Author: Wendy Richards
Email: wendy@lcfanfic.com
Rated: PG
I stand at the newly-covered grave, strangely calm now where, earlier, the tears were uncontrollable. I can still see in my mind the polished coffin being lowered into the gaping mouth of the soil, hear Lucy’s noisy sobs and, out of the corner of my eye, see Daddy wiping his eyes surreptitiously.
It was a lovely funeral. I was amazed – and touched – at how many people came. Co-workers from the Planet, of course; that was no surprise. And Clark’s parents – he flew out to Smallville to bring them here. Some of Daddy’s friends, and Lucy’s latest boyfriend. But also there were people who knew Mother years ago, people she used to work with at the hospital, old neighbours, old friends. People who knew her long ago, before Daddy discovered affairs and Mother discovered the bottle.
Death is so final. You know, I’ve heard that saying so many times. It’s a cliché, of course, and like any cliché it loses its meaning through repetition. And yet suddenly there’ll be a moment where it makes total sense. It makes sense now. Death is final. You’re dead, Mother, and there’s so much I can never say to you now. There is so much left unresolved. So many things we never talked about; so much we never did together.
The graveyard is so peaceful now. The sun is setting and shadows are gliding across the grass, painting spider-pictures on the nearby tombstones. I glance around curiously, reading names and dates; a beloved husband and father here, an entire family there. A much-missed daughter, taken far too soon; I feel a twisting in my stomach when I work out that she was only 30. *I* am 31.
How fragile life is! And yet I should know that. How many narrow escapes have I had over the years? Clark says that, if he weren’t Superman, his hair would be completely white by now. Perry’s joked that before I came to work at the Planet he hadn’t a single grey hair. But, somehow, it’s different when it’s other people. I just never expected to be attending my own mother’s funeral. Not now. Not yet. Not until I was older – much older.
Mother, you were only 57! That’s far too young…
Far too young to have given up on life. Far too young to have resorted to the bottom of a bottle for the comfort you should have found in your friends. Your family. Your husband.
Okay, Daddy bears a share of the blame. We all know that, most of all him. This has hit him hard and he’s struggling with a lot of guilt. But he’s not the only one. Lucy and I, we never understood. We judged. We criticised. We tried to stop you drinking; we never tried to understand why you drank. We never offered the support you must have wanted.
But you never asked for it either, did you? You put on a public face, a façade that no-one could crack. You behaved as if a personal question – how are you? are you feeling okay today? Do you need anything – was an affront. You seemed unapproachable. Do you have any idea how many times I would have loved a hug? To be held tight and told that everything was okay, even when it wasn’t. To be told… that you loved me.
I guess you never get too old to want your mom to say she loves you.
People tell me that I was aloof, too. That I wasn’t easy to get close to, to confide in, to share things with. Did you think that, Mother? Did you think that I’d reject you if you tried to share affection with me? If you did, that’s only what you taught me.
That’s cruel. Clark would tell me off for that. And yet it’s what I feel. Sometimes, at least. Well, I felt it all the time when you were alive, Mother. Did you ever realise that? I’m sure you knew that most of the time I called you out of obligation. I went to see you more from duty than from love. Clark’s mother has been closer to me than you ever have. I know you resented that. But, you know, part of me did too. You should have been my mom. You should have been the person I went to when I needed comfort. Advice. Worldly wisdom. And hugs. But you never were.
Isn’t that selfish of me, though, Mother? As the minister was reading the funeral service earlier, I found myself asking who was there for you. Who was ever there for you, Mother? If things had been different, would the vodka bottle have been so appealing?
Yet I know better. I’ve done lots of stories on alcoholism. I could repeat the manuals in my sleep. There’s no standard pattern of an alcoholic. There’s no `typical’ reason why someone drinks. And ultimately the only person responsible is the alcoholic. You can’t take control of their life for them. You can’t stop them drinking. The only person who can stop her drinking is herself. And if she doesn’t want to, for whatever reason, she won’t do it. You can hide the bottles, you can watch her every hour of every day, you can tell her all the reasons why she should never drink again. But if she doesn’t want to give up, she’ll find a way. And you always found ways, Mother, didn’t you? Even in the last six months, when the doctors had told you that if you didn’t give up drinking you’d better write your will. You were so sick that Lucy moved in with you, and Daddy came to see you every day. You hardly ever left the house. Yet on the day you were rushed to hospital again, so yellow-skinned and swollen with fluids you were barely recognisable, we found beer-bottles and a half-empty gin bottle hidden under the blankets in the spare-room closet.
How did you get them, Mother? Not that it matters now, I suppose. You got them, and that’s all that matters.
Cirrhosis. Such a horrible word, and such a horrible way to die.
Those last days at the hospital are engraved on my memory for ever. You were asleep, or unconscious, or drugged out of your mind – I don’t know which. We were all talking to you, holding your hand, stroking your face, but we had no idea if you knew we were there or not. And the worst thing about it is that you didn’t look like my mom. When I came into intensive care that morning, a few hours after you’d been brought in, I thought the nurse had taken me to the wrong bed. I was about to protest, to tell her to find my mother, when I recognised your ring. And I sobbed aloud. Clark just held me, I don’t know how long for, until I was able to go over to you.
Clark’s been wonderful, Mother. I know you were never really happy that I married him – you used to hint that I could do so much better. If you only knew! I wonder, if you’d known who your son-in-law really is, whether you’d have liked him more? But then I’d have hated that. I wanted you to love Clark for the kind, decent, loving, gentle and wonderful man he is. Not for that little part of him which makes him different, which makes the world admire him. I couldn’t have got through the last week without Clark. And I know Daddy and Lucy feel the same way.
He knows how I feel. He knows I’m here talking to you now, and he’s encouraged me to tell you everything that’s on my mind – not just the good parts, but the bad ones too. And the regrets I have, and probably will have for the rest of my life.
Why did you have to leave me so soon, Mother? Why like this, too? Did you really prefer the brief pleasure alcohol gave you to the real, lasting joy you could have had from your family? Not just your two daughters, and your son-in-law, but a grandchild, too. Yes, Mother, Clark and I are going to have a baby. We tried to tell you, you know, but you were too sick in the last couple of months to listen. We hoped it would give you something to live for, a reason to want to get better.
But then, you always said you never wanted to be a grandmother. Maybe you meant it, too. How can I ever know whether that’s true or not? You didn’t live long enough to let me find out.
Yet I’ve been finding out a lot of things since you died, Mother. Lucy and I started clearing out your clothes and jewellery yesterday – a horrible, painful task, but so necessary. Martha offered to help, but I was amazed to discover that I needed to do it myself. I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s the last thing I can do for you now, and I regret so much that I obviously didn’t do enough for you while you were alive. Maybe because there are times when I feel I never knew you at all, and I felt that going through your things might help me to get to know you. I’m not sure.
Whatever the reason, I was right. I did get to know more about you than I ever had before. And I’m still reeling from the shock, and hurting inside that I never knew. That you never told me.
Why didn’t you ever tell me how proud you were of me? You only ever complained about how dangerous my job was, and how… well, unglamorous it could be. That I was so focused on my next headline, my next Kerth award, that I didn’t have time to find a husband. Or time to talk to you. Even when I found a husband you still didn’t seem to approve of my job.
I was sorting through your jewellery box, Mom. And I found them. I wish you’d known how much it would have mattered to me to know that you had them. When I realised what those bits of carefully-folded paper were, I cried.
Newspaper articles and photographs.
A copy of every Kerth-winning story I ever wrote. And newspaper photos of me collecting the awards.
Were you proud of me after all, Mother? Why could you never tell me? Don’t you know how much it would have meant to me? You knew Daddy never thought my career was good enough – he wanted me to be a doctor or a scientist. I gave up trying to please him a long time ago, because I knew I never could. But you… I never even tried to make you approve of me, because it seemed such an impossible task. If I’d known the truth, how different things could have been!
Why do we only find out these things when it’s too late?
What could I have done differently, Mother? What could I have said to make you realise that you could tell me these things? Or was there nothing I could have done? Were you just incapable of sharing your feelings with anything other than a bottle?
I’m getting bitter again. I’m supposed to be getting past the bitterness; at least, that’s what I told myself the day the doctors told us that there was nothing they could do for you. What’s done is done. And, after all, you were my mother. That’s something nothing can take away. And it hasn’t been all bad, has it? We had some good times. We had some special times. I just wish there’d been more of them.
It’s a beautiful evening now. The sun’s almost set and twilight hangs over the graveyard. If you have to die, there aren’t many better locations for a final resting-place. Daddy says when the earth’s settled we’ll put up a proper headstone. For now, though, I like the simplicity of the newly-turned earth, the small spray of flowers left over from the funeral and the little plaque.
It reads: “Ellen Lois Lane. 1942 – 1999.” Some day, yes, we will want to add to that. I don’t know what Daddy will want to write, but Lucy and I will put `Beloved mother.’ Because you were, you know. Even when it was hard. Even when you exasperated us. Even when you were hard to love – even when we thought we hated you, we still loved you.
We will always love you, even among all the regrets and the things left unsaid.
Clark’s coming to get me now, Mother. It’s time to go. But I’ll be back from time to time to visit and to talk to you. Because, you know, maybe it’s not too late to say all the things which need to be said. Maybe it’s not too late to forgive and to accept, if not to forget.
I bend and straighten the flowers, pulling out dead stems and rearranging the rest. With a tissue already damp from too many tears, I wipe the leftover raindrops from the plaque. And then, as Clark places his hand on my shoulder, I straighten and allow him to lead me away.
For EER 1942-2005