4. Mason
Mason
“Stand up and stop crying, Mason. Hell, maybe it’s a good thing she’s gone. She made you so weak.”
I stand up, wiping the tears with my sleeve, but I can’t make myself move my hand away from my mom’s casket.
My dad’s hand squeezes my shoulder—a silent reminder to pull myself together, that I’m embarrassing him.
I stare down at the dark-wood casket and get even more annoyed. She would have hated this…all of this. She wanted to be cremated. She told me. She told him. But she didn’t have a will, so he got to make all of the decisions for her funeral.
She wanted to be cremated—he had an open casket ceremony.
She wanted a small, family-only service—he invited everyone he knew and used this to gain sympathy from businessmen.
She loved magnolias—he filled the funeral home with ugly, obnoxious ranunculuses.
She wanted me happy…he’s doing everything in his power to destroy me.
There are so many people here it’s hard to breathe—friends, family, neighbors, business partners. All people who haven’t been around in years, especially the last two. Yet they’re all standing around wiping away fake tears and acting like it’s their hearts that were just ripped out of their chests.
It’s easy to show up to a funeral and act sad. It’s not as easy to show up for someone on their darkest days. And none of these people have been around for the last two years when she needed them.
I’m starting to understand now that’s what most people do. They’ll show up for the pity and the praise, but never when it actually matters.
She wouldn’t have wanted them here, and neither do I. My mom loved hard. Anyone close to her knew that. But in our world…in the world of money and business politics…there’s a lot of fake love and ass-kissing.
We hated it. Anytime we had to go to events with my dad, we always kept to ourselves and complained about how much we didn’t want to be there. Now he’s using her funeral like it’s just another cocktail hour to make new connections, and I’m just supposed to be his puppet—ain’t happening.
The only time my dad has talked to me today was to rush me out of the house and tell me to stop crying so he could introduce me to people I don’t know and don’t care to know.
He’s standing next to me, talking to everyone who comes up to view her and nudging me to smile at them, but I stopped smiling fifteen people ago.
I don’t care if it upsets him. I honestly don’t even know if he’s noticed.
What I do know is that I just want to be here with her before they put her in the ground today.
These are my last moments with her, and I don’t want to share them with a bunch of strangers.
I turn back and place my hand on her casket, taking in the way they tried to do her up.
Again, she would have hated that. She rarely ever wore makeup.
She always joked that she had the features people tried to paint on—rosy cheeks, soft freckles, a strong jawline, blue-green eyes, and natural blonde hair that she always kept shoulder-length and styled.
I wish I could grab a wipe and take all the makeup off, but people would look at me like I was crazy if I did that right now, so I just take her hand and close my eyes, trying to think up every memory of the face I remember instead.
Every memory I see in my head is her smiling and laughing with me. Those are the ones I want to keep. I hope they’re the ones that never fade.
I’ve heard that people can start to forget what someone looked like or how they sounded once they’ve been gone long enough, and that scares me.
God, please don’t let me forget her.
My eyes open when I feel my dad’s hand clap my shoulder. I turn to see him laughing with a man and shaking his hand, then he turns to me, telling me to say hi.
I don’t know this man. I’ve never seen him before, and I’m so sick of playing pretend on the last day I have with my mom.
I don’t know what takes over me, but the filters are gone, and the anger is coming out.
The man holds his hand out to shake mine, and I just stare at it.
“You don’t deserve to be here,” I tell him.
My dad turns to me so fast. “Mason,” he hisses.
I ignore him. “Who comes to a funeral just for show? You didn’t even know her.”
The man looks so taken aback that he can’t even respond.
My dad grabs my arm, but I yank it away.
“You too, Dad. How can you turn your wife’s death into some pawn for business?
It’s disgusting, and she would have hated everything about this!
” My voice rises, and I can’t even bring myself to care about any of the heads turning our way.
“But that’s right…you never cared about her anyway.
You never even loved her. You were a bad husband until the day she died! ”
He slaps me so fast I don’t even have time to prepare for it. My head snaps sideways, and my cheek stings from the impact.
Gasps fill the room from every direction.
My face burns, and tears start to sting my eyes. He’s just staring at me, breathing hard, eyes going from angry to already trying to look composed again for everyone around us.
“Never speak to me like that again,” he says, low and threatening. “Do you hear me?”
For a moment, everything stops. I’m stuck standing there, staring at the man who is supposed to be my dad…supposed to be my safe space. I don’t feel scared or sad. I just feel…empty.
I turn and run, pushing through the double doors and heading out into the courtyard. I wipe at my tears and keep running around the side of the building until the voices fade and all I can hear is my own breathing.
I sink down onto the grass, my back hitting the white brick wall as I pull my knees up and tuck my head into my arms. The wet grass soaks into my clothes, but I don’t even care. I just let myself cry. I don’t hold back any of the feelings or the unfairness of all of it.
Eventually, I look up at the sky; my voice is rough from crying. “Why’d you leave me here?” I ask her. “Why…why did you leave me? I’d rather be up there with you than stuck here with him.”
I can still hear voices from inside, but they’re all muffled. They’re probably talking about me. Saying how tragic this is for the poor boy. How sad for the dad.
They don’t know anything.
They think they do, but they have no clue the kind of life me and my mom have had to live with that man they’re shaking hands with.
“There are so many people in there,” I tell her. “There was even a line outside for your viewing.” I let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know most of them. All a bunch of strangers here for what? A gold star? What do they get out of showing up now when they weren’t there when it mattered?”
I pick at the grass until my fingers start to turn green. “They keep telling me they’re sorry. But none of them actually care. Nobody cares, Mom. Nobody but you ever has.”
The sky is that bright Florida blue, so bright that it hurts to look at because the sun is beaming off every white cloud.
“I hate him,” I whisper. “I hate him so much.” I let out an angry breath. “I know you wanted me to forgive him. You always said to trust God’s plan, but how can this be the plan? How can a plan take you and leave me with him? Why not take him? Why not take both of us? Why just you?”
My throat hurts, and I pull my knees closer to my chest, wishing she could be hugging me right now.
“I don’t know how to do this without you,” I whisper. “What if I forget your voice? What if I forget the way you looked at me?”
The wind picks up, making me look up and see a maroon-colored butterfly flying nearby, wings fluttering. It lands on the grass right in front of me, making me freeze.
“Is that you?” I whisper. “If it’s you…stay. Please.”
It stays for a moment, just flapping its wings slowly, then lifts away, catching the sunlight as it floats up past the roof of the funeral home. I wipe at my face, and my cheek still stings where he hit me.
I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. For a moment, the sun on my face feels warm like her hand. I want to hold it there…but I can’t…because she’s gone. She will never be here again to comfort me.
I hear the doors open and close, and people start to call my name, but I don’t answer or move. I’m not ready to go back in there and deal with all those people.
I just stay where I am, in the grass behind the funeral home, telling my mom everything I can’t tell anyone else, waiting for another butterfly, hoping she’s still here, still listening.