Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 117820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Too late to turn back now.
I don’t even feel slightly nervous or sorry about interrupting. Truthfully, I don’t care at all.
Pushing open the door on the right, my heels click when I step into the packed room full of my prior community.
I spy my mother at the front, weepy eyed with a tissue against her nose, I spy my old neighbors and shop keepers, and the man who delivered the paper to our house everyday until his grandson took over. I see the grandson too.
All the people from my past are sitting in this room.
Somebody fetch this girl a bomb.
I raise my chin as the dead silence is cut through with sharp whispers. Some ask who I am, some ask if it’s really me, I hear them say I look different, I hear them insult my tardiness, I hear others defend me because I must be distraught.
When I finally reach the front, I make it a point to sit far away from my mother. I don’t acknowledge Father David or even apologize for interrupting. It looks like he’s quite far into the service anyway.
He doesn’t acknowledge me either, nor does that bitch’s closest friend who used to bake the shittiest cookies I ever tried. I broke my tooth on those fucking things when I was around seven. She’s sitting to my left, weeping, as my mother keeps leaning forward to try and catch a glimpse of me or make eye contact at the very least over the five people between us.
I probably should have sat at the back but I wanted to make a statement. I wanted them to see me with my head held high.
“Where were we?” Father David calls and the whispers slowly float away.
I listen to him drone on and on about how Jesus calls to the old bitch and how heaven has a new angel and a ton of other phony BS that I just loathe to sit here and listen to.
“Would anybody like to say a few words to honor such a beloved member of our church and community?”
Of course the shit baker to my left stands and click clacks her way to the pedestal.
I try not to vomit as she gives a teary rendition of my grandmother’s life with lies and over inflated compliments, and overexaggerated confessions of love and loyalty.
My mom goes next, sobbing like she ever gave a fuck about the old lady to begin with. Two-faced hooker just wants what’s in my gran’s will.
My fingers twitch as I get restless.
This is BS, I can’t do this.
I stand, cutting my mother off and slide out of the bench as best as I can what with so many legs blocking my way.
“Where are you going, Imogen?” Father David asks softly, pretending to be a kind herder of his sheep. “Stay, your grandmother would want you to say goodbye.”
“My grandmother wouldn’t want me to say shit,” I retort and half the room gasps.
“Hasn’t lost her terrible manners I see,” somebody hisses but I pay them no mind.
“Let’s watch our language in this house of God.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s exactly why I’m leaving.”
“I know it’s painful, being back here, being with all of us after all you’ve been through and lost—”
Before I say something I’ll probably never regret but know I shouldn’t say, I turn on my heel and head towards the double glass doors.
“Imogen,” Father David calls. “Say your goodbyes, it’s the only chance you’ll ever get.”
I stop, rage bubbling under the surface, hands clenching, face burning. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.” His smile is soft and understanding, as though he understands anything when he understands absolutely nothing. “Come. Speak of your love for your grandmother before it’s too late.”
With a graceful spin I march back towards the front and my mother steps down, unable to look me in the eye. I climb up the few steps and address my adoring fans.
“You asked for this,” I say to the man with a sardonic smile and his falls as the error of his ways sinks in through his thick, leathery skin. “What shall I say?” This question is posed more to myself than anyone else.
“Be nice,” my mother mouths at me but I give her the bird and a small chorus of outrage fills the silence.
“Look at that.” I wave a hand at my mother and address the “adoring” crowd. “Ain’t my ma such a chip off the old block. Telling me to be nice. Whatever could you mean, Ma? What good reason could I possibly have to not be nice?”
Father David steps towards me, no longer looking victorious at having turned my decision. “Perhaps we should—”
I raise a hand to cut him off. “I was three when Mom abandoned me to a woman she despised, a woman who abused her as she was growing up… can you imagine it? Being so messed up by a person and then handing over your babies to her to also be messed up.” I’m not wording this well but I’m angry and emotional and they asked for this.