Mom

Flash Fiction by Rosalind Trotter

It’s not that I didn’t love my mom or still don’t. But I have to confess that the day I watched her coffin lowered into the ground, I felt a twinge of relief. Maybe more than a twinge.

My mom was an extraordinary woman. Energetic, intelligent, full of personality. The kind of person who is not afraid to make her own rules. She was also stubborn. If she believed something was right, she would do it–come hell or high water. It didn’t matter if it was often hell. “You have to stick to your guns,” she used to say. “Don’t start something that you are not committed to finishing.” 

The problem was that she thought that the most important thing in her life was to take care of me. And she wasn’t going to cut any corners. That was great when I was a little kid, but a nightmare as I grew older. Daily visits to the school when I was a teenager, telling the teachers why they were wrong and how I was a victim of some injustice on their part. It got even worse when I was an adult. I had lost jobs, been evicted, and even once ended up at the police station because of her ideas of how to be a good mom. But now it was over. She was safely underground. 

When I got home from the cemetery, I found a letter from her in the mailbox. I could deal with that. It was probably a note telling me not to grieve and to make sure that I brushed my teeth twice a day—a last hurrah from her. Last was fine. 

Inside the envelope was a ticket from the dry cleaners and a note in Mom’s handwriting. “Pick this up as soon as possible.“ I wondered what she had planned for me now, so I headed for the dry cleaners and presented the ticket. They brought out a lumpy, blue vinyl garment bag. I slung it over my shoulder and headed home. As I struggled to find a comfortable way to carry it, I heard a voice. Her voice. “It’s about time,” she said. “I’ve been waiting here for ages.”

This couldn’t be real. Feeling stupid and glad there was no one close enough to hear me, I whispered. “Mom, Is that you?”

“Of course, it’s me. Who did you think?”

“But you’re dead.”

“Yeah, that’s what they said, but I kept taking one more breath. It’s amazing what you can do if you don’t quit. And I was not about to abandon you.”

This was not real, but I answered anyway. “I’m fine, Mom. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Of course I do. I’ll always worry about you.”

My stomach tightened. This was going somewhere I had lived with all my life and did not want to anymore. I changed the subject. “Why the garment bag?”

“This manifestation business is complicated. It seems like if I get my face, I’m missing my legs, and if I get my legs, I might be missing my torso. I’m still working on putting it all together. In the meantime, I didn’t want to embarrass you by walking around missing vital parts.”

It had never bothered her to embarrass me before, but I didn’t say anything. 

“Besides, the police might have something to say if they saw me. There are probably stupid rules about people just trying to help.”

 “Mom, please. You can’t do this. You’re dead.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. But now that you have found me let’s go have some coffee. I am dying for a cappuccino and a cream puff. It’s been three days.”

I sighed. “Will you at least promise to be good and not to talk to me?”

“What do you mean, not talk to you? You are my daughter. Of course, I’ll talk to you.”

“People will think I am crazy, sitting there talking to a garment bag.” 

“If they do, I will jump out and make them think they are crazy.”

And she would. I knew she would. I was close to tears. “Please, mom. Can’t you ever do things the way other people do?”

“Who wants to be like other people?”

“I do, Mom. I just want to have a normal life.” 

“Normal is overrated.”

By now, we were at the coffee shop. I hung the bag over the back of a chair and went to order her coffee and cream puff. 

I don’t even want to remember the next half hour. She had me unzip the top of her bag, and a detached hand came out to pick up the coffee and pour it into a mouth that led nowhere, or rather to the bottom of the bag. 

“Oops,” she said. “That didn’t work. Let me try something else.” Now, an alimentary canal crawled out of the bag. People were beginning to look at us.  

“Please, please, please, Mom,” I whispered. “This isn’t going to work. You have to accept that you are dead and let go.”

“Quit? Abandon you? Never. I just wish I could figure out this manifestation thing.”

I had a brilliant idea. “Maybe the problem is that you are only halfway dead. You always said, ‘If you’re going to do something, do it all the way. You are dead. So do it all the way.”

 “Hm,” she said. “Maybe you’re right.” She slid out of the bag, a piece of a head attached by a few bones to a disjointed collection of skin and innards. She let her mouth fall open, her head fall back, winked at me, and said, “Ok, now I’m all the way dead.” A few minutes later, she disappeared. I waited, but she didn’t come back. I couldn’t believe it. She was really gone.

Until the next morning, when she appeared in full manifestation. “You were right,” she said. “All my pieces are together now. I don’t need the garment bag anymore. I can be right next to you forever.”