I leaned forward, taking in the texture of the woman’s skin, the layer of makeup, and false eyelashes. I hadn't realized until I was closer that they were fake. Something about that seemed so right. It was absolutely Vivian right down to vanity in death.
"You're dead," I whispered.
The funeral home was cold. I’d known it would be, I’d brought a sweater, but the chill crept in under the fabric. The scent of embalming fluid and jasmine perfume filled the air, the two mixing unpleasantly, clinging to me, crawling into my nose.
"And you stink."
I studied her face. Even in death, there was something compelling about her. The mortician had made her up beautifully and she'd been young still. I'd never realized how young Vivian had been when I was born. Looking down at her pale face, wrinkles mostly smoothed away, and thick dark hair threaded with silver, I could see it. She'd just turned fifty in January and the poison hadn't left any trace.
She could have been sleeping.
I reached out but hesitated, my fingers dropping to the edge of the metal table she rested on. I didn’t want to touch her. Even this was too close. I pulled back and brought my hand to my mouth, blowing on it like a child with a burn, hoping my breath would drive away the chill.
The mortician had murmured apologetically about giving me a moment in this awkward space. The viewing rooms were occupied, and he didn’t want me in the preparation area. So, he’d abandoned us here, the door closing behind him with a final ominous click. I wished he hadn't. I felt like I had to linger, like they were expecting me to mourn her here, in this barren space. If I left too early, they'd all be talking.
Well, they'd be talking anyway.
Crossing my arms, I looked around, taking it all in but her. It was a private room at the back of the building, neither one area nor another, an in-between place. It wasn't public, not really, there was no carpet, only flecked linoleum tiles, and the walls were a bare industrial beige. It had two wide doors, the one I’d come through and one opposite but no windows, and a low paneled ceiling.
This room felt like an afterthought, a space meant to exist for these five minutes and no more. Would it pop out of existence when I walked through the door? Maybe. A little like limbo, which seemed fitting for this moment between mother and daughter. She'd known I'd never come back while she was alive. If anyone had asked, I would have said I wouldn't have come back even if she'd died. But she must have known I would.
After all, here I was.
Even lying on the metal table, she was tall. They'd dressed her in the outfit she'd specified; a floor-length, long-sleeved red velvet dress with a high neck, polished black heels, and a hairpin with a gold magnolia on it. Nothing else, which surprised me. I'd expected her to be weighted down in her prized jewelry-diamond earrings, bracelets, and rings for each finger-taking it all to the grave because she could never stand the idea of me touching any of it.
Instead, she was elegant in a minimal way. The dress was snug but not too tight and I could see that she'd gotten soft here and there. Maybe she'd finally started eating instead of living off air and too much Bourbon. Maybe after I'd left, she'd given in to herself a little, shown herself the grace she could never show me.
Cancer was on the death certificate. But the attorney said ultimately it had been a drug overdose. The cancer diagnosis had come several months ago, already too far gone. It hit close to home for her, attacking her appearance, the only thing she ever valued. She’d opted out of treatment. She barely tolerated doctors so there had been pain management but nothing else.
It made sense. I couldn't picture her waiting in hospitals or being patient with nurses. She'd always pushed to the front of the line, rolling over people's toes in her wheelchair, while I followed meekly behind.
It had been a strange way to grow up, watching her push herself into whatever conversation she felt like she should be a part of. Into church meetings and potlucks, grocery shopping and snooping on the ladies gossiping in the produce section, gliding into private offices, a sweet smile on her lips and cold determination in her blue-violet eyes. But without me to push her around, to take the blame for crushing toes and bruised shins, she wouldn't have taken herself to the doctor.
A sharp stab of guilt hit me and I almost winced. If I'd been here to take her, would she still be alive? Was it my fault? But another part of my brain was screaming already. You got out! Don't let her pull you back in! This is a game! Pay attention!
I looked at the woman in front of me, white and cold, and very, very dead.
Vivian Taylor. She’d been my mother a long time ago, in another life. Though I don't think mother was the right word. She'd given birth to me, so a part of her must have cared for me a little at some point.
But whatever part of her that had loved me had died long before now. Maybe about the time I'd pulled air into my lungs and cried for the first time; a pale baby streaked with blood, a separate soul from her own. Her kind of love was a short-lived flame, quickly extinguished, nothing but a smoking hint of what had been.
Anger caressed me, tender, familiar. All these years, everything that had happened in my childhood, all the time I'd spent with a therapist working to build a life that was all my own, no one else's, had been snatched away. She'd reached out and given my life one last turn, flipping it all on end.
She would have laughed in my face.
"You can't hurt me anymore," I said aloud, voice steady; rusted brittle iron in my backbone, but iron all the same. I needed to hear it again, to know it was true. I licked my lips, pulling in a breath, filling the very bottom of my lungs. "You're dead."
My ears rang, my voice harsh and coming back to me, bouncing up from the floor, down from the paneled ceiling. I don't know what I expected; to have her sit up and begin yelling, for an unseen observer to ask what I thought I was doing talking to my mother like that. I expected something, anything, but nothing happened. She remained motionless, air-conditioning humming through the vents, people talking several rooms away, and blood thumping in my ears.
I straightened, feeling foolish, and took a breath.
I was alone. There was no one here to contradict me, to claim the past had been anything other than what I remembered. Crossing my arms over my chest I turned away, heading for the door that led back into the public part of the building.
Behind me, something moved, rustling, fabric shifting. A faint breathy sigh filled my ears. I froze. The air conditioning continued humming but this had been a different kind of sound, an exhalation, a chuckle. The hair on the back of my neck rose, goose flesh covering every inch of skin as cold washed over me.
Something crouched behind me, the pressure in the room changing.
I'd been alone before, there hadn't been anyone living in the room aside from me. She'd been so obviously dead. So gloriously and finally gone. I'd been so sure.
Now I wasn't.
If I turned back, what would I see? Open milky eyes? Red mouth curved into that wicked three-corner smile she'd perfected?
Don't look back.
I wanted to run, my legs trembling with the desire to move. I needed to know. I needed to be able to turn and face this, face her, conquer the moment. But my stomach churned, I was ten again and terrified of meeting her gaze and having to explain some situation I'd gotten myself into.
She'd want to know why it had taken me so long to get here. She’d want to know why I hadn't made her a priority. She'd let me know right up front that I hadn't done much with my life and she wasn't surprised.
Your father would have been so disappointed in you. You're such a waste.
The air conditioner cycled off, leaving the room silent. The space begged to be filled, and in it, I could hear her breathing. In and out, out and in, steady and rhythmic, and if breathing could have a hard edge, a little bit of hatred, this one did.
Turn around and face me.
"No," I said, pushing through the door without a backward glance.
* * *
"She wanted to be entombed with your father in the family mausoleum. In your mother's words, they belonged together. There's a place for you as well. I don't know if you've considered that at all?" Mr. Laurent spoke smoothly, shuffling paperwork on his desk and looking everywhere but directly at me.
"No. I haven't." I wanted to laugh. Buried next to Vivian for all eternity? I shook my head. "And I have the final say in the burial?"
"Well, yes. Though it would be the right thing to honor what she'd laid out so plainly. Your mother wanted a viewing as soon as possible and then burial right after. I realize you've only just arrived and have yet to get settled, but would tomorrow be convenient?"
I looked down at my hands folded carefully in my lap; long elegant fingers, buffed nails. I had to concentrate on not clenching them together, stop myself from picking at my cuticles, stop myself from twisting them into claws.
"Can I take some time to decide?" I hurried on when a flicker of impatience crossed his plump face. "The viewing tomorrow is fine. I meant about afterward."
"Why don't we have the viewing Saturday evening then? That would give you some time to get settled. It's a lot to handle when you've been away for so long."
Not long enough.
"Thank you."
The rest of what I might have said stuck in my throat, a lump of false friendliness and forced politeness. I couldn’t bring myself to expel it. He paused, giving me a moment to continue and when I didn’t, he cleared his own throat.
"Let me know as soon as you've made a choice and we'll take care of everything from there."
"I appreciate it. You've been so kind."
"I'm more than happy to help. Please don't hesitate to get in touch if you need anything at all. Your mother will be very much missed around here."
"I'll miss her too."
It was a bald-faced lie, and he could tell.