AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ONE
Ineed to get out of bed. I’m trying to think of something that might motivate me to open my eyes, but I can’t come up with anything. Maybe if I lie here a little longer, I can trick myself into falling back asleep. Or not...
Isn’t there something I need to do today?
Oh, yeah. Mom’s funeral. What kind of daughter forgets her own mother’s funeral? This has to be her way of reminding me from the grave how much of a disappointing daughter I was.
To be fair, she wasn’t winning anyMother of the Yearawards either. It’s not her fault, though, she wasn’t my biological mom, and we never developed that unique bond most mothers and daughters have. My birth parents sent me away at a young age, so in some ways, I’m an old pro at being a disappointment.
My adoptive mom and I had a somewhat strained relationship. At first, I was jealous of the intimacy other girls had with their mothers, but after so long, it turned into a smug bitterness. We didn’t need all that phony closeness. Didn’t these women have anything better to do than grandstand with all theI-love-yous andhave-a-good-day-sweethearts?
Then, as if she knew I was thinking about her, my mother’s stern voice interrupts my thoughts, “Everyone shows love differently, Birdie.”
This became her catchphrase.
It was the routine response when she caught me waiting for a hug or some other form of tenderness, like after I’d painted her a picture or fell off my bike. I’ll never be sure, but I get the distinct feeling she thought I was purposely trying to provoke her by wanting more affection.
As I finally open my eyes, my black dress hanging on the closet doorknob comes into view. A few tears leak from the corners of my eyes, and my stomach feels hollow and empty. I can’t believe she’s gone. This is the second time I’ve lost a mother, and in both instances, I never got to say goodbye.
* * *
This funeral sucks. I can only blame myself, though, since I’m the one who organized it. I can’t tell if it’s Mom’s that sucks, or if funerals suck in general. This is the only one I’ve ever been to, and I didn’t have the money to hire professionals. I wonder how one gets into the business of funeral planning.I’ll have to Google that later.
After she died, I was left to my own devices. At first, I wasn’t even sure who to call, so I started by calling people in her address book that shared our last name, Fournier. Thankfully, one of her cousins, Barbara—or was it Bonnie? Shit, I can’t remember—took mercy on me and said she would contact the rest of the family tree. God bless Cousin What’s-Her-Name.
The minister gave a lovely eulogy for “Juliet” Fournier—mom’s name was Julianne. I think everyone collectively cringed as soon as he uttered the wrong name at the pulpit. He said lovely things, although, I suspect it was cookie-cutter as far as speeches go. I didn’t give him much to work with because Mom was private and didn’t share many details about her life with me. I knew the basics. She was a teacher and an excellent cook.
Sometimes she would travel to visit people, though I was never allowed to go with her. She would tell me I’d be bored the whole time and would have no fun. I was already bored, but I enjoyed having the apartment to myself while she was gone. None of the other kids got to stay home alone at age eight. Probably because their parents knew better.
She went to church, wrote in her journals every day, and she shopped. A lot. That woman could blow through money like it was her job. I didn’t tell anyone that it was mainly on The Shopping Channel. On occasion, her purchasing habits put us in a tight spot, but those little angel figurines with the chubby asses mollified her, so I wasn’t about to protest her spending.
During the service, I said a few words but was relieved when some of her extended family stood up and spoke. Hearing people talk about my mom the way they did was bittersweet. So many of their kind words painted my mother as bubbly and cheerful, but that woman was a stranger to me.
I should have set out name tags. And maybe laid out a guestbook like a genealogy map so I could figure out how the hell we all know each other. Some guests are friends of my mom, but it’s hard to tell the friends apart from the family when everybody’s dressed in the same fucking color. I’m a Fournier, but my commonalities with these people stop at our surname. They all know Mom, but rarely did she talk about her family and friends.
After walking into the reception hall, I pull one of the Styrofoam cups from the stack and fill it with hot coffee. I’m not much of a coffee drinker, but it serves as a hand warmer in the depressing church foyer. The chill in the air seems to radiate from the dated commercial tiling under my feet.I want to go home.
The soft murmuring of conversation and stories echo in the room... I take a seat at one of the empty tables covered in a lace tablecloth. The yellowing coffee stains throughout tell me it’s been used in many funerals before this one. A table runner features a Christmas pattern of snowmen and holly. Interesting choice, considering it’s September. These must be thenice linens.
I peer across the room at my best friend, Freya McCoy, and smile. She goes by Micky; we grew up preferring our nicknames. Micky is my rock today—well, most days. She’s wearing a huge grin and is regaling the guests with stories about my mom. The operative word being “stories.” Micky never actually met my mother, so she’s most likely telling people that Mom invented the selfie stick or was an underwater basket weaver. She’s the best. We met in the Vancouver Culinary Academy dormitories and have been inseparable ever since.
Vancouver has been my home for as long as I can remember. I tried asking my mother where I was born. I think she was afraid I might try and find my birth parents and leave her. Mom was my only family in Vancouver. I ruminate on that a little longer as I run my thumb over one of the loose threads in the tablecloth. I suppose Micky is the closest thing I have to family now. In a way, she always has been.
I was only six when I was taken in by my adoptive mom, and she always yelled at me whenever I brought up my life before moving in with her. She would get so angry. After a while, I stopped bringing it up. Then I stopped thinking about it altogether. I hated thinking about it. I was mad at my birth parents for making me live with Julianne. Eventually, those memories became fuzzier and fuzzier. When you’re ripped away from home at such a young age and never allowed to talk about it again, it’s easy to forget your childhood. I remember some things but details are hard. I remember there were pine trees in the yard, and we lived on Briar Lane, but I can’t remember what city or province.
When I found out my adoptive mom died, my world flipped upside down. Mom wasn’t my most extensive support system, but she was the only one I had. The coffee in my hand jostles when I’m pulled from my thoughts by an older couple who stop next to my chair. The woman’s thin gray hair is pulled back in a barrette; her kind, aged eyes are brown and glassy. Her husband stands close by with his hand on her back and gives me a sympathetic smile. The woman takes my hand in hers and winces as she shares her condolences. I thank them for coming, and they turn to leave.
I have no idea who I just said goodbye to. I’ve heard “I’m sorry for your loss” so many times that the sentiment has lost all meaning. Kind of like when you say a word over and over and it no longer sounds like the word anymore.
Sorry for your loss.
Sorey feryer laws.
Soar-ee fer yer laaws.
I stifle a laugh at the absurdity as I recite it in my head. The Canadian accent is strong with this crowd.
I take the elderly couple’s exit as an opportunity to stand and move around; I’m a sitting duck if I stay at this stupid coffee-stained Christmas table. Maybe if I appear busy, people will be less likely to converse with me. I don’t want to cry in front of strangers.
