What happens now?

TW: This story speaking on themes of mental illness, suicide, physical abuse. While not graphically described it is mentioned.

“ ‘Nobody tells you what happens next.’ Is always the first thing you hear when somebody speaks about death. Except it’s not true is it? Everybody tells you how it’s gonna feel, what they went through, the surreal feeling. The numbness, the stages of grief and how they just can’t get over it. But what happens when death is what brings you closure?”

  “You cannot say that at your fathers funeral”. My words get interrupted by the words of my sister. 

“Then I’m not speaking” I close the laptop I was reading my speech from. My sister rolls her eyes at me. To her our father was a good man. She didn’t know him before. 

   “Can’t you let him rest in peace without ruining his name at his own funeral? I mean the man died in a car accident Savanna is that not enough for you? He’s gone, it's over.” She leaves my room slamming the door, I'm sure on her way to complain to her mother about me. 

    ‘He’s gone is over’ her words keep replaying in my mind but not the way she meant them. When I heard my father died I didn’t tell anybody. It was 11:00 PM on a Friday night and I was finishing a movie when officers showed up at the door. Funnily when they showed up I was worried something bad had happened. I’m not sure what and when I was told I sighed in relief. I went about my night and I could hear my sister and her mother crying while I got the best sleep of my life. I woke up the next morning and continued my Saturday. The first person I wanted to tell was my mother. I decided I would do that today. The day before his funeral seemed fitting. 

  As I drive I try to recall the last time I saw my mother. We used to be very close but recently I hadn't gone to see her in a while. My mother had me young. She was a waitress trying to save up for university. ‘The story is so cliche. A waitress means an older man with money and the rest is history’. Or at least that's what she says. I’m not sure what the cliche was. I think this story became her comfort. A way to talk about her marriage without having to explain what the history really is. I smile as I think about my mother. 

I pull into her driveway. I release a sigh. I walk through her garden and up to her door. I sit on the grass “hello mommy” I read the headstone “Lili Rose York”, mother, wife and friend to all”. My mother has lived here for 4 years. She moved because of my father. I hadn’t been to see her in a while, I could only pray she has forgiven me. I tell her about dad. When I finish I begin to cry. This is the first time I’ve cried since hearing the news but the truth is I wasn’t crying because I miss him, I was crying because this is why I never come to visit. The silence makes it real. I thought my mother’s murderer dying would set me free but I can’t move past it, because all I hear all the time is silence. The house that used to be filled with the sound of my mother which got quieter and quieter over time was now silent. Everytime I spoke to her she’d always have something to say but since she moved it's just been silent. “I wish you could come back home, he’s gone now you’d be okay”. I get up and as I walk back to my car I wonder if the same will ever go for me. If I could overcome this and move on with what is supposed to my life. If I would ever find noise to fill the silence. 

   The day of my fathers funeral is sombre for everybody but me. Tears flood the room and despite sweating profusely out of fear of public speaking I seem to have no water in my system to join the room in crying the river I wish I could so desperately tell them to build a bridge over and move on. The casket is closed. I stare at it, realising it's the longest I've ever looked at my father. However it’s only when I look away I realize exactly what I've been staring at. I leave the church in a hurry knowing the preceding are about to start. I realized I was staring at a mixture of lilies and roses on my fathers casket. I walk towards my step sister and her mother in a rage. 

 “Is this a practical joke?” I am met with confused expressions. “Lilies and Roses?. You put my mother on the casket of the man that made her kill herself?” 

  My step mother speaks “This fantasy you have about your mother and father must stop. Your mother was mentally unstable your father was devastated when she died” I begin to feel my blood boil. 

  “My father beat my mother until she didn't know what day it was. Then if all the physical bruising wasn’t enough he went a took up you. A mistress in the middle of his marriage. You played perfect happy family while my mother had to find new ways to cover her bruises. You are lucky I don’t blame you for her death too. ”

 I leave the funeral. I have been so stressed about what to do and what to say at the funeral of the man who I owe nothing. His death never phased me yet I allowed this funeral to get me all stressed out for no reason. This funeral is not the obstacle stopping the course of my life, the death of my mother is.

Days later my fathers lawyer comes to the house. I ignore the conversation until he ask me if I’m listening and slides me a document I need to sign. My mother and my step sister look at me in shock. The sum of money surpasses six 0’s and the only thing written on the letter is “I’m sorry”. I sign the paper. “He left you the most money and you didn’t even have the decency to speak at his funeral. I get up from the table and go to my room. “I don’t forgive you” I find a sense of peace in saying that outloud. 

The death of my father opened the door to grieving my mother. Her killer was gone now I had no one to blame for my loss, my continued grief, the reason I had not gone on with my life. The day of my fathers funeral I bought Lilies and roses and kept them in my room. I cared for the flowers, I watered them and I gave them sun and I cared for the flowers the way I wish I could still have cared for my mother. 

I began going to therapy. I moved out of that house and I went to university where I majored in psychology. I graduated and opened a shelter for domestic violence with my fathers inheritance money where I offered counselling to women in situations like my mothers along side my practice. “Lili Rose’s Centre Of Healing” I smile everytime I go to work and view my mothers name on the building. 

I visit my mother everyday. The silence gives me a place to clear my mind when my job gets too hard. I speak and she listens just like I do to my clients. I bring her flowers once a week. Her home is always beautiful decorated.