For Trina, the tension built and built throughout the entire story, ebbing slightly here and there, but mostly building, finally releasing when I tell her that I put a bullet through the sick fuck’s skull. Her hands, clenched into fists throughout the whole tale, become celebratory rather than tense at that moment, her arms pumping at her sides like an enthusiastic spectator at a sporting event.
Our business in Riverdell complete, we prepare to spend the night. Even with my shouting, I don’t suspect we caused enough commotion to have roused the neighbors, and with that house being abandoned, there’s no reason anyone should stumble across Keroth’s body before we’re able to make a clean escape.
Keroth’s body.
The phrase feels good, empowering. I’ve been witness to (and deliverer of) a lot of death lately. For most, even including that of my father, the transition of their being from present to past tense is uneasy, tenuous, like trying to assemble one’s own parachute while plummeting toward the earth.
But not Keroth. His was a life that stuck around in the present for far longer than warranted. Time after time, he demonstrated that his life was a plague, and even given the chance to stop—not necessarily to cure the world of his deeds, but at least to stop inflicting them—he discarded that opportunity in favor of further treachery, greed, and—there’s no other word for it—evil.
I rest easy, like my soul just took its first shower in decades.
Epilogue
Our initial plan was for Mom’s funeral to be quiet. Small, intimate, subdued. Of course, Deliverance was not unaware of her passing, so instead of the single-digit number of attendees we gave the funeral home as an estimate, the staff worked themselves into a frenzy fetching more chairs as more guests arrived: dozens upon dozens.
Now, the total count is just over one hundred mourners. Most of these people I don’t recognize—former colleagues and contacts through Deliverance, I suppose. There are a few I do recognize, such as our neighbor from across the street, Nancy. Her house always smelled like freshly baked goods.
When the staff are satisfied with the new seating arrangements (we had to move to a different room than anticipated, and chairs fill virtually every possible space, leaving very little walking room), the ceremony commences.
Trina reads Mom’s obituary as an introduction; most of the mourners wear deep smiles—partly from knowing that the good things written about her are true, but mostly from the secret knowledge that that truth is far from complete.
Next, Todd speaks. Those who know my mother’s true history (which is to say an overwhelming majority of the mourners) know who Todd is. As such, they also know for how little time he has known her, but how much they meant to each other anyway. He delivers a striking metaphor about their relationship being akin to the blooming of Japanese cherry blossoms—breathtaking and beautiful, if short-lived.
Now it’s my turn.
I don’t have as much of a case of nerves as I anticipated. I haven’t done any sort of public speaking since giving presentations in college, but thinking upon it now, this event is decidedly distinct from public speaking. This is intimate, even in its large number. This group has much more in common than a class schedule and I find peace in that common ground.
“For a long time, I resented my mother’s actions,” I say. I have only a dull awareness of the direction I’m taking this, but matters of the heart seldom come with a compass.
I continue. “The emotions I harbored toward her ranged from disappointment to sadness to flat-out anger. But at the root of all of those was something that I had difficulty acknowledging: a deep love for her. I missed the things she did for Trina and me, sure. She gave us two hundred percent. Of course, as kids and teenagers, we took that for granted. But beyond what she did for us, I missed who she was. I missed hearing her sing while she was cooking. I missed the way her voice could take you right out of this world and into one with no violence or anger—only that sweet, melodic serenity.”
Todd, Trina, and Beth sit on the front row, an empty seat between Trina and Todd where I was sitting. Each of them, even Beth, is tearing up. I feel my own throat catch, followed by that newly familiar sensation of salty tears welling up in my own eyes.
“A lot of the time, we see people on TV or in magazines with a lot of strength. We see someone with one leg run a marathon. We see someone beat cancer, then start a successful charity to help others do the same. But the type of strength I want to acknowledge in my mother was a quiet one. It didn’t have magazine articles written about it because, to all but the most observant, it flew undetected under the radar.
“It was the kind of strength that would offer you the last bite of its only meal of the day. It would pick up on the harshness of your reality while saying nothing of its own. It bore the pain of ten lives to lessen the pain of yours. Hers was a strength that uplifted, protected, and inspired. It bled into those she met—”I need a moment to clear my eyes, my mind“—and instilled them with that very same strength.
“Even if all the strength you needed was enough to say, ‘I’ll try again tomorrow,’ Mom was there to give it to you. Often in the form of soup or cookies or hot chocolate. And while I spent so long resenting her absence from my life, the only regret that remains is that, after she returned, I didn’t spend more of my time with her.
“Her absence will leave a hollowness in the world. As demonstrated by the number of you who showed up, she influenced the lives of many. Her hand has been one of comfort to her loved ones, and one of protection against the rest of the world.”
I swallow hard. “And if there’s a chance that you’re somehow here, listening beyond the grave, I want to tell you that I love you, I miss you, and I forgive you.”
Trina stands and hugs me as I return from the podium, then she steps up to it herself, still teary-eyed.
To the staff’s horror, I’m sure, Trina then opens the floor to anyone who wishes to say anything about my mother.
A surprising (though simultaneously unsurprising) number of the volunteers are children. After a couple of them, I begin to sense that they’ve been instructed not to divulge the details of how they know my mother, but the word ‘hero’ comes up a lot, and each time, Trina gives my hand a light squeeze.
The adults who speak are much more eloquent in their disguises of how they knew my mother. The most striking thing, to me, is how confident and self-assured they seem to be. Knowing about my mother’s history, and thus Deliverance’s dealings, I suspected maybe those she helped may be timid or uncomfortable, but again and again, the floor is taken by confident, radiant women who seem to ring with one word: Free.
Though it first seemed like a never-ending supply, eventually the line of those waiting to speak about my mom dies down, and the ceremony can draw to its reluctant close.
Funerals are supposed to be a time for mourning and reflection, but in reality, they’re more a way for survivors to come together and grieve openly. The true reflection occurs in the hours, days, months after the funeral. After a mourner arrives home and removes his tie, then lies on the couch to “rest his eyes.” That’s when the reflection happens.
In my case, my reflection has been ongoing for the better part of my life. The frames and lenses through which I viewed my mother have not changed often, but when they do change, they do so spectacularly. From protector to traitor, then back to protector. Now, to martyr.
The few of Riverdell’s attendees to her funeral all ask me the same thing: “Why here? Why not back at home?”
Like much of the day, the specific way I answer these questions escapes my memory, but the sentiment was raw and powerful and present: Her journey was a noble one. It was fierce and powerful. And one of the most poignant aspects of her journey is that, as much as it was a voyage toward a redemptive ending, it was an escape from an oppressive and traumatic past.
Riverdell was not home to her. Hell, Wometzia wasn’t, either. I’d wager that Washington wasn’t. Her home wasn’t geographical; it was
social and familial. Her home was always Trina and me. As for my own home, I’m not sure where that might end up. And while I don’t know nearly as much about my mother as I would like, I have no doubt that nothing would have pleased her more than to know that she is at rest in a place close to me now. Her home.
The details for the burial itself aren’t shared with most of the mourners, and they understand. Although I’ve never met most of them, they aren’t shy about approaching me, offering condolences, and wishing me luck in the future.
I suspect that many of them will be checking up on me whether I like it or not.
I do.
Graveside, I stand in solemn fortitude with Beth, Trina, and Todd. Away from the mass of mourners, a sensation of surreal removal has stolen into my mind, and I can’t quite shake it. Todd or Trina or Beth crack jokes here and there, but the humor lands with the uncertain shakiness of a feather on a gusty day, and it’s all I can do to offer a half-smile in acknowledgement before getting swept away into the unreality of it all once again.
Later that evening, the spell is finally broken as I sit down to dinner with the three of them. Maybe their unrelenting support simply overwhelmed the thick, murky film that had settled over my mind.
Wometzia’s setting sun casts a brilliant yelloworangeredpurple blanket across the sky. To the west, I almost can’t tell where the restless earth ends and the drowsy sky begins, but the four of us sit in pensive silence until the horizon becomes a seamless black silhouette. I look over my left shoulder and nod toward Orion, making one of his first journeys across the southern night sky.
And I breathe.
Acknowledgments
Many people have contributed to Remy’s journey, and I would be remiss not to show them gratitude. First, to my parents, JP and Lisa. Not a day goes by in which I’m not grateful for their influences in my life—for raising me, yes, but even more so in my adulthood, in which they continue to teach me about life and the world. Their belief in me has always surpassed my own, and in times of doubt, I know I can draw on their encouragement to steel my resolve and prime my motivation.
In a similar vein, I want to thank many of my friends for their encouragement. Often, I feel like my rants about writing, editing, etc. border on esoteric nonsense, but they’re happy to listen, commiserate, and empathize as much as they are capable. There are far too many of them to list, but I want to give a special and specific thank-you to Rachel and Bethany—you’re rock stars and I love you both!
Lastly, to the folks at Vulpine Press and to my editor, Sarah. Many people fear that they’ll surrender control over their work by publishing traditionally, but my experience in this journey has been one of excellent communication and cooperation. From the editing itself to the promotion and cover art, working with Vulpine Press and with Sarah has been a dream, and I look forward to further opportunities with them.
About the Author
Michael Lilly was born in Provo, Utah. He has lived in that area his whole life, and splits his time between reading and writing books, cooking, hiking, martial arts, and being around his family. He has six siblings who, along with his parents, fostered and encouraged his interest in writing, and he is grateful for his closeness with them. Mike loves to travel and see new places, and carries a passion for other languages and cultures.
Follow the author:
Twitter: @AuthorMLilly
Facebook: @MikeLillyAuthor
Instagram: @mjlilly92
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