AllFreeNovel
Share Us
That will be then. For now, we are four siblings bound in grief, finding solace in the presence of each other as the day threatens to break on the longest night of our lives.
Chapter thirty-four
FAREWELL MAMA.
TONY
Today, we bid my mother farewell and set her free. It has been a long, hard-fought journey, but it is finally over. Today, My Mom goes to join my Dad, and we are left to pick up the pieces. She was the glue that held us all together. Will we survive, or will we scatter to the different corners of the world, sharing names only and nothing else?
The heavy oak doors of St. Mary's close behind me with a finality that echoes off the high, arched ceilings. A sea of black attire fills the pews, a dark tide that swells beyond the back rows and spills into the aisles. I thread my way through, each step toward the front an effort against the tide.
"Tony," Father O'Malley greets me with a sad smile as I finally reach the front pew, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder. "She was loved by many."
"Seems like it," I mutter out loud, but inwardly I seethe. I bet some of these people are only here out of morbid curiosity fromthe freaking press they have been consuming about our family lately. Go to hell.
The scent of incense hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the faint notes of lilies from the floral arrangements, with a few yellow tulips scattered in between—Mom's favorite. I slide into the pew, the polished wood cool and unwelcoming beneath me, then gently take Lola’s hand, more for my sanity than her comfort.
Father O'Malley takes his place at the pulpit, clearing his throat softly. The murmuring crowd falls silent, their attention riveting forward.
"Dick, Jenny, Tony, Lola, family and friends. We gather here in the house of God to remember Abigail," he starts, his voice carrying the weight of sorrow.
As he speaks, I scan the crowd, seeing some faces I recognize most faces I don't. There are too many of them, but who are they? Why are they here?Did you even know her?Do you even care?I want to scream, to call out the voyeurs from the mourners, but I don’t. I hold my tongue, biting down on the inside of my cheek until I taste the metallic tinge of blood.
" . . . Abigail's heart knew no bounds," Father O'Malley is saying, but it is all white noise to me—words without meaning. "Her kindness touched all who met her . . . "
His words float over me, but I'm not really listening. Instead, I'm watching the faces, reading their expressions, separating the grief from the fascination. It's a game I play to keep the anger at bay, to stop myself from leaping up and accusing them of their intrusion and voyeurism.
"May she find peace in the arms of the Lord," Father O'Malley concludes.
“Amen.” The murmur of agreement ripples through the church.
"Amen," I whisper under my breath, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. Mom is gone, and no amount of prayer will bring her warmth back to us. The room fills with the sound of a hymn starting up, voices lifting in somber melody, but I can't bring myself to sing along.
My throat feels tight and constricted; the words won't come. I am in a house of prayer as a formality . . . I don’t feel a kinship to all that goes on in here. I prayed . . . I begged . . . I pleaded. It did no good. My mother is still dead.
I glance over at Dick, sitting like a statue, his jaw set firm, the muscles in his neck taut with the effort of holding back emotion. His hands are clasped in front of him, knuckles white, looking like he’d like to punch someone, but who? . . . death? He's always been the rock in our family, unyielding even now.
Jenny's face is a study in control, her sharp, intelligent eyes glistening but never spilling over. She takes meticulous notes in her little black book as if by capturing the service on paper, she might capture a piece of Mom, too.
Lola's cheeks are streaked with tears, her small frame trembling like a leaf in a storm. At twenty-eight, she seems curiously fragile amidst the sea of black attire, a stark reminder of innocence lost.
Aunt Serafina sits, her posture straight as ever, the lines on her face etched deeper today. She holds a handkerchief, unused, in her lap—a symbol of stoicism passed down through generations.
Next to Aunt Serafina is Uncle Marco, Mom's only surviving sibling, his silver mustache quivering as he stifles sobs, each one escaping like a whisper from a man who rarely speaks above a murmur. His eyes, normally twinkling with silent mirth, are dull with pain today. There’s nothing like the death of a close family member to remind you of your own mortality. He is five years older than Mom. This must have hit him hard.
We have now reached the middle section of the service, according to the printed program.
"Would you like to say something?" Father O'Malley turns to us, his gaze kind but probing.
Dick rises first, a pillar among us, his frame silhouetted against the stained-glass windows where light fractures into a spectrum of sorrow. He doesn't turn to face the congregation; instead, he looks toward the altar, to the simple wooden cross that hovers there.
"Mom was strength," he says, his voice steady as the oak pews we sit in. "She gave it freely, without asking for anything in return." His hands clasp in front of him, knuckles white. "She taught me what it means to be resilient, to stand firm when life tries to break you." There's a shiver in his words now, a crack in the foundation. "I only hope I can carry on half the strength she embodied."
He sits back down, and the silence afterward is heavy, weighted with the unspoken. Jenny squeezes my hand before letting go—her signal that it's my turn. My feet carry me forward, even though my body feels hollow, like a shell left behind by the tide.
I choose to address the congregants from the pulpit so everybody can hear me. I walk toward the altar on legs that feel like they might buckle any second. As I make my way to the pulpit, passing by the closed casket adorned with yellow tulips, I feel a hundred pairs of eyes on me, waiting.
"Mom . . . " I start, my voice struggling to be heard. I clear my throat, forcing strength into my next words. "Mom believedin good in everyone. She saw past the flaws, the mistakes, the human frailties. I remember one day, a woman calling our house by mistake. Her husband was abusing her, and she escaped to hide from him.
