As I write this now, in a journal I long set aside, with a pen down to it’s last sentences, I must tell you the fear I feel:
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Last week I received a phone call that deep down we all dread to receive: “Your Mother passed away last night son, it’s time to come home.”
She had been ill for some time and while it did not come as a surprise, there is no way to prepare for the shock of this loss. I hung up the phone shaking, gazing out at the hazy morning sun beginning to illuminate the New York skyline.
I don’t recall the flight back to Pennsylvania or the long drive to my childhood home. My mind was in a state of now painful memories, being called against my will. How my Mother used to play with me in the garden, encouraging me lovingly or when it came time to focus, she would teach obscure/obsolete subjects from history like morse code or semaphore. Long dead languages she considered an insult to be left behind.
My home was built on a small farm, the taxi winding around the snake-like drive leading up to it, reminding me that this is not a pleasant place to be. My father greeted me at the door, “It’s good to see you son, I’m glad you’re home.”
I unpacked my things in my old bedroom, faded posters of boybands long forgotten peeling on the walls. As I drifted off to sleep that night, I was stirred by a faint tapping sound, too far away to discern it’s source however still consistent enough to feel unnatural. I drifted back to sleep with the tapping still continuing, lulling me back to comfortable darkness.
The morning of the funeral came. As I dressed I could hear my father downstairs, doing his best to put on a brave face for our cousins and family friends. “It is a comfort at least, to know she’s no longer suffering”. He is braver than I am.
Mom had been looked after by the local undertakers for the last number of days, her funeral wear picked out long ago. I was extremely upset at the thought of her being prepared and stored alone on a cold shelf somewhere, guilt and shame were my prevailing emotions. We arrived at the home for her wake. Nervously I walked to the top of the cold room, carefully decorated with flowers along the far walls. There at the top was a dark brown wicker coffin, casket opened. I stood over her, her bright yellow dress making me smile knowing it was her final attempt to brighten the lives of her loved ones.
I mustered the courage to look upon my Mother’s face for one final time and a feeling of anxiety washed over me. Her hair was a darker red than I had remembered, her skin tone, much paler in colour, the positioning of her nose and cheek bones were warped unnaturally to the point I could not recognise……. I began to shake. This is not my Mother. My knuckles turned white as they steadied my hold on the coffin. As I turned to get the funeral director’s attention, to furiously let him know he’s made a mistake, my father puts his hand on my shoulder “She looks beautiful doesn’t she?”.
Stunned, I manage to say “Dad, there must be a mistake, this isn’t Mom”. He stared back at me like he was looking at a stranger or a fool. “I know she might look different to how you expected son but it’s been months since you last saw her, the funeral home have done the best they could”. “NO!” I shout, “I know what my own Mother looks like, this isn’t her!” I began to feel queasy and take a seat in the front row. I searched my memories of every detail of my Mom, there’s no way this could be her.
As more and more people began to arrive I quickly stepped into the hallway, trying to hold back the urge to be violently ill on the funeral home carpet. I steadied myself on the handrail and re-entered. Surely someone else will notice, I thought. Watching each person’s reaction I was able to observe only deep sadness and remorse, I saw no shock or terror akin to how I was feeling.
We buried this person, this changeling that same day. I held my father in my arms as they lowered the coffin, him finally putting down his strength.
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I’ve been awoken once again in my bedroom, the faint tapping still persists. Not enough to stir my father loudly snoring down the hall. The tapping is beginning to become clearer, getting closer to me now. My blood runs cold. I can hear a dull slinking of movement, a soft echo from the vents of the house, almost as if…. the tapping has become a knock now, consistent and in pattern, I write down the knocks and pauses between:
Shaking I begin to translate: I AM AWAKE
I feel a cold hand on my shoulder