Where did the children go?

I let the words settle in...

So, you're telling me my mom didn’t want us to treat her any differently? She just wanted us to be ourselves? I’m struggling to wrap my head around that. We were total brats, always bickering, asking for everything, and honestly, we could be real terrors. Why would she want her final days filled with the same old drama? My brother Mark and I had each other’s backs. When it came down to it, he’d step in if I really needed him to. He’d done it before when one of his friends was bothering me.

Racheal smiled and asked, “Do you really think your mom wanted a version of her kids that wasn’t truly them?” That made sense, but it didn’t ease my anger and guilt. I told her I knew deep down that there was so much I could have, should have, said to my mom before she passed, but even when I found out, I didn’t fully get it, so I didn’t really process it. I didn’t even shed a tear at the funeral.

“Do you want to share about the funeral, Sam?” she asked. Honestly, I answered, I don’t remember a lot about it, but the viewing of the body is crystal clear in my mind. There were quite a few people at the funeral home when we got there. My older brother, Tim, had told me that Mom would be in a casket. I asked him, “Like a vampire?” He said, “Kind of, but don’t worry, it’s nice, made of cherry wood with silk lining. It’s like a bed for after you die.” I got it. “You’re not scared, are you, Sammie?” I puffed out my little girl chest and said, “No way!”

But I was definitely not ready for what I saw...

I walked into the viewing room and suddenly screamed! “What the heck!? That is NOT my mom!” Everyone turned to look at me as I got more and more upset. My face was red, I was crying and getting more hysterical by the moment. My uncle came over and put a hand on my shoulder, but I pulled away, staring at Ruby, our housekeeper. She practically raised me while my mom was working, and my mom worked a lot! Well, before all this.

Ruby, Mark, and Tim all came over to try to calm me down. They glanced at Mom in the casket and they all noticed it. She was wearing the deepest red lipstick I think I’d ever seen on her, or maybe she'd ever worn. I was in tears... Her lipstick should have been pink! I yelled, PINK PINK PINK!!! Why is it red? She never wore red lipstick, NOT ONCE! They guided me out of the viewing room and into the family lounge, where they sat me down. Charles, a no-nonsense Hispanic guy and the executor of my mom’s estate, checked in on me before talking to the Funeral Home staff. “Charlie will take care of it, Sammie, don’t stress,” Tim reassured me.

“That must have been really tough for you,” Racheal chimed in. I had been staring at my shoes while sharing the story, but finally looked up, not a tear in sight, and said, “Yeah, it was shocking. She had been sick for a while, so she looked so pale. I remember being terrified. Terrified of my own mom.” I shook my head in frustration. “That’s totally normal, Sam, and it’s valid,” she replied. “Did they change the lipstick color?” she asked. “Oh, you bet they did! I think they felt bad for scaring me because they brought out a tray of cookies later.” After that, the session got pretty quiet. “It’s a story I don’t like sharing,” I admitted. “That’s understandable,” she said. Our time was almost up; we had about 10 minutes left of the 50. I wondered why they only gave 50 minutes instead of a full hour. So I asked, and Racheal explained that it allows her 10 minutes to tidy up, grab a drink, or use the restroom before the next client. That made sense to me.

Things got a bit too quiet, so I suddenly blurted out, “I’m gay.” She responded, “That’s awesome! I have lots of gay clients. I’m definitely an ally.” I chuckled and told her how I chose her from that Facebook photo of her in front of the giant Statue of Liberty head, the one with the pride filter. She laughed and said, “Oh my, that was a terrible picture—well, a bad hair day, really.” We both laughed, and then I got serious for a moment and told her I liked it. It made her seem 'real' and sincere which made her seem more relatable. She blushed and thanked me. For a brief moment, I thought things were going pretty well, and I might actually want to schedule another session.

Then she said, “Our time’s almost up, but maybe next time we can dive into your relationships with your...,” she hesitated, “two? Or is it three brothers?” If she didn’t notice the look of panic on my face when she mentioned them, she must not have been paying attention. I managed to say, “Three, but one is a half-sibling…”

On the drive home, unwanted memories flashed through my mind. I cranked up the volume on the radio. Daughter, one of my favorite British bands, was playing, and I tried to push all the negative thoughts away.

Would I really go back? Open up more? That felt so unlike me, and I had a hunch things would only get more personal from here on out.

I just didn’t know....

To be continued in Part IV

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