Unthinkable

By Anna Hill

Deceit, control, and suicide?

I think it is safe to say that I didn't have the best upbringing. My mother is a vindictive, narcissistic, and manipulative woman.

I thought I had managed to escape her wicked grasp, but after Kelsey's sudden death, I find myself back in the middle of my dysfunctional family.

Now it is just me and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: May 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958128510

Anna Hill

Dee Shaffer lives in the Midwest and has worked as an executive in the Healthcare and Human Services industry for 25 years. She has published several books in multiple genres, including fiction, non-fiction, short fiction, and children's stories. She has a passion for using her words to reach others in meaningful ways, and to help inspire their unlocked potential. Th rough the course of her professional career and parenting of four children, Dee has been blessed with wisdom that is only provided by the Lord and overcoming life's complexities. She enjoys writing, hiking, and creating heartfelt publications to bless the lives of those she touches.

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Contents

The Funeral

A Happy, Happy Girl

People Watching

Beautiful?

A Mother’s Work Is Never-Ending

Thrift Shop Jacket

The After Party

The House Is Silent

Americano, Latte, or Mocha?

Rare Conditions

The Get-Together

A Picnic by Mount Rainier

The Jewelry Box

Overdue

She’s Coming Home

It All Goes Away

Conclusion

1.

The Funeral

The crematorium on 11th Street is all plain brick and impersonal decor, although I’m not really sure ‘decor’ is the right word to use for a place like this. Several rows of varnished pews face the front—only a couple of them occupied—and the matching brown walls all have large faded rectangles along them from where framed pictures once hung. Now, those images of Saint Joseph, Our Lord, and many other biblical representatives are probably stacked up in a separate room awaiting their second unveiling as soon as the latest cremation ends and the mourners have left.

When Mother had insisted the funeral director remove all of the religious paintings, I wasn’t at all surprised. With only a handful of people allowed to attend my sister’s funeral, there had been less chance of someone complaining or even rolling their eyes at her request. Not that anyone here would dream of doing such a thing. Elaine Blackwood is not a woman to be messed with, and the people here know that. This is her stage, and the day will go as she desires.

Getting word two days ago that Kelsey had passed away hit me like a ton of bricks. Jerry had made the call, weeping as he told his stepdaughter that his paternal daughter had killed herself. We never saw it coming, he told me through choked sobs. She was such a good girl.

Even now, my mind is numb. I can smell incense burning, and I can hear the words of my mother as she stands before the tiny crowd and addresses them, fighting bravely against the tears. But it feels like I’m in someone else’s body. When I look down at my hands, I notice I’ve crumpled up the little slip of paper they gave us upon entering. The memorial card had looked rushed and bare, and I know this is only because Mister Bowman—the gentleman who runs Bowman’s Crematorium—must have had to print them out at the last moment minus the prayers, as per the mother of the deceased’s wishes.

My little angel was not for this world, Mother is saying. The words feel like they are coming to me from underwater. She may be 10 feet away from me, but I can still smell her perfume. The pungent odor of too much Frederic Malle Portrait of a Lady mixed with the sweet incense is almost sickening, but I keep my face firm and downward.

Every so often, someone sobs at a phrase or memory Mother relays. My sister, Leah—my only surviving sister now—sits beside me wearing a simple black dress that hangs too loose on her thin frame. She looks gaunt despite the makeup she wears, and several rivulets of dark mascara have run down her pretty face. When she notices me looking at her, she tries to smile, but it doesn’t work, and instead, she drops her head and lets out a low groan.

Even though I have a different father to Leah, I always looked more like her than Kelsey ever did. She has the same mousy-brown hair, matching eyes, small frame, and pouty cheeks. Leaving her behind when I finally got to be an assistant to Professor Willis at the University of Washington had hurt, as she was younger than Kelsey and less able to protect herself. Now, standing here at the funeral of the young woman who killed herself at just 18, I realize I was worrying about the wrong sister.

Sometimes, all a mother does still isn’t enough, Elaine declares. She is almost shouting now, the sound of her booming voice echoing through the small room. Her eyes are wild, and everything she says is enunciated with a fling of the hand or dramatic gesture.

The few people that showed up—her classmates weren’t allowed, as Mother blames them (among others) for neglecting her precious angel—cry for her pain as she speaks. They weep for the poor woman who tried everything to help her baby, only to be struck down with even more misery for her efforts. She tells them life is cruel, that if there was a God, then why would he punish loyal, hard-working mothers who do everything in their power to make their children’s lives everything they never had themselves.

Two down the pew from me, I see Jerry dab at his cheeks with the sleeve of his blazer. His mustache has grayed, seemingly overnight, and it now matches his thinning hair. Whatever shred of life that had remained in his eyes before now is gone. His gaze comes up to mine, but I know he’s not really seeing me. He will have to be there for his wife now, as she has lost her daughter, which is the world’s greatest tragedy for any woman.

Mother’s makeup is heavy but flawless. No track marks of mascara run down her cheeks, though, and her peroxide blonde hair is freshly styled. She has it up in a beehive today, making her loom over the funeral-goers alongside us in the front row. Again, I’m hit by a waft of her perfume as her slender arm snaps up in the air, her voice now close to shrieking.

Mister Bowman, who has waited patiently in the background, actually checks his watch, and despite the devastating pain I feel, I have to stifle a laugh. There is no humor in it, and I know it is just the rampant butterflies in my stomach acting up. If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t think everything has sunk in yet. It still feels like I’m going to wake up at any moment alone in my tiny apartment just off campus, but still an older sister to two siblings instead of one.

Suddenly, Mother finishes her eulogy. Someone steps forward to help her back to her seat—it’s my uncle Brian, I notice—and she swats his hand away. It seems Elaine Blackwood is stronger than all of that, and as much as she is hurting, this proud woman will show the rest how to carry themselves.

As she takes her seat next to Jerry, Mister Bowman says a few words, but I can’t really make any sense of them. I know they are only instructions and information on what is about to happen, but my mind seems reluctant to accept it is my little sister in the box next to him. The crematorium owner finally steps forward and does something with a panel beside him, and there is a sudden drone of mechanics from somewhere as the coffin begins to move.

This is greeted with heavier sobs, and I hear a voice from the row behind me say, Oh, God, no.

Mother turns around in her seat and scowls at whoever it was, and as she brings her head back around, she catches my gaze and silently instructs me to face forward. I do as I’m told, and that little girl inside me recoils in fear. A mother’s wrath is not age-restricted, and even though I’m 28, the last thing I need today is to displease the woman who allowed me to live in her home for 25 years.

There is no real heat coming off the large cremator, even though I hear the flames. It’s a strange sensation, and all it does is attempt to rekindle my flailing belief that this is all in my mind. But it’s real; the pain in my heart could not be created in even the most vivid of dreams. When Leah’s hand reaches out and softly rests on my knee, I gratefully place mine on top of it.

Loud raindrops pound the roof of Bowman’s, their drumbeat seeming to play one last tune for Kelsey as her cold body touches the red-hot flames. I don’t even remember hearing the downpour starting, and when I try to think back to my arrival an hour before, I’m still not sure if it was raining then.

The mechanical hum increases a little as the shutters begin to close, and then the sound stops suddenly as they snap shut, making someone across the way gasp. This incurs another sharp look from Mother, and I drop my gaze before she catches me watching her. From the corner of my eye, I see her lean into Jerry and whisper something in his ear. He shrugs his thin, slumped shoulders, and she leans in further, her body visibly tense. He slowly stands up and approaches Mister Bowman, where they talk for a few seconds in hushed tones.

After a moment, we are told the funeral has finished. The owner does this in a very pleasant manner before telling us how sorry he is for our loss. As we file out, Mother leans over my shoulder and whispers in my ear.

No tears, huh?

I’m sorry? I ask, a little taken aback.

You couldn’t shed a few tears for your sister? Probably too busy thinking about college life, she hisses.

Before I have a chance to answer, she has stepped out into the heavy rain, where she stands under the dark, overcast afternoon sky. Although she has a closed umbrella in her hand, Elaine Blackwood doesn’t open it. In moments, her beehive hairdo has collapsed with the added weight of the rain. To those who have begun to filter out behind us, she looks defeated. Instantly, several people—a few neighbors and one or two distant relatives—run forward and offer their coats, hats, anything to shelter this poor woman.

Mother graciously refuses. Her face then washes over with shock as she discovers the umbrella in her hand. She shakes her head slowly and struggles with the hasp. A man I don’t know or can’t remember leans in to help, and she smiles gratefully at him. Once it’s open, he hands it back, and Mother stands there, looking off into the sheets of rain as they pound the empty streets beyond.

Just then, Jerry emerges in the archway beside me. His arm is looped around Leah’s, and she has her tear-streaked face on his shoulder. Both of them look wretched, but I know my baby sister will look well again in a few months. As for the man who came along after my own so- called father had left while I was still in the womb, he hasn’t looked whole in a long time.

You okay, Dad? I ask. When I place my hand on his shoulder, I can feel him shaking.

He nods slowly. I’ll be fine. It’s your mother I’m worried about.

I look back outside at the woman he is talking about. Unlike her husband, Elaine’s eyes are not puffy. Where his body is shaking, hers is still. Jerry’s shoulders are slumped, giving him the appearance of a scolded child, while Mother’s are drawn back and proud.

Sure, is all I can think to say.

You comin’ back to the house? Leah asks through low sobs.

The mention of my family home makes my throat tighten, and I can taste copper. The last few years of being away have not been easy, and far too often, I’ve found myself allowing the idea of caving and returning to Elaine’s house with my tail between my legs. It isn’t that I want to; it’s just being alone out here in the real world is tough. I had no preparation for it, and applying for a job at 25 that most people consider a stepping stone at 18 was embarrassing. Jump forward two years, and I’m still in the same position. To most, this would seem like failure, but it’s more than I ever could have imagined growing up on Willow Avenue.

No, for now, surviving in a box-room apartment and spending my evenings by myself will do. The alternatives are not worth thinking about, and even if Mother is correct in saying I’ll never succeed, I have to try to live my own life. It’s far from perfect, and most people would turn their noses up at it, but it’s wholly mine, which is all that matters.

I realize Leah is still looking at me and waiting for an answer. I give her my best smile and say, Of course, Leah. I’ll ride back with you if you want.

Jerry flinches, and when I look in his eyes, I see that mixture of shame and fear that has become his default setting through the years.

I, um, I’ll just check with your mother, he stutters. When he swallows, I hear an audible click. I’m not sure if there is space in the car.

Watching him squirm is heartbreaking. To save the hassle, I say, Let her be, Dad. I brought my car, and it’s best not to leave it out here in the rain too long; it might get stolen.

It’s a weak excuse, but I know Mother is mad at me for not behaving as she saw fit in the crematorium, among other things. It was not my intention, and I’m a little embarrassed I’m yet to cry for my sister. It’s not that I don’t want to; it’s just my body is yet to feel like my own since I heard the news. If Jerry were to ask Mother now if I could tag along, it would be him who gets the wrath for upsetting her on such a stressful day, and he is upset enough as it is.

Dad, she can’t drive back to the house on her own, Leah pleads as she looks up into Jerry’s eyes.

Before he can fumble a reply, I cut in. Really, guys, it’s easier like this. Anyway, I have to have my car to get home tonight.

Most of the other mourners have left already, and I can hear the sound of car doors shutting and the grumbling engines. Still, Mother continues to stand out in the rain, her long black dress and matching coat hugging her slender frame. We watch her for a while, all seemingly afraid of what the next step should be, each of us shuffling our feet or picking at imaginary fluff on our coats.

Finally, Jerry clears his throat and half-whispers, I’ll go bring the car around. Leah, will you walk your mother to the entrance?

Leah nods, and Dad shuffles away into the rain. He talks into Mother’s ear, but she shoos him away, and he continues out into the street to get the car. When his darkened silhouette has disappeared out of sight, I turn to my sister and rub her arm. I know I should hug her, and as much as I love Leah, my limbs just can’t seem to do it. Something fundamental inside me won’t allow such signs of affection, and I can see in her eyes she is fighting the same battle.

You will come home for a while, won’t you, Gracey? Leah says. Her eyes keep flicking past my shoulder to the woman in black who continues to stare off into the distance. I… I need you there.

I’ll come, I tell her. The fear in her words cuts deep, and not for the first time since I packed up my stuff and left home, I’m overwhelmed with guilt for those