All For Mother

Copyright © 2020 by K. Moore

All rights reserved.

Visit my website www.authorkmoore.com

Cover Designer: Ryan Schwarz, The Cover Designer, www.thecoverdesigner.com

Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ASIN: B08235WZW8

ISBN-13: 978-1-7328844-6-5

Paperback: 978-1-7328844-5-8, 978-1-7328844-4-1

For the father figures in my life, may you rest in peace:

NJT

JDM

JGB

My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived and let me watch him do it.

—Clarence Budington Kelland

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Acknowledgments

Reading Group Guide

About the Author

One

Iwatch the procession of cars that line the asphalt road curving through the well-manicured lawns. The slight sway of the aged oaks shimmer dappled light across the tombstones, giving them an unearthly glow, as though their occupants had come out to welcome the new neighbor.

It starts with a funeral.

It always starts with a funeral.

Generally, they’re meant to be sad affairs, lamenting the loss of a loved one or someone who, in some way, gained influence over others. They represent the ultimate proof of our mortality. Life can’t move forward without death. After all, death—or at least, a good death—remains life’s ultimate end goal. It amuses me that most go through life in fear of it and that this one thing influences decisions and clouds judgment.

But death surrounds us daily in one way or another. It’s the only constant we have and share. A million souls parading through life, trying to be independent or unique, only to end up in the same place as everyone else—locked in a box six feet under or secured in a sealed jar. Either way, existence is snuffed and turned into dust as time continues without a care.

To measure the quality or success of time spent walking the earth, can it be by the amount of earthly possessions acquired, the number of people who mourn for you, or the length of the obituary placed in the newspaper?

I ponder this, not for the first time. Even the winged creatures hidden in the depths of the branches seem to hold their tongues, watching silently from lofty perches. Every now and again, one will break protocol and sing a short, sorrowful message across the way, adding an ethereal feeling to an already-somber mood.

The heat and humidity are stifling, and like many times before, I wish the AC worked. My beat-up off-red Jeep, a conspicuous addition to the neat row of newer and sleeker cars, has definitely seen better days. It, however, has been a steadfast companion, having cemented my lifelong loyalty during my college days by always being there, unlike the family I surround myself with now. Looking at the sun-worn paint, I’m reminded of my father and how he gifted the beast to me all those years ago. I’d probably have traded up before now if I could hold down a job long enough to afford it. Or maybe I’d keep it out of pure nostalgia. Either way, more debt isn’t an option.

The grumble of engines turning over and small puffs of exhaust break the spell of my past. A black hearse passes slowly on its way to the head of the line, signaling the start to this formal end of my father’s life and, by extension, the end of his influence on me. I follow along, going through the motions of parking while swept up with the nameless faces trailing the flag-draped casket with its honor guard to the gravesite. Camouflaged in black attire, I cling to the shadows, not wanting to draw attention from family and other close friends whose sympathy would be unwelcome.

Family and close relatives’ friends sit at the front. Their sorrow is on full display as it hangs like a cold, dense fog crossing the marshes, concealing both predator and prey. Taking advantage of the shield of grief, I become invisible against the back wall, lost in the congregation of bodies. No one will notice.

I hope no one notices.

Standing off to one side at the rear of the crowd, I watch, mesmerized, as a baby bird braves the ring of predators to land on the wreath centered in front of the coffin. The military padre continues his sermon, defining life and death and life after death, not aware of the latest addition to his flock. The bird hops from one foot to the other, pecking at the flower arrangement until the uniformed soldiers lift the flag from the coffin, causing the tiny creature to freeze in fear. It raises its head hesitantly, cocking it slightly to the side to watch the men. I’m enamored with its courage. As if reading my thoughts, it shifts its penetrating gaze to me.

I stare into those dark orbs, bedazzled. It’s as though it were speaking to me, like it knows me. For whatever bizarre reason, I feel a kinship with it. The bird opens its beak for a single sorrowful call, trying to tell me something but I don’t know what. After what seems like a lifetime, it spreads its miniature black wings wide and disappears with a flutter. The motion jars me from my thoughts and highlights my solitude.

Pathetic.

A sharp crack resounding through the air, coupled with the wafting scent of gunpowder, brings me back to the now. My body involuntarily flinches with each subsequent echo of guns, saluting the life and service of my father. Birds, formerly happy with their unobtrusive overwatch, take to the sky, squawking their protest from above. The crescendo plays out until we’re left with only a moment’s silence before a bugle plays the first notes of Butterfield’s Lullaby.

Time stands eerily still. It’s in this intense silence that I feel my mind bolster my resolve to sort my crappy life. I’m not sure how I’ll do this, but I know I must.

A shiver travels up my spine as I feel the spirits of the cemetery’s slumbering ghosts waken to welcome their comrade-in-arms. Corner to corner, the flag is folded with military precision until it’s nothing more than a life reflected in geometry, a triangular prism. Gloved hands gently hold the material as they offer the token to my widowed mother.

Tears line the faces of those around me. I can’t help but cringe at the irony. My father served his country proud. If only he’d served and protected those closest to him with the same fervor.

Two

A sh, good of you to make it.

The voice startles me from behind. I was hoping to sneak in to witness the burial and then escape, unnoticed. High expectations to be sure and rather idiotic, given the openness of the cemetery and my less than austere demeanor. I turn slowly and mask my expression with well-practiced neutrality.

Uncle John. There’s an uncomfortable pause as we watch each other before I sigh, and manners ingrained from my Southern upbringing kick in by rote. How are you?

His lips turn up into a forced smile, displaying yellowed teeth. It’s been a while, young’un. You’re looking …

His unfinished statement hangs on the humid air, causing me to flinch, break eye contact, and look beyond him. I don’t want to read the disappointment and perhaps the loathing in his eyes. Sometimes, no words speak the loudest, and it’s obvious he definitely wants to be heard.

Those standing around my mother—offering what I expect to be the requisite messages of sympathy and condolences, as dictated by Southern niceties—are dispersing.

The blonde hair of my sister catches the light. Her face is framed by large, dark sunglasses, and from this distance, I can’t make out if they’re hiding red rims or crinkled mirth. Judging by the pursed lips and frown as she gazes in my direction before moving her attention back to Mother, it’s probably resigned annoyance.

Trapped, I stand stiffly with my uncle, who is acting as a warden by my side, nodding at the expressionless faces as the dwindling crowd moves toward their cars.

They probably don’t recognize me.

Or maybe they do.

Either way, I don’t care.

Or so I tell myself.

When I cast a look over my shoulder, the whispered words and arm-nudging tell me they do.

I blink back the nonexistent tears, inwardly cringing at the adolescent response. I didn’t cry at the news of my father passing or as I just watched his body being lowered into the ground. But a few stares and non-stares and hushed conversation have me reliving those terrible times of my late youth, those I promised myself I’d forget. That’s what shakes me.

The arm of my mother trembles as she takes my cheek in her hand, offering a teary smile. Wrinkles mar her once-beautiful face. I blink twice and glance behind her to Bel, my sister, as she watches the exchange with a slight scowl. She was the one who reached out to me, trying to convince me to come back and bury the hatchet when our father was on his deathbed.

But stubbornness is something that runs in the family.

I can’t forgive her for her words over the years. And for standing against me when I needed my sister, my friend, at my side. And I don’t forgive her for aligning herself with our father and their narrow-minded views of the world, its politics and the impact it had on me and my life. Time passing can be cruel, but the souring of our relationship seems but a tainted minute that will probably span our lifetime. I wish it had been different or could be different, but judging by the tenseness in her neck, more than likely brought about by a hard jaw … well, there you go.

As if she can hear my thoughts, Bel’s eyebrows knit together, fine lines on her forehead evident. I cast my gaze back down to Mother. Her face is masked with layered makeup, caked on, displaying an embalmer’s flair.

The aging process has not been kind.

Her eyes are weary, probably a result of the countless tears she must’ve shed for my father leading up to his passing. But it’s more than that. Her body is … frail. Either the trauma of being so close to death has caused this or time has accelerated exponentially as her years have advanced. The well-tailored clothes don’t conceal her weight loss and fragility.

I gently take the gnarled fingers of her bony hand in mine and lower them from my face.

Mother, it’s nice to see you. My voice cracks on the last two words, threatening to send my emotions over the edge. I don’t know what’s going on with me or why I’m reacting this way. Feelings I’ve kept suppressed over the years continue to come unbidden and threaten to bubble to the fore. I really wish it were under different circumstances.

Bel harrumphs and turns away slightly, appearing to want to be anywhere but here. I don’t blame her.

The sad smile on my mother’s face says everything and nothing. She appears conflicted as she takes a step closer, the sadness from moments before tightening, pulling the creases around her eyes. I’m so glad you could make it, Ash. It’s been too long.

I nod, unable to speak, swallowing the hard lump in my throat as her skeletal arms embrace me in a cloddish hug, reminiscent of strangers.

It has, I whisper into her hair and take a deep breath, inhaling the tinny, chemical scent of hair spray and the starch of her jacket. It’s a different smell from my youth, but under it all, my olfactory senses pick up a hint of camphor, mixed in faintly with the floral undertones of her signature perfume.

She steps back on unsteady feet, releasing me from her hold. Bel hurriedly places a hand under the crook of her elbow to support her.

You’re joining us for lunch? We’ve reserved the dining hall at the lodge. Her words are said quietly with the hesitance of a mother coaxing a scared young child. It’s what your father would have wanted.

My body stiffens at her words. The lodge. I’m sure it was what he wanted. How suitably pretentious of him.

Bel’s demeanor shifts slightly, appearing more rigid, if that’s even possible. Her nose screws up, and with a slight tilt of her head, she sends an unspoken message, saying my attendance at the wake would be a bad idea. I don’t need her silent cues. I can easily make this decision myself. The scrutiny of family friends and distant relatives during this foray hasn’t been comfortable—and we’re in an open cemetery; I can’t imagine what it would be like, trapped within the confines of four walls.

No, Mom. I don’t think I can.

The trees sway slightly as a breeze passes through, their rustling leaves the only sound filling the uncomfortable moment that follows my refusal. I watch as the shadows from the movement play games on the ground beyond my mother, sister, and uncle, wondering what I can do or say to escape this awkwardness.

I clear my throat, about to ramble something about having to leave. To do something. To be anywhere but here … or God forbid, the wake. The reality of it all is too somber; I have nowhere to go, nothing to look forward to.

No job.

No family.

Nothing.

Where are you staying, Ash? Mother’s words break me from the spiraling dark thoughts.

My eyes find hers again, and I’m surprised to glimpse the reflection of regret in them. But are they hers … or mine? Over the years, I’ve felt lost and alone, without purpose. The breaking of familial bonds decades prior left me bereft, but it took me a good while to notice and then to finally work out what it was. As I look into eyes so similar to mine, thoughts and possibilities whirl crazily, almost haphazardly, until a spark of something erupts, resulting in an indescribable yearning.

She might need me and …

I think I need her. I wish it were that easy.

You should come home. Her words come slowly and softly. Stay with me for a while.

It’s like she read my mind. But is this what I want? So much time has passed, and I don’t know if either Mother or I have changed so dramatically over the years. I’d like to mend the rift, and it would be easier without Father.

The words are barely out of Mother’s mouth before the protests from my uncle and sister start overriding my answer.

No! Mom, no.

Lizzy?

I-I booked a hotel down off the highway. I wasn’t sure what was appropriate …

No. Nonsense. I think this will be good. It’s time. Mother pats Bel’s arm and gives it a quick squeeze. It’s time we let go of the past.

My shoulders straighten as I pull myself to my full height and take a deep breath. Maybe this could work. Me staying might be the answer I’ve been searching for to take that first step to reconciling the past. I could stay with her and regroup for a few weeks, maybe a month. Apply for a new job, get my life in order, and be ready for the next stage—whatever that entails. And in the process, I can be a friendly ear or a body in the now-empty house. I’ll be there to help her avoid the overwhelming isolation and loneliness. We can be bound together in that in-between period of not knowing what comes next. Without my father’s overbearing presence, it might even be a chance to rekindle the relationship lost after my youth.

I know with conviction what I need to do. To take a chance and let go of the past. To move forward.

My lips turn up into a smile as I remember the bird on Father’s coffin. I think I now know what message it was trying to relay. It was asking me to forgive.

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