Black Dress
The box feels awkward on her lap. It jostles each time Bobby's old Ford hits a bump in the road, its edges cut into her thighs. She shifts her weight and tugs at her too-short black skirt. Should have never worn this, she thinks. But it’s the only black dress she owns and you're supposed to wear black at the funeral, aren’t you? Shows respect. Not when your bare legs are hanging out. Not when you’re not even sure you're sad. Not when your tears feel dried up like the bottom of the quarry. So dry they hurt when she blinks, which she does often, trying to dredge up a tear. Just one bloody tear for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph. She's your mother! What are you made of— stone? She shifts the cardboard box again. Anger beats through her veins.
Her face feels hot, probably red. Good thing her brother and sister-in-law are facing forward—their faces grim. Maura's hat perched like a question mark on her fresh perm. For the love of God, who’d wear a fascinator to a funeral, to the church. Maura's an idiot. And my brother’s a wanker for marrying her.
No sense of humour. What. So. Ever.
Her mouth twitches in a half smile, half grimace. Jesus, Liz pull yourself together. There's a whole burial and then a freakin’ tea or whatever you call it. Keep it together. That's the least you can do for your dearly departed mother. The car hits a pothole. Maura squeaks, “Careful Bobby! You'll have us in pieces before we even get there.” Her hand reaches up to straighten her feathers and pat her curls into place.
From the backseat, Liz snorts and covers it with a cough. Her eyes seek something outside the car window. Anything to distract her, anything to make this endless journey less sick-making. Empty fields, a barn far off in the distance, clouds darkening. And there, there it is at last, the first few drops of rain spattering the glass. She feels as if her dry lips, her eyes, the spaces between her toes are soaking up the raindrops— pulling life from each drop, like a baby, suckling.
She breathes a long deep breath. The first one, since this whole freakin’ nightmare started. Her mother falling, falling, no sound, just a shifting of weight, her yellow cardigan like a flag. Her hand held slightly out like she was about to dance. And then she was on the living room carpet, her house slipper curled under— her legs spread in a way Liz knew would embarrass her. The fumbling phone call, her dad's voice whispering like he was in church. “She's down. She's on the floor”.
The ambulance with its backwards lettering, the bare hospital hallways, clicking heels, nurses, doctors. Liz’s head in a vice, a vice made of dense rubber, cups of tea, too strong. Days of waiting by the phone, her arms itchy, her tongue scalded by the tea, her mother's slipper still curled by the grey crouch, waiting like a small dog for her foot to come home. And then the message— her dad, his voice a croak. “She's gone.”
Oh God.
And now there's a box on her lap. An aunt she barely knows, hasn’t seen for years, shoved it at her in the back of the church. “It's your Mom’s. She would have wanted you to have it, take it.” And then she turned on her heel and disappeared.
Through the front window, windshield wipers scraping, Liz sees the wrought iron gate leading into the cemetery. Grey cement headstones, black umbrellas pushed open, feet in shoes not made for the weather, slip on muddy grass. The Ford comes to a noisy stop.
Liz lays her hand flat on the box and like a sudden storm in summer, feels a tear on her cheek. She steps out of the car, giving her skirt one last tug, takes her brother’s rough hand and stumbles towards a way to say good-bye.
Written on July 23, 2020