Little did I know the shocking reality I was about to discover that grim day when I joined the gathering of mourners to say goodbye to my mother at her funeral.
Little did I know that my mother was living a double life as a cult leader, orchestrating a unique blend of Judaism, devotion to Jesus, and her own self-proclaimed divinity, all hidden from my knowledge.
She and her husband held secret meetings on their property, in a triple mobile home.
Affectionately known as “Mom” to her devoted followers, in her role as their spiritual guide she dictated every aspect of their lives – from choosing their spouses to determining their career paths and even choosing the names they would go by.
Such was her influence that she was revered as a modern-day Solomon in Drag, a mysterious figure in the Deep South.
I could feel the excitement and skepticism in the triple row’s crowded interior. Because it was believed that I was the reincarnation of my mother and that I could reprise her role at any time, I was the center of attention.
The parish priest presided over them from a beautiful, ornately carved chair on the platform in front, called “Daddy” by the faithful. The pastor was my mother’s husband. He raised his voice, and matched the words of my mother’s favorite hymn, a joyful dedication to Jesus, and the crowd began to sing.
After the ceremony, the audience gathered around me while my husband approached the coffee urn. A sympathetic middle-aged woman who supported my mother claimed that she would be pleased by my achievements in the workplace. Another person was waiting for an opportunity to talk to me.
She leaned over and grabbed my hands in a firm grip while a pleasant scent wafted from her hair.
She gripped my hands even tighter as she ignored my attempts to break free and said, “You hurt your mother deeply.” On Mother’s Day, she planned to visit her mother’s grave and tell her to condemn you, saying, “I curse you.” Our eyes met as I looked around the room for my friend and he made his way through the crowd to stand by my side.
I begged her, “Please release my hands,” but she held onto them tightly, her voice harsh. “Realize that these curses are the source of all your problems. She left through the triple wide doors.”
I remained stunned, speechless, and motionless. My husband and I went outside and got into our waiting car. A few weeks later, my brother contacted me about our mother’s will. The first sentence stated, “I have two natural born children; neither inherit from me.” Then she gave my brother some worthless pennies.
My mother was a great model with beautiful slim legs until she started leading a cult. Her seductive smile and halo of white hair drew many to her, but she kept them at a distance by hiding her true goals.
On the other hand, my pre-bite has won me prizes at science fairs, spelling bees, and even top student competitions. (In third grade, I said the girl in front of the line was shorter than me and sat down. But whenever my mother looked in the mirror, she was always fixated on herself.
But there was only one way to get her attention. It happened in the middle of a heated bathroom argument when I was a teenager. Forgetting her sweet southern appeal, she screamed, “You’re a child of the devil!” I promise you that you will never know love like your brother.
As I pushed her, she lost her balance and fell into the tub as a result of my anger. We avoided bringing up the subject again because we were so ashamed.
When I was forty, communication with my mother stopped. I heard her voice for the first time in sixteen years when my brother finally made contact. She was on the brink of death due to the terrible toll her dementia took on her. I tried not to feel indignant at the various manifestations of myself and worried if I would ever come into contact with her again.
My brother greeted everyone with a “hello”.
Let me get your mother, please.
Her voice, still spidery but unmistakably hers, began to ring as the phone changed hands. My throat started to tighten as I listened.
I could hear her wheezing on the other end along with her saying, “Mommy.” I want to thank you for having me as your mother and wish you a safe journey wherever it takes you.
I was shaking as I held the sheet of paper with my gratitude list. I wanted to make sure he understood what I said. I expressed my gratitude to my mother for adding hand-drawn pictures to my lunch box as a child, and also for the invaluable gift of reading, which often saved my life.
I also complimented her on her penchant for talking to people she met while shopping at Piggly Wiggly. There was a strange silence between the two of us when I finished.
I finally confessed my affection for my mom.
When my mother first arrived, it looked like she had just risen from the depths of the sea.
The day after Mother’s Day, my mom died.
It served as a bridge between us until her demise; after that, I ended our contact. For some reason, when we talked on the phone, I was taken back to the orange Velor couch I moved to the other coast with soon after school. I remembered my childhood while sitting on the couch.
In one of these calls, she exclaimed, “I met the most amazing man!” She spoke clearly and in a spiraling motion that was easy to understand.
I was not aware of this before. She and my father broke up less than six months ago.
She spoke directly into my ear and her honeyed accent made me cringe. She lost her orthodox Jewish upbringing in New Jersey and gradually transformed into a Southern belle when we moved to Georgia.
The first step was to choose a bombastic blonde hair color over the traditional northeastern black and then the accent. She was very skilled at taking on multiple personalities between men.
Her voice captivated me, taking on a rich falsetto as my stomach clenched. Oh my god, he is so beautiful. She complained, “He’s tall and has exceptionally good hand-eye coordination. She didn’t feel romantically attracted to me. I wonder why she told me that.”
I ended the call early, worried about how I would explain this confusing conversation to my husband when he got home.
What the hell are you talking about Mom? I asked, running my fingertips over the smooth surface of the orange velour couch arm.
She described how this figure descended from the ceiling into her bedroom. He had long brown hair that was curled and was dressed in a white robe with a belt. His intensely loving look at her had an effect on her.
“It was Jesus,” she continued as if she had already told me.
Suddenly there were many questions.
I stopped asking her about the story of the Jewish Southern Belle from New Jersey who found Jesus in her bedroom. But I wonder if someone like Hitler, if he died and went to live with Jesus, would go to heaven.
She answered in a voice filled with terror, “Yes.” My stomach tightened.
As I walked through the kitchen, I worried that the phone would break and wondered if a decent rabbi who rejects Jesus would go to hell.
My mother’s answer was shockingly positive, a revelation that left me confused and shaken.
I never expected that she would meet true Christians who would give her the admiration and praise she had always sought—praise that had eluded her in relation to me, but quickly emerged in the company of her newfound believers.
As Mother’s Day approached again, I couldn’t help but wonder at her devoted disciple, the one who cursed me. Would they kneel beside my mother’s grave and offer a bouquet of flowers as a tribute? And that their cries of devotion would haunt my dreams?
The weight of their curse weighed heavily on me and I couldn’t help but wonder what my mother could have said or done to deserve such condemnation. In Jewish tradition, it is customary to place a stone on a tombstone as a symbol of enduring love that transcends time, in stark contrast to fading roses.
Through it all, I realized that despite her faults and mysterious decisions, my mother will always have a unique place in my heart. Perhaps it is this unwavering bond that has rendered the curses of her followers unnecessary. The harshest curse of all seems to be that a shattered fragment of my mother’s love will forever remain within me, akin to a tombstone or the presence of a lingering ghost.