Funeral Masks

Funeral Masks

Was she scared? Was she as scared of me, as I was of her?

I never knew her. I try to conjure up an image of her in my brain but it's fuzzy, blurred, overlaid with gossamer fine filters. Each layer seemingly transparent. Yet together, anything could hide below the shroud. No shivering, I know it's not really cold.

The man in black robes standing over her coffin is talking about someone I never met. Someone strong, who overcame the loss of a child to become a pillar of the community. Who organized fund raising for charities, who drove friends and strangers on journeys to the hospital, who comforted the bereaved.

Stifling. The air lies heavy on my limbs, pressing me down, limp spirit melting and dissolving tumbling deep into the ground.

Silent screams.

Did she know about Sam. Did she know about Sam. Did she know about Sam. Did she know about Sam. Did she know about Sam. Did she know about Sam. Did she know about Sam?

And me. So gutless I couldn't even ask her if she'd known. Five minutes in a diner, face to face with a stranger. An unknown woman, yet strangely familiar. A teaser, a free gift from that man. The cigarette smoker. The puppeteer. The dead man. Sam's father? My? What was he to me? To Mom?

I should have run back to her. Pounded on her door. Begged her to tell me.

Please God. Tell me she didn't know where Sam was. I can forgive her for hating me. Hate's familiar. Safe. Understood. But that? That would be beyond hate, beyond forgiveness.

I love her. Pathetic. I love her and I want to forgive her. There's already so much hate, so many sins unforgiven, so much poisoned blood in my veins demanding vengeance. I can't afford any more, I have to love her. I've got too much invested, too many years, too many tears, too much blood spilled. If I don't love her, I die. There's just so much of your heart you can hack away, before you die.

She comforted the bereaved? Visited the sick. How curious. Strangers perhaps. Never me. Was that because I wasn't supposed to be grieving, because there was no reason for it. Was I just a reminder of a lie.

I remember her face. So strong. I thought it was a mask, a screen protecting open wounds. Watched and learned how to build a mask for myself. I don't want to hear that it was real, that the mask was all you were. I don't want to know that you didn't care.

"Fox, you're bleeding."

I hate my memory, hate the way it picks and chooses. There must have been good times.

I can get into the heads of the freaks, the weirdos, the killers. I could never get inside her head. I always thought that was a good sign. Assumed it meant she was good and sane and honest. I don't want to know that she was a master of disguise. I don't want to know that I saw only what I wanted to see, that I never really looked.

Did she love me? Like I love her.

Swallow it down. Mom's big boy. See how well I learned, Mom. You'd be so proud of me.

And Dad. Maybe he'd be able to look at me. Without loathing, without contempt. Without me knowing I'd failed again.

Tears, unnecessary and unwelcome. Why were they unnecessary? Mom? Dad? Because you knew, knew who'd taken her? Knew things that I mustn't be told.

Was she supposed to come back? Is that what happened. Did the deal fall through? Is that why you split up?

You know Mom, I was so stupid that I actually thought you left him because of me. Isn't that funny? I thought it was my fault you got divorced. So arrogant. I thought you were rescuing me from his darkness. Don't laugh Mom. Did you die laughing?

I'm laughing. Oh, don't worry, I'm wearing my mask. Somber demeanor. Good charcoal suit. Sorry, I can't wear black, Mom. Too many jokes about men in black and my life's a joke already.

So arrogant, so selfish, I want something in my life to be real. I want to look at your picture and see a victim, a survivor, a kindred spirit. You were real, weren't you Mom?

I learned so much from you. How not to touch. How not to be touched. How to avoid asking awkward questions, how to evade giving difficult answers. How not to hear the screams. If you weren't real, then nor am I.

You smiled at me when I got the scholarship, when I told you I was going to Oxford. And now I don't even know why you smiled. Pride? Wouldn't I like to believe that. Relief? Safety in distance. Nothing? Just a script of celebration that you knew how to play. Please God. Not nothing, I don't want to be nothing.

Got to breathe soon, I'm choking here. Self inflicted asphyxiation, nothing erotic about it. Force the air down. Swallow hard.

Shouldn't have closed my eyes. Only a few seconds but it's a miscalculation. My eyes sting now. Blink hard to clear the salt water.

Neatly done. A wetness against the lashes the only evidence of the breech in my defenses.

Such approval in the eyes of your friends, Mom. You should see their sympathetic glances. Just the barest hint of a slump in my posture, the barest glimmer of emotion weeping from my eyes, hands clenched at my sides. The very model of restrained but heartfelt mourning. Dignified. Manly. Compassionate. Oh Mom, you'd be so proud of me. Wouldn't you?

I wonder if I would have cried at Dad's funeral? I guess so, I was always a disappointment to him, why should his funeral have been any different. I know that you didn't cry that day. Was that a choice you made, or did you just not care. Did it matter to you when Scully told you that I was still alive?

Just once I saw a glimmer of something more in him. The night he died. Isn't that ironic? Just for an instant I thought he might love me, might even respect me. Then he died. In my arms. While I cried. Amazing what you can imagine when you're high on drugs.

I saw him afterwards, you know. When I was dead, or undead, or choosing, or hallucinating. My fantasy father appeared and he sent me back to work. Was it really me who was the disappointment or did he see too much of himself when he looked in my eyes.

I am my father's son. Whoever my father is, was. I don't even know if I had a father.

Can you remember me hugging you, Mom? Tucking you into bed when that Sam facsimile visited? Crying at your bedside after the stroke? I remember you slapping me across the face. I remember you pulling away from me.

Did he make you choose? Did he choose wrong. Did you? Did they ignore your choice. I saw a file, Mom. Samantha's file. It had been my file before it became her's. Did you see Dad when you looked in my eyes.

You know, I can hardly believe this, even Scully got it wrong, left it too late. Her father died before she'd spoken to him and received his blessing, heard his love, had him validate her choices. Funny thing is, she rose above it. Knew he loved her, knew that she could always count on him for backup.

She looks beautiful. Standing proud, by my side, self contained and polished. I can feel her eyes on me. Her tired eyes, just a little washed out, but it adds to her aura. Such a good mourner, practice makes perfect. So much unfinished business. If she'd died. Double underline below a final conversation that we never had.

Cry at her funeral? Any tears left? Any more heart beats?

A funeral. A reminder of mortality. The reminder that there is no second chance unless the chance is taken.

Scully's mask is highly polished. Securely in place. I'm scared to look behind her mask. Those things never fit back quite so well once you've pulled them off. I've seen it slip a handful of times. An instant, a fragment of disclosure, then quick repair and stronger fastenings. I've watched the thin spider's web of lines contaminate the purity of the surface, seen the little cracks emerge that might indicate a deeper fracture. If this was Scully's mother in that coffin, would the mask shatter, would she? If it was me waiting in the coffin, ready for the hole in the ground, would she know me? Know that she could always have counted on me for backup.

Deep breath, stand up straight, bite down hard until it hurts my jaw. Can I borrow your mask Mom? It's not like you need it anymore. Come on, Mom. It's more dangerous for me than for you. I might actually see you. You can't see me any more, if you ever saw me. I'm the only one who could get hurt.

I'll write a profile, Mom. Two maybe, one for you, one for Dad. It's what I do, slip inside someone else's head. Make myself hear their thoughts, feel their emotions. I've been in the minds of monsters. Why should I be afraid of my own parents.

I know you loved me, Mom. After all, you were my mother.