years ago, they step forward and circle the wagons. Because we protect those we love.

ROUND TWENTY-SIX

ALANA

Funerals suck.

There are no words available to change the narrative. No long, sweeping descriptions of the flowers that make the landscape pretty, or the birds singing in the trees. Not the rolling green lawns, or the cool breeze that keeps us comfortable under the warm sun.

Funerals do, in fact, suck.

Even the funeral for the woman who made my life a living hell, tormenting my every inner thought, squashing each moment of hope I was foolish enough to conjure, criticizing what I thought were achievements and highlighting my poorer choices, not so I would learn from them, but so I could be shamed for them.

My mother seemed to take great joy in holding me down when all I ever wanted was to rise up.

Perhaps worse, she knew what happened to me ten years ago. I confided in her the moment I stumbled home. Begged for her help. I pleaded for her understanding and asked for guidance on what I should do next. But in the end, I was met with a sneer and cold derision.

Statements like, ‘This is what happens when nice girls dress like sluts,’ and ‘We knew this day would come when you insisted on spending time with the Watkins trash.’

The Watkins boys weren’t trash. Not then, and not now.

And I wasn’t dressed like a slut. I was wearing my prom dress.

Though, as an adult, I know now my clothing choices never mattered at all.

Instead of helping me, my mother shamed me. And instead of explaining the options I had, she focused only on how stupid I was to drink underage.

God, how her words play on repeat in my mind. How she had a chance to change my life for the better, but chose to stand on my throat instead.

But she’s gone now, and though my stomach turns with sorrow and my heart aches with contradiction, tears flow from my eyes. Because a girl wants her mom. She wants the reassurance most others receive freely. She wants the comfort of a mother’s bosom to rest on and sweet words of love whispered in the dark. Those are the same words I offer my son when he’s afraid. Or lonely. Or merely bored.

“She wasn’t perfect.” I read the eulogy I prepared, sniffling and wiping the moisture from beneath my nose. “I’m not sure she knew how to be the mom I needed, and I think that’s because she didn’t love herself the way she needed. But today, and into the future, I choosenotto focus on what I didn’t have and, instead, focus on what I did. I had a mom who was present every single day of my first eighteen years of life. I had a mom who helped in the school cafeteria and a mom who bought craft supplies so I could complete every assignment asked of me. I had the mom who made sure my clothes were clean and pressed, shoes that shone, and schoolbooks I could always rely on.”

I pause and search the crowd for familiar faces.

“She struggled after my dad left, and I know, sometimes, I romanticized the memories I had of him. I imagined him riding his motorcycle along the California coast, enjoying his life of freedom and excitement. I know I hurt my mom when I whined about how she was lacking, and yet placed him on a pedestal like he was a kind of celebrity worthy of praise. The impact of my views—of him and of her—was not something I could comprehend back then, when all I could focus on was bubbling teen resentment and a yearning for things I never had. But I know one thing for sure.” I lower my page and glance up at the hundreds of mourners who spread across the cemetery. Wet eyes and noisy sniffles. Too many faces; I can’t even place them all.

Drawing a deep breath and folding my paper, I allow forgiveness to slide into my heart.

Acceptance.

“She stayed,” I declare.

Franky’s sweet little hand wraps around mine. He stands in front of a sea of eyes, his actual worst nightmare, but he does it for me.

Inspired by his bravery, I wipe my nose and paste on my best smile. “My mom deserved more credit than I ever gave her. Because while he was traveling the world, ignoring his responsibilities and garnering some illogical, immature benefit of the doubt in a teen’s mind, she stayed and did the actual work. So, Mom,” I drag my gaze to her casket. “Thank you. You did your best, even though you didn’t have to.”

With a shuddering breath and a newfound resolve bolstered by Franky’s hand, I take a step back and signal for the funeral director to continue his work: he reads a passage from the bible. Or maybe two or three. He plays a song. Reads some more.

I pay little attention to most of it. But I take comfort in my son on my right and Tommyfreakin’Watkins on my left.

He proves, once again, how pure and unconditional his love remains.

I broke his heart and destroyed our future, and even now, with nothing promised besides‘in a few days, I’ll tell you to move on again’,his support remains absolute. His adoration, pure. His strength, unwavering.

He leans closer while the funeral director lowers my mother into the ground, his aftershave settling in the base of my lungs, providing a nice distraction from the rich perfume of flowers. Freshly cut grass. Pollen in the air. All of which make my sensitive stomach tumble with nausea. “You holding up okay?”

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