Agatha's Song

The lines etched into Agatha’s face reminded her of the Grand Canyon. God, was she old, now. Not even 55 yet, and she was already ancient, like the Canyon. Her father was different, though. Yes, he was the reason she was out here, but he wasn’t like her. He had a good 85 years in him, but he wasn’t ancient like her. The thought made Agatha laugh. Even though he had been around for so long, Agatha’s father was even more of a child than she had been when she was a child.

Yes, it seemed that now Agatha was—had to be—the grownup. Agatha pondered this fact as she passively examined her face in the mirror in front of her. The harsh fluorescent lights did her no favors. That was the trouble with public bathrooms: their lights were always unfriendly, harsh. They were not the lights that made you feel good about yourself. They were not the tree lights that greeted children walking down the stairs on Christmas morning. They were not the warm glow of a fireplace, or the friendly nightlight in the dark. They were blunt, honest, as though God Himself was shining an interrogation light on Agatha. She had a thought, and smiled bitterly at it: And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

“Yeah,” Agatha muttered to herself. “Or the truth shall make you ugly.” Agatha thought about cracking a smile at her joke, but did not. The bathroom stayed silent, observing quietly.

Suddenly, almost without any thought, Agatha turned on the tap and splashed water on her face. The cold shocked her, and she shivered as her wandering mind was jolted back to the present. Agatha breathed quietly, water dripping from the laugh lines around her mouth, the lines that made her feel like she was as old as her father. She stared at the grey of her irises for a few seconds, then snatched a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped her face before leaving, head down.
The funeral parlor felt wrongly empty as Agatha walked through the bathroom door and into the lobby. The clack of her high heels echoed like the knelling of church bells as she walked to the center of the lobby, looking for her family. Agatha craned her head, as if trying to look over a nonexistent crowd, with some urgency until she spotted the dark navy of her mother’s dress, contrasted by the lily-white of her hair. She appeared to be orchestrating the movement of chairs by her brothers. Agatha sighed shortly and walked swiftly over to her mother.

“Mom,” she said, repeating almost perfectly her earlier sigh. “What are you doing?”

Agatha’s mother turned and smiled placidly at her daughter. “Just helping your brothers with these chairs. Lord knows what they’d do without me.”

One of Agatha’s brothers, Dave, snorted and grinned condescendingly. “Whatever you say, ma.”

“Don’t you want to start getting ready for the visitors?” Agatha asked with the tone of half-suggestion, half-order, which her mother picked up immediately, and let loose a tiny, irritated tsk.

“The visitors aren’t due for at least another hour and a half, or so. Besides, what do you think we’re doing right now?”

Agatha smiled weakly, and responded, a strained sound coming from her voice as she began to speak. “You know what I mean, mom. Why don’t we fix ourselves up a bit, get gussied up? Dave and Seth’ll be fine.”

Her mother’s eyes lit up like sapphires, matching Agatha’s previous restrained frustration and then some. “What? Aren’t I ‘gussied up’ enough?”

Agatha began to repeat her tried and true line. “You know what-“

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Agatha’s mother interrupted curtly, a grimace creeping over her face. Then, after a moment, to the two men moving chairs. “I’m going to go and clean up with Agatha. The chairs are fine where they are.”
Agatha strained a smile as she beckoned her mother to come with her as they walked together back to the women’s bathroom.

*

Back under the cold and exposing bathroom lights, the two women stood in front of the long mirror just above the row of sinks. The countertop was a strong black with white faux marbling that reflected the lights back up at Agatha and her mother just as strongly as the lights shining directly on them. Both women stared at the two reflections in the mirror, as though expecting one or the other to do something.

“You’re not cleaning up?” Agatha asked, observing more than inquiring.

“No,” answered her mother. “You aren’t, either,” she said, her observation plain and direct.

“No. Guess I’m not,” Agatha replied ambivalently.

Agatha’s mother peered over at Agatha’s reflection in the mirror. “You look tired.”

Agatha let out a short laugh, at last genuine. “What gave it away?” she asked with a smirk, accentuating the laugh lines she had previously been examining.

But Agatha’s mother did not smirk back. A strand of loose hair hung down in front of one of her eyes, casting a shadow across her face that made her look just the opposite, deadly serious. “You know, when I was your age, I had already raised you, and your two brothers. You were already 30. And I have to say, I don’t remember wearing stress like you do.”

Agatha let out a soft chuckle, not exactly disdainful, but stubbornly scorned. “Thanks, mom.”

Agatha’s mother sighed, looking at Agatha with silent concern, and then looked down and grabbed her purse, as though looking for something, nervousness emanating from her fingertips like electricity. She continued to talk. “No, I mean it. I’m concerned, Agatha. Your father and I have always been concerned about you. Really. He always said you worked too hard for your own health. You’ve always been such a pretty girl, and a beautiful woman. But you walk around with the weight of the world on your shoulders. It’s sad to see on your face.”

Agatha, who had been resting with her palms on the edge of the counter, allowed her eyes to flit over directly toward her mother before she could notice, turning back almost immediately. “I’m okay. Really.”

“Are you sure?” asked Agatha’s mother, looking up, herself, at Agatha.

“Yes. You know, I am 55.”

“Yes. You know, you are my daughter.”

At last, Agatha and her mother locked eyes directly. Agatha could feel her eyes beginning to wet, but blinked the feeling away. She noticed that her mother’s eyes were slightly red, and slightly puffy. How long have they been like that? Agatha asked herself. Were her eyes like this the whole time? I wouldn’t blame her, Agatha thought idly. I mean, it was her...

Agatha’s thoughts trailed off, as they usually did most of the time. She blinked again, and then said simply, “I know,”
unaware that her efforts to prevent any tears escaping had failed.

Her mother gave an attempt at a smile, and, this time giving the orders, said, “Come on. Mr. Caron offered to let us go back into the garden area and pick some flowers to put at the entrance. Help me pick out what kind to take.”

Agatha followed her mother without a word.

*

“What do you think? Daisies?”

“Hmm?”

“Should we put out daisies or not, Agatha? These look nice.”

Agatha let a playful grimace cross over her face. “I don’t know. Seems kind of cliché. Dad never really was into the clichés.”

Agatha’s mother looked at her with the suggestion of reproach. “Agatha, I was married to him for 60 years. I think I know
what he would like put out.”

“Then why ask me?” Agatha asked, honestly curious.

Her mother stared blankly at her for a second, taking in the question. “Well…that’s a good question. Why would I ask you? You were never really that close to your father, anyway: running off as soon as you turned 18 all the way across the country, to Arizona, or wherever.”

“Mom. He was my father.”

Agatha’s mother sighed quietly. “I know. I know. So, you really don’t think daisies are a good idea?”

Agatha shrugged. “It’s just…kind of a boring flower, don’t you think? I mean, especially for dad. He wasn’t a boring person.”

A brilliantly white smile flashed across her mother’s face, a small laugh coming from somewhere deep within her throat.
“Ha. If your father was anything, he certainly wasn’t boring, that’s for sure. Hmm. Maybe you’re right. Daisies are kind of boring, aren’t they? Maybe something…more exciting? Tulips?”

Agatha shook her head. “That’s a bit too…off. I don’t know. Doesn’t really seem like a bold flower, now. Not boring exactly, but it doesn’t have enough pizazz, wouldn’t you say?”

Her mother looked at her sternly, in a way that she hadn’t for at least 35 years. A look that belonged to the ages. “Agatha, dear: do you already know what you want to put out?”

Agatha returned the customary sheepish look, a look that, too, had not appeared in at least a quarter of a century. “Maybe.”

Agatha’s mother flashed a triumphant look, as if to say, gotcha. “I knew it. You got that decisiveness from your father. Well, what type of flower do you want, then?”

A winning grin spread over Agatha’s face. “I was thinking the tiger lilies. A classic flower, but vibrant, bold, y’know?”

Agatha’s mother turned her head in the direction of the fiery orange flowers, and slowly walked toward them, Agatha in tow. As they neared, she whistled. “They are beautiful, aren’t they? Perfect for your dad.” Then, with a small groan, she began to bend down to pick the flowers.

Halfway down, Agatha saw her mother’s back begin to heave, and she heard the faint cries coming her mouth and the tears flowing from her eyes. She quickly walked over to her mother, gently putting her hands on her shoulders and guiding her back to an upright position.

By the time she had reached a standing position, Agatha’s mother had already stopped crying proper, and was now sniffling, and dabbing the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief from her purse. “You know,” she said between sniffles. “Your father loved you, so much, Aggie.”

Agatha smiled sadly. “I know, mom. I know,” she said as she drew her mother into an embrace. Agatha couldn’t remember a time when her mother had called her Aggie. But what she did remember, as she held her mother, was when her mother would rock her back and forth in an embrace whenever she would cry, no matter what age. And so, Agatha did the same. And as Agatha swayed back and forth with her mother, as if to some far-off, silent song, she couldn’t help but admire, the way the sun bounced off the tiger lilies, glowing almost like a fireplace, or perhaps a nightlight.