He had never seen the nightgown she was wearing. Delicate lace covered her neck and extended from the sleeves to cover part of her hands. White satin ribbons tied in soft bows added an exquisite touch. The fabric was white cotton, starched and stiffened. Its beautiful simplicity unsettled him and he wondered why he had never noticed it before.
“Mama,” he murmured. He yanked himself free of his sister’s hand and rushed toward the box. “Mama, wake up.”
“No, Jamie, no,” she moaned, but it was too late.
He arched over the casket to embrace his mother. Her face was ashen and grey. The cold clammy feel of her skin snapped him to the reality of her death. His bright blue eyes darkened. The tears dammed up behind them threatened, yet refused to break loose. He took a breath and straightened himself. He knew his mother. He loved his mother. This was not his mother.
Her wedding ring was missing. Her hair was forced back from her face; no soft, stray curls framed it the way they did when she was busy working. Her mouth, taunt and dour, could not sing the sweet lullabies she had sung to soothe the hardness of life. Her long slender fingers were clasped in an unfamiliar, stern form. Like her face, they were the color of death. They were not the kind, soft hands that had cradled his face, had comforted and blessed him.
A severe hand planted itself on his shoulder. He stiffened, sensing its intent.
“Be a man now, Jamie. Let the others have a look.” The words, like his hands, were firm and demanding. Any contradiction would be futile. Jamie complied only because he knew his mama would expect it.
“Sometimes we just go through the motions, Jamie. God understands and will make it up, someway, somehow,” Uncle John declared in a judicious voice.
He heard Mama’s voice whispering and he stepped back submissively. He would be good, but not for God – for her. He had watched her retreat so many times that now he was able to do what she had done, to withdraw within himself to a place of solace that allowed no trespassers. With his feelings securely fenced there, he could feel the comfort of her touch; he could permit himself to go through the motions.
He stepped back and stood silently next to his sister Martha and his Uncle John. The realization dawned on him that he had never before been a visitor in this room. Often he had helped Mama carry cleaning supplies here, but he had never had an official reason to be here. The room was always sterile and sealed. Only exclusive occasions allowed entry – the minister’s visits, special guests, weddings and of course funerals. It occurred to him that his mother had spent countless hours cleaning and polishing here. At least it looks nice for her now, he thought. He wondered who would purify the room now that she was gone.
The drawn, heavy, velvet drapes gave the room a dark, somber feeling. He knew Mama had loved the sunshine and wouldn’t have approved. He inspected his surroundings in the dim light. It looked smaller than he remembered. The furniture was sparse. Two high backed chairs were covered in dark fabrics that had once boasted a tapestry of colors. It was obvious that time had long since dulled the intricate patterns. He remembered sitting on the matching sofa once when Mama had played the piano. It was the central piece of furniture in the room. Polished mahogany housed the instrument. The ivory keys, yellow with age, had seldom been touched in the past years. The red book of Sunday School hymns was open to the last song she had played for him, “Amazing Grace.” She had sung it with a sweet clear voice that made the words come alive. Now she was dead. The penetrating sound of the music echoed through his ears. The melody had turned rancid and bitter.
When he remembered pulling out one of the tufted buttons on the sofa, the worried look on her face came back to him. She had scolded him and quickly pushed it back, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed, but it didn’t look the same. He saw it now sticking up and wanted to yank it from its base. He longed to pull out all the buttons from their sockets and let them know that what was happening was unjust. Instead, he did what was expected, standing straight and tall.
Two slender white candles burned in buffed brass candlestick holders. They stood erect on the piano; the light flickered and glowed with little interest, like soldiers marching joylessly to the beat of a cheerless drummer. On a walnut table next to the sofa, the light of a small hurricane lamp flickered, casting obscure shadows on the wall. He watched it earnestly, trying to decode the strange language of light. It mesmerized him.
The simple, pine casket sat on the seats of two plain kitchen chairs in the middle of the darkened room, in front of the white stone fireplace. No fire had warmed its hearth for many seasons. The mantle was bare, except for a delicate china vase that stood alone and empty. It looked undressed; there were no flowers to adorn its white milky skin. His Mama loved flowers.
Wrapped in their best black finery, the visitors came forward to greet the family. They retreated and stood at arm’s length, as if afraid to come in contact with the curse that had robbed Esther of her life. For two hours the family stood, receiving the well-intentioned mourners. Few spoke to him or to his sister, Martha, directly. They clicked their tongues and patted his head, muttering obligatory condolences that he neither required nor understood. Martha responded with polite thanks, but Jamie could only stare mutely from the hushed, inside place where he hid. He saw the scene as if watching it through a peephole in the wall. In the vignette that unfolded, he surveyed himself standing emotionless and rigid next to his sister. One fussing matron enticed him to expose his sorrow. She crushed him with hugs, wanting him to feel her sadness, wanting him to expose his grief. He veiled his misery in a façade of courage as she broke into a loud lament, protesting his apparent lack of feeling. He would always remember the smell of mothballs intertwined with perspiration.
Martha rescued him by gently pulling him away. She took his hand, “Jamie, it’s time to say goodbye.”
“Go Jamie,” Aunt Lydia’s voice spoke softly. “Pay your last respects to your mother.”
Martha led him again to the head of the coffin. She bent over, kissed her mother goodbye and wept silently. Jamie touched her stone cold hand, remembering the last time she had held his face. He saw himself sitting on her bed; was it possible that it was only a day ago? She had cupped her hands around his face, had looked deep into his eyes to take her leave.
“Don’t be sad for me, Jamie,” she said. “It’s time for me to go home to be with your father.”
“No, Mama, don’t leave us,” he had cried.
“Jamie, remember to love God, to be good and to work hard. Promise me.” The pleading in her voice made it impossible for him to refuse.
“Yes Mama, I promise,” he said kissing her cheek, stroking her hair lightly.
“Martha,” she whispered with her last breath, “take care of your brother.”
The rest of the day was a blur in his memory. He retained only snippets of images from the funeral: the warmth of the spring sun hitting his face, the dandelions that bloomed in the cemetery and a robin that sang in the old maple tree as they lowered her casket into the ground. Later it occurred to him that they were the kinds of details she would have noticed. The things she would have pointed out to him as they went for a walk.
Martha tucked him into bed that night. She looked into his eyes, but they were blank. She knew he didn’t hear the words she spoke to comfort him, so she wrapped him in her mother’s shawl hoping that it would soothe his pain. There was no comfort for her either. She tried to rock him the way Esther had done, searching desperately for some solace for both their spirits.
Jamie could not tell her that her arms were like salve on his wounds, that the smell of his mother’s essence bandaged the hole in his heart. He could not weep openly, afraid that the tears caged in his body would turn to screams. He breathed deeply, inhaling her lingering fragrance, feeling her closeness. There were so many unsaid things, so many unanswered questions and so many untold stories. In the silence, there was only the throbbing, wordless pain of emptiness.
The two children huddled in the bed. They slept fitfully, hibernating like scared cubs fearful of the realities that daylight would bring. Even in sleep, they were afraid to let go of each other, perhaps sensing that the end of sleeping would also be the end of their childhood.
© Willy Nywening
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