Funerals Are for the Living

(Content warning: abortion [moderate], abuse [minor] both discussed, mentioned or implied)

I am no murderer. But the steam rises in the corner of the kitchen like smoke, and I cannot tell candlelight from hellfire. She shakes on the floor, head buried in arms as the shivering womb of her throat cradles my name softly.

“Ellen,” she says. “Ellen, baby, I’m so sorry.”

“I know, mama. It’ll be alright.”

Her name is Ruth Jones, though the state’ll tell you it’s Whitlow, and no God I know could call her a sinner. She is my mother, and my pride and joy, and I swear I am going to kill the man who thought she was his, who could bring my beautiful, shining mama to her knees, shaking like half-dead roadkill. I layer another quilt over her bare shoulders, tracing squares across the patchwork, then get up to shut the timer off before it screams treachery. The smell from the pot is choking before I even lift the ladle to my nose. No amount of sugar is gonna mask it, but mama deserves that small mercy.

“Ellen?” She calls, scratchy and faint, like a dry cloth cleaning off a blackboard.

“Yes, mama?” I ask, dumping spoonful after spoonful of sugar, clove and nutmeg into the cup.

“Ellen, honey, she’s not gonna make it. It’s me or—“ her voice cracks.

I drop the damn ladle and run to her.

She's halfway on her side, like a washed-up thing the tide gave back. I kneel beside her, careful not to jostle her. Her skin shines with sweat that’s gone cold. I wipe her forehead with the edge of my shirt and try not to cry. All it’s ever done is show the devil where to dig deeper.

“I know. I know. It’ll be alright,” I say, dabbing at her tears with my sleeve. Her eyes are bruised purple and her lip begins to bleed again.

My father is not a man of honor. I will feast when the cancer takes him, and mourn for the poor mutated cells that were forced to inhabit his body for so long.

But for now, the best I can do is squeeze a little lemon into the tea, for her. She’ll be losing blood enough without needing the reminding of his bastard face. I want to tell her she’s doing the right thing, the holy thing, the gracious thing. I don’t. I sit and bathe in the scent of the cedarwood, prop her head up against the sofa, and make sure the towels beneath her are thick enough that she won’t stain the floor.

“Mama, talk to me. Come on.” I press my hand against her cheek. She’s clammy, lips the color of rainwater in the gutter. “You gotta stay awake now. You promised. It'll be over soon, you just need to drink it. Stay awake for that.”

Her eyes flutter open, confused, then land on me like I’m the moon and she’s only just experiencing the night. She reaches for my hand with shivering fingers like moth wings just before they fry in the porch light.

“Do you… d’you ‘member that summer we went to the reservoir?” she whispers, breath sticking to the back of her throat like sweat. “With that big blue floatie... shaped like a unicorn?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. I remember. I remember the way I could run for miles in that butterfly-patterned swimsuit without worrying that, for every punch I could throw, there was always a man stronger than me. I remember how her laugh rang out over the water, and how she let me eat peaches for dinner and called it “vacation rules.” How she smelled like suntan lotion and dollar-store vanilla perfume. How for three whole days, there wasn’t a bruise on her.

“I liked that,” she says, smiling. “We shoulda stayed.”

“We will,” I lie. “Next time, we’ll pack proper and go longer. Take Cousin Naomi with us. She’ll be old enough to float.” I try and smile, try and make her smile, but I can't, God, I can't, and it feels like guilt. Like telling a white lie to a kid to get them to go to bed hungry. Like sin—the gentle kind, the kind you could get clean from by saying good morning to God. I don't think it would be that easy this time.

She chuckles, but it comes out as a gasp. I watch her grip her belly, the way her hand curls like it wants to protect and destroy all at once. She digs in deep, and when her fist unclenches, blood stains the underside of her nails. I look away.

“I didn’t mean for it to get like this,” she says.

“I know, mama.”

“I wanted to keep her. I swear I did. I just…” Her voice cracks again.

“You are the best damn woman I know,” I snap, angrier than I mean to sound. She shuts her eyes, sharplike. I soften. “You’re the only reason I made it this far.”

“That ain’t true.”

“It is.”

“You think God’s watching us?” she asks, eyes still shut. A tear escapes her eye, lids squeezed tight together like a walnut shell, and her voice breaks like glass.

“I think something is. Watching us. Something kinder. I think it cares.”

“I wanted to name her Mercy. Mercy Katherine.”

“That’s beautiful, mama.”

“I’m killing her, ain’t I?”

I want to tell her ‘yes’, to be honest, to tell her that it’s the kinder option. She doesn’t deserve me lying to her.

“You’re saving her. You can’t curse another soul to eighteen years in this house.” I let my words out slowly, like trying to spit out gristle during polite conversation. It don’t work. Only makes her face ripple like lakewater in the summer, when the boys skip stones across its skin and it never has the time to still itself and breathe.

“Did I curse you, too?”

“No. No you didn’t, I swear to you.” I place my head on her chest. She smells like rosewater and sunbaked, barefoot summertime. "We can bury her, out back. Nothing special, but...flowers, maybe. I'll need to get rid of the towels anyways, if they're buried deep enough, maybe the dogs won't get to 'em."

Mama smiles for a second, nods gently.

"I'd like that" she says, and that's all I need to hear. Funerals are for the living.

“I named you after your midwife, and your nana," she continues. "They were both strong women. Beautiful women. Ellen, she said you were going to be a prodigy. Said God had spoken to her, and I was jealous. Thought she deserved to be your mama more than me.”

“I wouldn't trade you for anything.”

She laughs again, a soft chuckle, then folds in on herself with a sound like death, groaning suddenly.

“Is it gonna hurt?” She asks, voice still swaying like a willow branch. I brush her hair back, remembering the tea cooling off on the sideboard, and try not to think about what’s still coming. Joanie King from next door said the cramps made her scream bloody murder, but she was sixteen and had it done proper — maybe the clinic made her anxious ‘cause it smelt wrong, or the cold up North made her tense, maybe her youth made it agony. Maybe mama won’t feel it if I hold her tight enough, or if the tea is sweet enough.

“I’ll be there. It’ll be okay.”

“I love you, Ellen-Rose.”

“I love you too, mama.”