Funeral with a View

by Schiariti, Matt

  “All right,” I sighed. “May as well. You’re going to find out sooner or later. But I’m warning you, Mom. It’s bad.”

  “How bad?” she said, her alarm seeping in my ear from miles away.

  “Really bad.”

  “Okay, Richard. I’m listening.”

  How was I going to tell her that her granddaughter wasn’t her granddaughter? Breaking the news to her hadn’t been so much as a blip on my radar, so consumed was I with my own depression.

  “Richard? Are you there?”

  “I’m here.” I took a deep breath. “This isn’t going to be easy for me to say, and I guarantee it’s not going to be easy for you to hear.”

  “Gooddamnit, Richard. Grow a set and be done with it. This cloak and dagger crap has already gotten old.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I laid it all out (read: ‘puked’ yet again), my voice lacking any inflection. I was too tired and too drained to dress my words in emotion. She listened in silence as I spun the entire story, and I started to wonder if she’d hung up out of disgust or disbelief.

  “Mom? Hello?”

  Beyond the threshold of cellular static I heard an unmistakable sound.

  Crying.

  “Told you so,” I whispered.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said thickly. “She’s not yours? Not my granddaughter?” She blew her nose. “Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick.”

  “You okay?”

  “You’re asking me if I’m okay?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Richard, my sweet, sweet, unlucky, pain in the ass Baby Boy. Are you okay?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I just don’t know. A big, big part of me misses that little girl so much it hurts. I mean, I helped raise her, right? How could I not have developed an attachment to her over the last five years?”

  “Don’t understate it, Richard. It’s more than just being attached to Celeste. You love her.”

  “I know it.”

  “And Catherine?”

  “If anger were a planet I’d be Jupiter. I am so damn furious with her,” I growled, gripping a wad of sheets into a ball. “For keeping it from me. For doing it in the first place. For who she did it with.”

  “But how do you feel about her?”

  “How do you think I feel? Betrayed! That’s how I feel.”

  “And I understand that. It’s completely natural, but please try to calm down.”

  “I am calm.”

  “No you’re not. You won’t be able to resolve anything if—”

  “Let’s make a deal,” I suggested. “I’ll be calmer if you stop telling me how to feel. How’s that sound?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Good.”

  “Sweetheart, I know you’re hurting. It’s awful. I can’t imagine how I’d react if I were in your shoes.”

  “Try wanting to go play in traffic.”

  “Richard,” she yelled. “That is not funny. Don’t joke about things like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  A beat passed, then, “Tell me something. Do you miss Catherine at all? Even though you’re staying over a … friend’s?”

  She thought I was up to no good. Not a bad assumption given the situation. Beth Franchitti is many things. Idiot isn’t one of them. I’d have jumped to the same conclusion.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I think it does.”

  I nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Yeah. I miss her. Been doing everything I can not to think of her. Everything I can to ignore how much I miss her.” My voice cracked “I love her, Mom. You know that.”

  “They made a mistake.”

  “No shit.”

  “Don’t sass.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing.”

  “Right. Sorry. I mean, all right.”

  “Does anything about this discussion seem vaguely familiar to you, Richard?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah.”

  A post-three-way conversation had on a summer night an eternity ago. Unnervingly similar, one might say. No way on Earth I could forget it.

  “And look at the decision you made back then.”

  “That was different.”

  “But is it? Is it so different? Stop and consider for a minute. You and Catherine had so much trouble getting pregnant after you were married—more than you ever let on. Then out of all of this comes Celeste. The light of your life. You’ve been raising her like your own for over five years, Richard. She’s as much a part of you as your own arm or leg. Just because she’s not yours biologically doesn’t mean she’s not your daughter. Maybe it doesn’t matter how she came about.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I snapped.

  “Richard ...”

  “Sorry.”

  This hiss of static.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry for being sorry!”

  “Do you honestly think any of this is easy for me to say?” Mom asked. “It’s not. Not at all. And I know I can be overbearing at times. It’s amazing you’ve never ended up in therapy.” Funny, I was thinking the same thing. “I’m not trying to tell you what to think, or how to feel, or even what to do. What I’m trying to do is help. You’ve always been so good together, Richard.” A sniffle. “This could be devastating. Most couples wouldn’t have survived half of what you and Catherine have been through. To see it end like this breaks my heart. You’re my son and I want you to be happy.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if this wasn’t all my fault.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I have to be honest with myself, Mom. Was I really there for her when she needed me after that second miscarriage? Maybe Cat was right when she said I’d checked out on her and I was just too proud and self-absorbed to realize it. Same with Bill. I cast him out of my life without a second thought.”

  “Richard, you can’t be held accountable for what other people do. From the sound of it, it seems to me like you all made mistakes along the way and everyone handled it differently.”

  “If you say so. But I can’t help feeling responsible.”

  “That was always your way, you know. To assume responsibility for everything that went wrong in your life and the lives of those around you. Sweet, really, but a great way to get an ulcer.”

  I chuckled. “True.”

  “Have I ever told you how proud I was of you?”

  “Plenty of times.”

  “That’s not what I meant. The first time Catherine was pregnant, and you said you would stick by her no matter what, your child or not. I’d never been so proud to call you my son in all my life, Richard. What those two did … I won’t sugar coat it. It was bad. Very bad. But let me ask you this. Do you believe her when she said she thought Celeste was your daughter all this time?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “I do, too. Catherine’s a strong person. Sometimes it’s the strongest ones who make the biggest mistakes.”

  I sat up and stared at the floor, making fists on the carpet with my toes. “What am I going to do?” The floor became an opaque blur, and I rubbed at my bloodshot eyes.

  “Only you can answer that. The only advice I can offer is this: if you feel there’s still something there between you and Catherine, a spark worth saving, you should consider giving it a try. The only person who would blame you for making her pay an entire lifetime’s worth of pain for one moment of weakness is—”

  “Me.”

  “—is you. No decision you come to will be easy. You’ll have to think long and hard about what you said five years ago, and if you truly meant it when you said you would be with her no matter what. In the end, I’ll be there for you either way. I know you’ll make the right decision for you, Richard.”

  “But how do I know what the right decision is?”

  “You’ll know it when you come to it. Someone shared a saying with me once. ‘Forgiving is easy. It’
s meaning it that’s hard.’ ”

  “Who came up with that?”

  “Your father,” she said, and I could almost hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t do anything unless you’re all in, Richard.”

  After finishing up with Mom, I took a hard look at my phone, the voicemail icon lit loud and proud. Typing in my password, I listened to the messages I’d ignored but never deleted. One stood out more than any other.

  Catherine’s voice reached out to me from the past.

  “Rick? Ricky? It’s me.” Hearing her trembling speech did odd to things to me; it drove home how much I’d been missing her. Sometimes it’s the simplest of things that produce the most profound effect. “Look, baby. I know what I did is unforgiveable, but … I am so sorry. If I could …”

  Right then, in the background, a lispy voice made itself known.

  “Mommy? Are you talking to Daddy?”

  “Yeah, Pookie Bear.”

  “Ooh! Can I talk to him? Can I? Can I?”

  “Sure. Of course you can.”

  A rustling, some static.

  “Hi, Daddy. Guess what? We had a field trip to the aquarium and I petted a shark all by myself and I wasn’t scared! It wasn’t even slimy or anything, really really!” Celeste was so proud of herself a lump formed in my throat. “Daddy,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Mommy won’t stop crying. She’s so sad. Maybe if you come home it’ll make her all betterer? I miss you. Oh, she wants to talk to you. Bye, Daddy. Wuv you.”

  Rustling again.

  “Ricky, please come home. I fu … I screwed up and I know it. Just, please. Come home. God, I love you so much. Really really.”

  “End of new messages. To save this message, press nine. To delete, press seven. For more options—”

  I pressed nine.

  I’d made up my mind and I was all in.

  CHAPTER 69

  “Going somewhere?”

  I was in Sandy’s bedroom, packing. My time with her was at its end.

  I didn’t turn around, but nodded as I slowly and methodically placed my clothes and personal items inside the suitcase that lay open on her bed.

  Hearing the sad voices of the two most important people in my life made me think back on what my mom had said. She was right. Celeste was as much my daughter as anybody’s. And despite what she’d done, Catherine was the love of my life. People make mistakes, horrible ones. Some can forgive those transgressions, some can’t. Was I the former or the latter? After much soul searching, the answer was clear. That’s not to say my decision was an easy one, nor was I following my mother’s advice with blinders on. It had to be my choice, and my choice only.

  I would forgive my wife and mean it because it’s what I wanted.

  Without Catherine and Celeste, I was hollow inside. I’d been an empty shell before, and I never wanted to go back to that again.

  It was time to leave and do what I knew in my bones was right.

  I zipped up my bag and turned around. Sandy was only a foot or two away, her smile warm, eyes sad.

  “Sandy, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  During those dark days she was as much a beacon as anybody could be. In a way, I loved her for it. Not the ‘til death do us part’ type of love, rather a ‘thanks for being there for me’ type of love. The beautiful, caring, and perhaps misunderstood woman that stood before me saw me through a time when I discovered I was capable of lows I’d previously thought inconceivable. Not once did she push for more or complain. Time and again I thanked her for it.

  She closed the distance and held me close.

  “Stop thanking me, would you?” she said, lips a fraction of an inch from my ear. “I will never forget this time together, Rick. Ever. I wish you didn’t have to go, but,” she held me at arm’s length, the full weight of her blue eyes leveled at me, “this isn’t where you belong. You should be home with your wife and daughter. Maybe what I say or think isn’t so important—”

  I cupped her hands with my own. “Hey, that’s not true. That’s not true at all.”

  One side of her mouth curled in a half-smile. “—but if you want my opinion, Celeste is yours, even if she doesn’t have your blood running through her veins.”

  “You know that’s exactly what my mother said?”

  “She sounds like a smart woman. Seems to me like you’ve got a great mother.”

  “You’d have a tough time finding a better one than Beth Franchitti.”

  Before seeing me out of her home for the last time, Sandy briefly pressed her full lips to mine.

  “No regrets, Rick. You did what you thought was best for you. Go home to your wonderful family. Be with that beautiful wife and amazing daughter.” Her hand grazed my stubbly cheek. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore. But, as far as friendship goes? You ain’t getting rid of me.” I placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Catherine’s a lucky girl to have someone like you.”

  “I hope she still feels the same way.”

  “She will. Call it,” she pointed to her temple, “women’s intuition.”

  I looked at Sandy a moment longer, then turned and walked to my car.

  The drive home was near-silent. Classic rock softly trickled from my stereo like a musical wind.

  Home.

  Did I have anything left to go home to? Or had Catherine and I done irreparable damage to our relationship?

  Doubt hopped in the passenger seat. Maybe I should have called? Did I maintain radio silence for too long? The possibility of Catherine having had a change of heart gripped at my stomach and wouldn’t let go. My hand clenched the steering wheel at the thought.

  It throbbed.

  It was the first time I’d paid attention to my gimpy hand in days. I took my eyes off the road for a second—don’t try this at home, all you new drivers—and let them wander to the bruised, splotchy skin. A lovely shade of yellow had set it, but the swelling had gone down. It was healing. A quick peek in the rear view mirror showed my black and blue eye was also healing, something else I hadn’t paid attention to in days.

  Would the wounds to my marriage heal as quickly as the wounds to my body? I hoped that, in time, the emotional hurt that had been the impetus for my physical aches would dissolve into the sunset of memory.

  Parked at the curb, I sat in the idling car for an indeterminate amount of time, watching, observing the home Catherine and I had built. Lights in the upstairs windows reminded me of a large, wise owl as the sun dipped below trees in the yard. Silhouettes appeared and disappeared. My wife and daughter were inside, and they were its pulse. It was still alive. If they were home, the house was alive, and with life, there’s always a chance.

  Everything is going to be A-okay.

  It has to be.

  The brass knob easily turned, and the front door creaked open. I made a note to oil the hinges … if I was still welcome.

  Catherine stopped halfway down the stairs. “Ricky?”

  “You should really lock the front door when you’re giving Celeste a bath,” I said, nodding behind me.

  My wife slowly traversed the remaining steps. Her face was worried, apprehensive.

  On her wrist, reflecting ambient light, was the C&R charm bracelet.

  Seeing that one simple thing, that cheap, stupid, silly, wonderful bracelet hit me like a physical wave and gave me the one thing that had gradually ebbed away as I made my way home.

  Hope.

  “Dropping by to get more clothes?” Cat asked.

  I set the suitcase on the parlor floor. “No.”

  A sea of tile separated us even though she stood ten feet away; a small distance with the feel of an insurmountable gulf.

  “Then why are you here, Ricky?”

  “Well … this is where I live, isn’t it?”

  Tears pooled in my wife’s eyes. One broke free, leaving a delicate trail on her cheek. It clung to her chin, fighting gravity, then fell. It was followed by more.

  Nodding, she closed the chasm betwe
en us and locked her hands around the small of my back. We were so close no air could fit between us. Her body quaked with the release of stored emotions, and I held on tight. I would not let go. Not ever again.

  “Really?” she whispered in disbelief.

  I cradled her face, rubbing the salty trails from her cheeks and erasing the hurt. “Really really.”

  “Mommy! You said you were gonna get the bubble bath stuff!” Five-year-old feet bounded down the stairs. “Daddy?”

  Celeste’s hair was a tangle of wet and sudsy spikes. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  I did a bit of both.

  “Mommy, Daddy’s home,” she yelled in her lispy way, as she sprung from the last step and plowed her diminutive, wet self into us, almost toppling everyone like human dominos.

  “He sure is, Pookie Bear.”

  “Why’s your eye all icky, Daddy?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I can still see you just fine.” I hugged them tighter. “I can still see both of you just fine.”

  That group hug with my two best girls, one crying, the other naked as the day she was born, sporting shampoo-spiked hair, was one of the best moments of my life.

  Sometimes it’s the simple things.

  CHAPTER 70

  “And thus concludes yet another epic adventure of Lady Bug Girl and her pet dog.”

  I closed Celeste’s favorite book. She was sandwiched between Catherine and I. I had hold of one side of the book, my wife the other. Our little girl followed along with the words as I read, despite the ability to recite its entirety by heart.

  Reading to your daughter. Another profound, simple thing. That I’d gone without it seemed an impossibility, even if it were true.

  “Do I hafta go to bed, Mommy?” Celeste pouted.

  Catherine lifted Celeste’s Hello Kitty pajama shirt and induced hysterical giggles via a raspberry on the belly. “Yes, you little bugger. It’s way past your bedtime.”

  “Okay,” I said, holding up the covers as Celeste scurried in. “In you go, kiddo.”