I did learn one thing. If I’m still here August 29, I’ll start a new to-do list with this as my first resolution: Be in the moment. As Joe wrote on my list a long time ago, Breathe in. Breathe out.
And if I don’t live on? I worry about the death being painful, but Dr. Edelman said it would be peaceful. Maybe no different from walking from one room into another. In many ways, I’ve been crossing new thresholds already, letting go of everything that didn’t work for me, which means I’m getting healthier. How ironic is that? And the fact that now I see what life could be yet won’t be here to live it creates a deep anger. It looks like I’ve cheated myself once more.
* * *
Joe never did anything wrong in our marriage. The only thing I couldn’t forgive him for was that he wanted to go on living after Rose died, and I didn’t. I needed to grieve. He did, too, but he always said that Rose would have wanted us to go on with life, to enjoy it the way she did. She wouldn’t want us to be stuck in our grief, and so he moved on. And I couldn’t forgive him for that. How could he keep going when the world had stopped?
The thing about grief is that you can’t turn it off—or even turn it down. It’s like a flame that just keeps burning, a slow and corrosive anger at yourself and God and nature itself. I didn’t grow any flowers for two years after she died. It seemed irrelevant to me. Everything did, including my marriage. So I’ve never really blamed Joe for leaving. How could he live with a person who was dead inside?
* * *
After dinner tonight, Joe helped me wash the dishes. We did them by hand, the way we used to. Then we took our iced tea out to the porch and sat on the swing, where a bit of a breeze rustled the crisp leaves on the trees.
“You’ve got cats?” Joe said, noticing the bowl of food.
“A barn cat and two of her kittens,” I said. “There were four, but I think coyotes got the other two.”
“I’m sorry,” Joe said. “Have you tried calling them in your mind? You always had that connection with nature. Why don’t you try it?”
There he was again, reminding me of parts of myself that I’d dismissed long ago, that have been so covered up by guilt and regret that I’ve forgotten my own essential nature.
He looked out over the hills and said, “I know you were angry at me for not grieving the way you were grieving. I can see now that you thought I didn’t care as much as you did, that I didn’t miss Rose as much. That wasn’t true, but I just didn’t know how to show it without losing my mind.”
I took in a big breath. This sounded honest and right.
“I was scared, Meg. I was afraid that if I felt anything, my whole world would spin out of control. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, trying to go on. I can see now how that must have looked to you. But losing Rose, and then losing you—life hasn’t been the same since. There just hasn’t been any joy in it for me.”
I sat still, stunned. He was describing the same thing I’ve felt.
“I just wanted to see you and tell you I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry about anything,” I said. “I pushed you away.” I tensed my body, willing myself to stay under control, when I just wanted to put my head on his shoulder and weep for all the years I’d missed him, and for the decision I’d made. How could I tell him I’d be gone in four days? And how do I know whether that’s even true?
We sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun sink in the sky. The crickets started chirping, a few lightning bugs came out, and the haze over the hills became thicker, blurring the sun.
“Well,” he said, “I guess I’d better be going. The conference starts early in the morning.”
My heart hurt to think of him leaving and the house being empty again.
“Do you mind if I call you tomorrow?” he said. “I didn’t get anything fixed for you tonight.... Maybe you’ll give me another chance?”
I remembered my appointment with Father David. “How about Friday?” I said. “I’m making a little day trip tomorrow.”
He smiled and nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Day after tomorrow then.”
“Just bring steaks next time,” I said.
“That’s a deal,” he said. He stood up, offered me his hand, and I got up and walked with him into the kitchen and put the glasses in the sink. “It’s good seeing you, Joe,” I said.
“You too, Meg,” he said, and kissed me on the cheek. I watched him drive away, the dust from the road gathering in a cloud behind him. For just a moment, I forgot the deadline looming ahead of me and, for the first time in years, felt what could only be described as joy.
DAY SEVENTEEN
I wrapped a new rubber band around the bundle of letters I’d written at the monastery after Rose died. I slid them into a big envelope, then set them on the passenger seat next to me. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with them when I got to the monastery, or what I’d say to Father David, but something compelled me to take them along. I tucked a sandwich in a bag to eat along the way and set out.
As I got closer, off the main highway and onto the gravel road leading back to the monastery, I felt prickly, as though all the pain of sixteen years ago had come back and crawled under my skin. The monastery was lovely, really, built of limestone and sitting on top of a hill, surrounded by farm fields. But it looked threatening, like someone who knew the worst part of who I was. I had to force myself to park the car and walk inside rather than turning around and driving back home.
Funny what deadlines will make you do.
I walked into the foyer and saw the chapel off to the left. I remembered it well. The place where I sat and heard other grieving people open up their hearts and spill their pain all over us. I didn’t want to be that broken or needy, but I was.
A priest with thinning brown hair and glasses stood behind the reception desk. His plain white robe matched the simplicity of the crucifix that hung on the wall behind him.
“I’m Father David,” he said. “Are you Meg?”
I nodded and stuck out my hand, unsure how to greet a priest. He took my hand in both of his and said, “I’m glad you’ve come. Let’s find a place where we can sit in private.”
He led me down the beige halls to a small room with a big oak table and several swivel chairs. I remembered that the priests held twelve-step recovery retreats here and wondered how many people had sat in these chairs to make amends of their own.
“Now,” he said, “how can I help you?”
I laid the envelope on the table as if it were a bomb about to explode.
“Well,” I said, “as I mentioned on the phone, I came here for a grief retreat sixteen years ago. My ten-year-old daughter had died recently, and I was very angry.”
Father David nodded slightly, encouraging me to go on.
“Father Xavier suggested that I write letters to God, expressing my pain. I did, and I’ve never looked at them again before now. I feel a need to talk about what’s in them. I think maybe if I do, something in me will be healed. I don’t know. I hope so.”
“I hope so, too,” Father David said. “I’m happy to be a witness for you.”
He moved a box of tissues closer to me on the table. I could feel the tears coming already, like a tide I couldn’t stop. How could there still be this much pain after all these years?
“Would you be willing to read the letters to me?” he asked.
“Read them?” I said, taken by surprise. “Out loud?” The thought of talking about them at all challenged me enough. But to say the words in those letters in this room, in front of this stranger . . . I might as well stand naked and beat myself with a stick.
“Yes,” he said. “I know it may be painful, but reading the letters will bring you face-to-face with them. That’s the best way for healing to take place.”
I sat and stared at the letters, waiting for the bomb to explode. I had given them all my power. I’d poured myself into them and then locked them up in the back of the closet all those years ago. Father David was
right. I had to face them.
I nodded, surrendering to the pain. He made me feel safe. I trusted his guidance. Ironic, really, considering that the same kind of trust had led me to write the letters in the first place.
“May I say a prayer before you read the letters?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Although I want you to know that I’m not Catholic. I’m not anything, really. I hope that’s okay. ”
“Certainly,” he said. “You’re a child of God. We are all part of His family.”
He closed his eyes and said, “Heavenly Father, we ask for Your blessings on Meg as she seeks to restore her relationship with You. Please be with us both in this sacred time of healing. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” He made the sign of the cross and opened his eyes.
“Now,” he said, “whenever you’re ready.”
I took a tissue from the box and set it in my lap, then slowly slid the letters out of the envelope. I unfolded the first one, took a deep breath, and began to read.
“Dear God,” I read. “I am destroyed. My little girl is gone, and You have given me no comfort of any kind. How could You let this happen? How could You watch while, in one moment, I lost the most precious thing in the world? How could You cut short a life with so much beauty and potential? How could You rob Rose and all of us of the life we could have had? Should have had.
“We did nothing wrong. Nothing to deserve this. And now it’s irreparable. You’ve pulled up everything beautiful and blooming by the roots and thrown it on the ground as if You don’t care. You never cared.
“You took my father when I was a child, and now You’ve taken my child.
“‘ The Lord is my shepherd ; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.’ You talked about the peace which passeth all understanding, and I believed You.
“I didn’t know until now that God is a vicious liar.”
I stopped and looked at Father David, wondering if I’d crossed a line.
He showed no judgment or condemnation. “Go on,” he said calmly. “This takes great courage.”
I continued reading, stopping every minute or two to blow my nose and wipe my eyes, wishing I felt brave. Instead I felt defiant and destroyed all over again. Every single bit of pain resurfaced within me.
The pain had been dormant. I’d made it dormant. But like an invasive plant, it had taken over more of me than I’d realized. It put down deep roots underground and spread, just waiting for the chance to assert itself and take over.
How could I not have healed at all in these sixteen years? I remembered the woman in the grief group that I hadn’t wanted to be. At least she’d admitted that the wound hadn’t healed, that it was still as raw and gaping and fresh as ever.
I’d pretended all these years. Held it in, pushed Joe away, poured myself into Mama, and lost myself right along with her. No wonder I’d taken the pearls. There was nothing to kill.
I’d forgotten how hateful the letters were. Like pure venom. Anger directed at everyone, but mostly against myself. When I came to the words I’d forgotten I’d written, the ones I’ve never said out loud to anyone, I could feel the acid in my mouth as I read them.
But as I read, I felt some glimmer in me coming back, as though a flame that had been lying in embers all these years received a puff of oxygen and sprang to life again. I read for most of an hour, stopping frequently to sit and weep.
Father David never changed his demeanor. Stoic, but kind. Simply witnessing. He gave me a human form for God so I could have my say and feel heard at last. He allowed me to pull up all the invasive weeds by the roots and get them outside of me, putting an end to their destructive power.
Finally I finished the last letter. I blew my nose again and looked at Father David, my eyes red and throbbing.
“You are very brave,” he said simply. And then he said something unexpected.
“Would you like to burn the letters?”
I felt a little leap in my heart, as though that long-ignored flame received another puff of air.
“Yes, please,” I said.
* * *
Father David led me outside behind the monastery to a large outdoor fireplace built from the same limestone as the building. I stood and looked around, taking in the fragrance of freshly cut grass and the majesty of evergreen trees, their rich color silhouetted against the blue sky.
In the distance, two monks with baskets gathered produce from neat vegetable gardens. Even though they were far away, I could see the deep reds and greens of the tomatoes and zucchini, and I could feel the respect the men had for their harvest. It seemed as though the drought had affected everything in the state but this single patch of land.
“We’ll keep the fire small,” Father David said, bringing my attention back to the letters. “No more than we need.” He placed some kindling in the fireplace and lit it with a match.
“Add the letters carefully,” he said. I breathed deeply, trying to steady myself. Then I took them one by one, unfolded them again, and placed them on the pyre of kindling.
Father David and I were silent as I added each letter, placing it solemnly, like flowers on a grave. And when all of the letters were on the fire, we stood in silence for several more minutes.
I watched the edges of the paper crinkle and blacken and curl as the words melted into the paper and disappeared. Bits of ash floated into the air, carrying my anger and bitterness into the heat of the day.
I felt exhausted but cleansed. It reminded me of my confirmation when I was little, a ceremony that had little meaning for me at the time, but did make me feel as if something new had happened. I remember when the pastor touched me on the head. I felt a bolt of energy travel down my spine and settle in my gut, as though a seed had been planted.
Reading and burning the letters made me feel that finally, maybe, that seed could grow.
Three more days. Or maybe years. How much time did that seed need? How much time would it have?
Father David looked at me for a sign, and I nodded. He poured water from a coffee can on the fire until the sizzling stopped, and all was quiet.
“May I be of more help?” he asked as we walked back to the reception area. I looked toward the sanctuary and saw candles burning there.
“Is it all right if I take a moment?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he said. We walked into the limestone room that had been so forbidding years ago. Light flooded through the rows of arched windows, glancing off the tile floor and polished pews. I made my way to a simple table of votives and looked up at the statue of Jesus. Everything seemed new to me. Had I seen any of this beauty sixteen years ago?
I lit a candle for Mama, and then one for Rose, feeling that seed in me expand and grow.
“Would you like to light a candle for your father, too?” Father David asked.
“For God?” I said, curious.
“No.” He smiled. “For your earthly father.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, embarrassed that I would forget about Daddy.
I felt a peace settle over me as I lit a third votive, then stood in silence, asking for healing of my body and soul, not even knowing what that meant. When I opened my eyes, I saw a shaft of sunlight streaming through one of the high windows.
Father David stood patiently a few feet away, respecting my privacy and the intimacy of the moment. I hadn’t been sure about coming here, but now I wasn’t ready to leave. If I could receive so much peace from facing the letters, maybe I needed to face the pearls, as well.
“Father David,” I said, lifting my face to feel the warmth of the sun, “do you have a few more minutes? There’s something else I’d like to talk about.”
DAY EIGHTEEN
Telling Father David about the pearls yesterday felt surprisingly easy after reading him the letters. It was like talking about someone else without any guilt or judgment. Just reporting what I’d done with no apology. I felt liberated, almost d
etached. I’ve always reserved that kind of compassion for others, not for myself.
Father David didn’t condemn me. He didn’t really even comment. No look of shock in his eyes. I don’t know if he trained to be nonreactive or if he comes by it naturally. It’s as though he’s risen above all the things we judge ourselves and one another for, as though he’s seeing something I can’t.
“There are times when I’ve felt sinful,” I told him. We sat in one of the pews, near the candles I’d lit. “Suicide is a sin, isn’t it?” I asked. “But this doesn’t feel like suicide. And, honestly, I don’t even know what will happen. The pearls may not work at all. I was just desperate and lonely. I can see now how lonely I was.”
The sun cast long rays of light through the windows, illuminating the milky creaminess of the limestone. I felt I could see every grain of sand in them, every crevice and mark of stress, every ancient scar, all creating something beautiful and whole.
He leaned toward me and put his hand on my shoulder. I knew he couldn’t approve of my decision to take the pearls, but I sensed no disapproval. In fact, it seemed that he understood. That maybe he knew what loneliness was. Maybe he, too, had longed to go Home.
“You are absolved of any guilt,” he said. “Whatever happens, know that you may live in peace.”
That seed planted in me during my confirmation years ago broke open and sprouted, as though something new and free had finally taken root within me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking one more look around the sanctuary and the candles I’d lit, still burning strong.
At the front of the sanctuary, several monks filed in and took places at the organ and along the sides of the room.
“Afternoon prayers,” Father David said. “You’re welcome to stay and listen.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, remembering the medieval-sounding chants from the grief retreat years ago. “I’d better be going, but I thank you for everything.”
Father David walked with me to the front door and said good-bye, and the swelling harmony of the monks and the organ music accompanied me all the way to my car.
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