Prayers to Broken Stones Read Online Free Page B

I peeked through the crack in the bedroom door before the men from the funeral home came to take her body away—but her face was flushed and healthy, almost sunburned.
    When they stepped onto the front stoop, I could see that she was wearing a lot of makeup. Mother never wore makeup. The two men also had pink cheeks. All three of them had the same smile.
    When they came into the house, I think we all took a step back—except for Father. He put his hands on Mother’s arms, looked at her a long time, and kissed her on the cheek. I don’t think she kissed him back. Her smile did not change. Tears were running down Father’s face. I felt embarrassed.
    The Resurrectionists were saying something. Father and Aunt Helen nodded. Mother just stood there, still smiling slightly, and looked politely at the yellow-shirted man as he spoke and joked and patted Father on the back. Then it was our turn to hug Mother. Aunt Helen moved Simon forward, and I was still hanging onto Simon’s hand. He kissed her on the cheek and quickly moved back to Father’s side. I threw my arms around her neck and kissed her on the lips. I had
missed
her.
    Her skin wasn’t cold. It was just
different.
    She was looking right at me. Baxter, our German shepherd, began to whine and scratch at the back door.
    Father took the Resurrectionists into the study. We heard snatches of conversation down the hall.
    “… if you think of it as a stroke …”
    “How long will she …”
    “You understand the tithing is necessary because of the expenses of monthly care and …”
    The women relatives stood in a circle around Mother. There was an awkward moment until they realized thatMother did not speak. Aunt Helen reached her hand out and touched her sister’s cheek. Mother smiled and smiled.
    Then Father was back and his voice was loud and hearty. He explained how similar it was to a light stroke—did we remember Uncle Richard? Meanwhile, Father kissed people repeatedly and thanked everyone.
    The Resurrectionists left with smiles and signed papers. The remaining relatives began to leave soon after that. Father saw them down the walk, smiling and shaking their hands.
    “Think of it as though she’s been ill but has recovered,” said Father. “Think of her as home from the hospital.”
    Aunt Helen was the last to leave. She sat next to Mother for a long time, speaking softly and searching Mother’s face for a response. After a while Aunt Helen began to cry.
    “Think of it as if she’s recovered from an illness,” said Father as he walked her to her car. “Think of her as home from the hospital.”
    Aunt Helen nodded, still crying, and left. I think she knew what Simon and I knew. Mother was not home from the hospital. She was home from the grave.
    The night was long. Several times I thought I heard the soft slap of Mother’s slippers on the hallway floor and my breathing stopped, waiting for the door to open. But it didn’t. The moonlight lay across my legs and exposed a patch of wallpaper next to the dresser. The flower pattern looked like the face of a great, sad beast. Just before dawn, Simon leaned across from his bed and whispered, “Go to sleep, stupid.” And so I did.
    For the first week, Father slept with Mother in the same room where they had always slept. In the morning his face would sag and he would snap at us while we ate our cereal. Then he moved to his study and slept on the old divan in there.

    The summer was very hot. No one would play with us, so Simon and I played together. Father had only morning classes at the University. Mother moved around the house and watered the plants a lot. Once Simon and I saw her watering a plant that had died and been removed while she was at the hospital in April. The water ran across the top of the cabinet and dripped on the floor. Mother did not notice.
    When Mother did go outside, the forest preserve behind our house seemed to draw her in. Perhaps it was the darkness. Simon and I used to enjoy