The Funeral

“It’s your fault, mom.” I say through pinched lips. “Your fault she’s dead.” 

My parent’s house is full of people. Some are milling about, covered in black clothes. Dark figures are having a hushed conversation in the corner next to the house plants. 

My mother’s grey hair is in a stern bun. She shrinks away from me, burying her arms with abandoned plates. “Let’s not talk about this now, dear.”

The kitchen counter is filled with aluminum trays full of bland, sad catering food. Casseroles. Sandwiches. 

I finally corner her, in the kitchen. “I’m talking to you, mom.” 

She shoves the plates into the dishwasher. “Maddie, lower your voice. People are watching.”

I stare at her. “People are watching? That’s really what you care about?”

She shoots back. “What would you have me care about, then?”

Her walnut coffin. My eyes look huge, raw, reflected in the shiny exterior. 

I shake off the image. “How about the fact that your daughter, my only sister, is dead? How about caring about that?”

My mother is holding a butter knife in her hand. “It’s so typical of you to start accusing me of things. What kind of person does that to a mother?” The knife moves up and down in her hand. Up and down.

She thrusts knife in my direction in a jerky motion. I flinch backwards. She holds the knife up, her hand shaking. Then the knife drops on the ground with a hollow clink. 

It lies on the marbled floor, shining silver against the white as it catches the sunlight.

I slowly bend and pick it up.

I look at my mother’s face unblinkingly, as redness travels up her throat, into her cheeks, then her nose and forehead. She shakes her head, mumbling something I can’t make out.

When the red has reached her hairline, I speak. “You hurt her, mom. For years, you kept hurting her. The yelling. The cruel remarks. The hitting. It broke her.”

Sylvie’s face, unnaturally white. Waxen. Her eyes are closed. 

Mom holds a plate in front of her. It makes a circle in front of her chest. Leftover gravy slowly drips onto the floor.  “You’re such a little liar Maddie. You always have been. Making up these stories about your sister.”

Little bits of spit fly from her mouth as she forges ahead. “You’re going to rot in hell for this Maddie. Treating your mother this way.”

Someone has brushed Sylvie’s golden hair, like a halo around her face. 

I cross my arms in front of my chest. “You know I’m not lying, mom. Sylvie took pills. Why do you think she did that?”

She scrapes her hand over her face. “How am I supposed to know what was going on in your sister’s mind? You know she’s always been fragile.”

“She had PTSD, mom.” My shoulders hunch. “She was in therapy, trying to recover from… from growing up with you.”

Mom shakes her head. “No, she wasn’t.” Her voice is high pitched. “I would have known. My own daugher!” 

There are five pink roses on Sylvie’s chest, her hands folded around them. Her favorite color.

I take a long look. Mom’s eyes are the exact shade of blue Sylvie’s eyes are. Were. “I can’t do this anymore, mom. You don’t even think you did anything wrong. I need you to own up to what you did to us. Or I walk.”

My mother steps away, clutching her chest. She breathes heavily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Maddie. I’ve always been a good mother, to you and your sister. I never did anything to you.”

I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m done,” I say. “I’m done with you. I’m not coming back.” 

The door closes quietly on my way out. Outside my steps leave footprints in the freshly fallen snow.