My Mother’s Funeral

A twisted familial short story

Mother was a poor woman. I don’t mean in the financial sense. She was devoid of emotion. A raging narcissist that morphed my life into an unexpected hell. She died today. I stood across her open-lidded coffin staring. Her eyelids seemed soft and her lips curved into a smile she never adorned while breathing.

Dark brown curls gently rested on her forehead, a ruse, to draw attention away from the slightly visible stitching. My mother was a poor woman of conduct, but I am a poor woman materially. A three-star Funeral Home was the least of my problems.

The line of mourners waited to soothe me and compliment her. A mixed group of people who didn’t know her or did and they bury the seething hate and resentment so deep that it is invisible. I didn’t bury mine.

Last in line was an opal dress that caught my attention. A pearl in a sea of black death. Her head was obscured by the tall man slowly dragging his feet to the coffin. He may be a second cousin. I know that I never met him.

Who wears white to a funeral? I admire the rebellious attitude, but it seems tasteless. It is an act of a pick-me girl.

One by one the fakers said their peace. Shaking my hand, sorry for your loss, blah, blah, blah.

Half-hearted sentiments.

The tall man passes by leaving me standing face to face with — my mother!

I stared into the eyes of the doppelganger. Sweat began to drip down my face. I was visibly shaking. I manically check the crowd to make sure I am not hallucinating. They see her too. I can tell by the silence broken with a barrage of whispers.

“My dear, I am so sorry,” the imposter spoke. The voice was not my mother’s. It has an itching tone, deeper like someone who coughs constantly and has scarred their throat.

“Who are you?” my voice was shaking and my words slurred. I even had a voice crack sneak into the simple three words.

“Of course, she never told you about me,” she cackled, “That corpse there in the box is my sister.

“Aunt?” The room was spinning as I gripped the edge of the coffin. It was unsteady.

The woman giggled menacingly, just like Mom. “My dear we were twins. Are you going to pass out? Please don’t expect me to catch you.”

Twin! Sister! Aunt! My knees buckled causing me to put too much pressure on the corner of my Mother’s final resting place. The coffin tipped off the cheap rusted metal stand. As if in slow motion the box fell and the corpse rolled out.

The room erupted in screams of shock and embarrassment. My aunt was unphased, “Oh dear, she always knew how to make an entrance and an exit too. So much drama.”

I scrambled to push my mother back into the wooden tomb to no avail. Guests searched for the Funeral Home staff aimlessly. A few men tried to lift the monstrosity back onto the stand, but they gave up, slid it aside, and tipped the coffin right side up.

The entire fiasco was complete within thirty minutes. No one got back in line. My Aunt still stood unbothered by all of the chaos.

“Gosh, I didn’t mean to ruin her final voyage,” she shrugged as she kneeled and kissed her twins’ forehead, “so long sis.”

Standing eye to eye with me she smiled “You turned out good, didn’t you? I will never forget the day you were born. You know, I was always grateful to your Mother for raising you. It seemed like a fair trade. I gave birth to you, she did all the hard work.”

“Gave birth to me?” I knew I was going to pass out eventually from all of these bombshells.

“Oh dear, I mean we are identical twins, so what was the harm? Anyway, I have a car waiting for me. It was great meeting you finally.”

I tried to contact her later on, but she didn’t reply.

I will never forget the day I stood by my dead Mother, and watched my birth Mother leave.