“Fuck you! I hate you! I wish you were dead!” she screamed and slammed the door.
She knew she was too old to be throwing such tantrums - she was twenty-six for heaven’s sake - but her mother could wind her up like no one else. And over the most trivial things. Though this was not trivial. At least not in Francine’s eyes. It was her mother in denial yet still wanting to run her life for her. As she had always wanted to ever since Francine was a little girl.
“Mother knows best dear listen to your mother I wouldn’t do that Francine if I were you look at me when I’m talking to you say thank you to Mrs Lefevre Francine no say it properly no those shoes don’t go with that skirt darling no you can’t no you can’t Francine you can’t and it’s no good stamping your feet you can’t have another biscuit a kitten a puppy stay over with Jolie’s family they’re not our kind of people take that look off your face don’t you swear at me you little bitch wash your mouth out where did you learnt to talk like that I’m so ashamed of you Francine you used to be such a nice little girl it’s that crowd you hang out with what time of the night do you call this that Angelique’s a bad influence I’m glad your father’s not alive to see this he’d be so ashamed look at you just look at you I can’t imagine where you get it from no no no I don’t believe that not for one moment how could you say such a thing about your own grandfather that’s disgusting get out of my sight Francine get out get out I‘m not listening I’m not listening I’m not listening don’t you scream at me I can’t stand this anymore look at me I’m a bundle of nerves you’ll be the death of me Francine you really will you’ve got me on so much medication O My God how can you say such things do I mean nothing to you I’m your mother Francine your mother where do you get such terrible ideas from are you on drugs or something are you Francine are you on drugs is that why you are out half the night hang out with all those losers is that why you never sleep properly failed your baccalaureate can’t keep a steady boyfriend a job for more than a few weeks is that why is it the drugs don’t start that again Francine I don’t believe a word of it I won’t listen speaking ill of the dead like that that’s my father you’re talking about that’s my father do you hear I won’t hear a word against him you foul minded little slut get out you slut get out get out.”
Francine went back to the squalor of her apartment and
drank a bottle of absinthe. She was roused from her stupor the next morning by
the police with the news that her mother had committed suicide.
I met Francine last week. She’s the new partner of an old girlfriend of mine. I could see the attraction. She’s a sexy woman. It’s fifteen years since Francine’s mother died. Even though we had all had a few drinks I was surprised that one of the first things Francine told me, virtually a stranger, was of her departing shots at her mother, “Fuck you! I hate you! I wish you were dead!” She knew, she said, that for the rest of her life she would carry the painful memory of those last words no matter how often, like some ancient mariner, she tried to exorcise the ghost by retelling the story.
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