Skipping Stones

by J. B. McGee

  I purse my lips together in an effort to be strong because I know that Memaw needs me right now. I loop my arm into hers as we walk up the handicap ramp into the chapel. Within a few seconds, Mr. Knapp is greeting us.

  “Elizabeth,” he says as he hugs her. “Alex.” He nods and offers another embrace to me.

  I smile, knowing that if I attempt to speak words my body will fail me.

  He starts to walk. “This way,” he instructs as he glances over his shoulder.

  I practice my breathing, but all it does is make me think back to when Papa helped me with that the day Drew left. Stone. There’s a ping in my gut, one that tells me this would be easier if he had his arms wrapped around me as I walked into this room. I keep my focus on putting one foot in front of the other as the water accumulating in my eyes blurs my vision while I’m flooded with memories of my life.

  Memaw slowly walks to the beautiful blue casket she picked out for him. It has a cross embroidered on the cloth lining the lid. Mr. Knapp steps back as I step forward and place my hand on her back for support. She leans over and kisses his forehead. She talks to him, but I try not to listen. I want to be here to support her physically, but I just don’t feel good about listening to what she says to him. There’s just something too intimate about that.

  Mr. Knapp gives her a tissue, and then offers me one. I dab my eyes, while trying to constrict my chest to keep the sobs from escaping my body. I remember this pain. It’s a unique sensation. I remember when my parents died, I described it as a scalpel cutting my chest open. At least, that’s how I imagine it would feel.

  Soon, she turns and falls into my arms. My body muffles her wails. Then I’m reminded how things change as we age. The people who once consoled us require the consolation. The roles of responsibility change.

  We stand like this for a few minutes. I completely try to disassociate that my Papa is in that wooden box so I can be the rock she needs. Eventually, she looks into my eyes. “I’m sorry. Here.” She shoves my body forward. Then it occurs to me why I have been thankful I was behind them. I am glad I have the ability to compartmentalize.

  Glancing over to her and Mr. Knapp I whisper, as if I’ve lost my voice. I guess in a way I have. “May I have a moment alone with him, please?”

  Memaw objects, “No, Alex. Are you sure you want to do that alone?”

  “I do.” I nod. “I need some time by myself, please. I’ll call if I need you. I can do this.”

  “Okay,” she says. I can see the helpless look on her face.

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  They close the door on their way out, and once I’m alone, I stand there for a moment completely emotionless. It’s as if I don’t know what to do with myself. I remember this, too. It’s surreal to see him like this. Lifeless, with his mouth and eyes closed. I mean, they did a good job with him. He looks like he’s sleeping. I just didn’t see him sleep much. I always saw him smiling, laughing. I miss him so much already.

  It only takes a few moments before it sinks deep within my soul that this is it. The tears start to flow, and I try to catch them before they land on him. If you’re going to try to catch all of those, you’re going to need a bucket. I don’t know how to do this with him. Part of me wants to talk to him, but I’m not sure what to say. Everything I needed to say was said before I left. It just wasn’t supposed to be like this, for the rest of my life. I’ve never really had the urge to touch a body in a funeral home, but I need to touch him. I’m not sure why.

  So I reach my shaking hand down, and try his arm first. It’s covered by a navy blue suit. It’s hard. It doesn’t feel like touching an arm. I quickly pull myself back and shake my head. I clench my eyes closed, trying to contain the impending eruption of wails that are building.

  “Papa, I love you so much,” I barely whisper. “I don’t know how to do this without you.” I shake my head. Tears are freely flowing, my chest is heaving up and down. My chin is quivering like I’m outside in the frigid cold with no clothes. My soul is exposed and raw. “I know this is temporary. This time away from you.” I wipe my face with my forearm. “I knew the day would come. I get it, but it still hurts so bad.”

  Then I remember when I stood in front of my parents caskets, just like this. I remember Papa wrapping his arms around me, how he kissed my hair, the way he caught my tears. And there is a calmness, a small amount of comfort that envelopes me. It’s a reminder that I’m not alone, that he’ll always be with me. So I slowly close my eyes, allowing the last of the tears to stream down my face. I sniff and swallow several times; each one reigns in my composure. I say a quick silent prayer, thanking God for my time with him, for choosing me to be his granddaughter. May I always make him proud. May I always make him smile. As I turn to walk away, I whisper, “I can’t wait to sit in your lap again. I live for the day when you get to tickle my back. Have all the Red Velvet cake you want...I’ll see you later.”

  I thought I had contained my tears, my emotions, but my body shakes and shudders. Whimpers escape, and the tears increase in frequency and volume. I rush through the door and collapse into the arms of the people who know exactly how much we’ve all just lost.

  I didn’t sleep much last night, I am exhausted. Sleep would have been nice, but it will have to wait until some of this hoopla is over. The visitation was last night, yielding a steady stream of visitors bringing more food than we’ll ever be able to eat. I laugh as my thoughts wander back to the food. I know my grandmother feeds the stray cats on the sly. They’ll be feasting on leftovers for a long time. We’ll become the Caesar’s Palace Buffet for all of the neighborhood strays. It will be delightful...and great entertainment. I sigh.

  The morning train that has been coming through this town at the same time every morning my entire life whistles in the distance. It reminds me of the morning he left, the morning we moved out of my house in North Carolina.

  I squeeze my eyes closed. I can’t deal with him today. I don’t have time. Then the worrier in me lets my mind wander to a place where he leaves me again. He just decides that he doesn’t want to deal with my moodiness, that putting himself out there wasn’t worth the risk, and he just leaves. It makes my stomach feel sick.

  The problem is in my anger, frustration, and shock. I never thought to find out where he was staying, to get his phone number, or anything. I could just kick my stubborn self. The only difference this time versus last time is that I finally have his name. That is, if he’s being honest with me. That’s why they were never able to locate him after the explosion in Afghanistan. No wonder I always hit a dead end. I was looking for an alias.

  I say a quick prayer and hope that he’s still around when this is all over so we can at least gain some closure. Right now, I have a funeral to get ready for, and the emotions I’ve been holding back while acting strong for everyone and their brother come gushing out of me. I gather my robe and head to the shower, which will hopefully muffle my cries from Memaw.

  “Thank you all for coming today,” I whisper into the microphone. My chin is already quivering and I know that speaking is going to be so hard for me. Still, I have to do it.

  “Every funeral I have ever attended, I attended with my Papa. He was always there to hold my hand, to allow a shoulder for me to cry on.” I pause and let a lone tear escape my eyes. “He was my strength when I had nothing left in me, when I was an empty vessel floating adrift at sea trying to find my way through stormy waters.

  “Once I asked him what I’d do when it was his time. I told him there was no way I’d be able to get through it. He squeezed my hand, and he told me he didn’t know either. Looking back, how morbid was it of me to ask him what I’d do when he died? I think it was actually at his brother’s funeral. All I could think about was the fact that it hurt so badly to lose people that I wasn’t even that close to. I’d already lost my parents. I just couldn’t fathom losing him. He was my rock, my everything. He was the one solid thing I could always count on without fail.” The lump in my throa
t is growing as I choke back the sobs. I can do this, though. I can do this. He deserves this eulogy. I need to say these things and have them count.

  “But after he said he didn’t know, he glanced at me with his big brown eyes...my dad got his eyes, which meant I also inherited them. It was like looking in the mirror at my own. He whispered to me, ‘When the time comes, you’ll get through it.’

  “I shook my head. There was no way. And like so many times in my life before, it was something that I couldn’t comprehend. ‘No, I don’t think so, Papa,’ I replied.” I pause again. This time focusing on the back door, pretending I can see him grinning back at me. It’s strange, but I feel his presence.

  “He smiled. ‘God won’t give you more than you can handle. You know that because there have been times when you didn’t think you’d make it, but you did.’

  “He was a devout Episcopalian. His faith never wavered even in the most difficult times of losing a child. At least not that I could tell.

  “So see, I couldn’t argue with that statement, and he knew it.” I laugh. “He always loved having the final word. I gave him a weak smile, a strong hug, and told him, ‘I love you, Papa.’

  “‘Papa loves you,’ he mumbled into my hair.

  “Today I stand before you, and as badly as my heart hurts, he was right. I will be okay. We all will be. Not because we didn’t love him and we won’t miss him every second of every day, but because he instilled in us the strength that made him so special. He is no longer suffering. He’s at peace, in a better place. Today, I celebrate his life. All that he was, and I start my countdown until I am able to sit on his lap once more.”

  I gather my tear-stained notes, and walk back to my pew. Memaw is sobbing, but she has a small smile. “Alex, that was beautiful,” she breathes into my ear.

  I nod and take the tissue she has offered me. I dab my eyes and cover my mouth to absorb the wails that are escaping my body.

  The rest of the service is a blur to me. Go Rest High on That Mountain by Vince Gill is played, which only makes me more of a mess. He loved that song so much. It’s followed by How Great Thou Art. I glance around as I sit and try to ignore the lyrics. He would have been so flattered to see how many people are here. There is no seating available in St. Paul’s Episcopal Church today. There’s really not even standing room. It makes me smile slightly, but then I remember how much I miss him, that he’ll never walk down the aisle again. He’ll never sing in the choir again. I look to the casket and can’t believe that My Papa is in that wooden box. I want him back for just one more day. I want to tell him goodbye, but then again, I don’t say goodbye. Goodbyes signify something more permanent, and I know that this time apart for us is only temporary. There is a small amount of comfort in that.

  Part of me wishes I could use my ability to compartmentalize right now, but I can’t completely disassociate. I don’t want to. I need to grieve his death. So I clench my eyes closed, holding my chest to feel the beat of my heart, hoping that the pressure of my hands will alleviate the weight of the bricks that I’ve become all too familiar with.

  Soon the service is over. I watch the ushers walk to wheel his flag draped coffin out of the church and onto the Graniteville Cemetary. Visitation is hard. Funerals are even harder, but nothing compares to the graveside service. Memaw grasps my shoulders and helps walk me out of the building and into the family car. I can do this. I can do this.

  The bad thing about being in the family car is that we’re directly behind the hearse. So for the entire ride to the cemetary, I’m watching a car carrying the body of my Papa. It’s unreal. Mr. Knapp hands me another tissue. I got into the front so that Memaw’s sister could sit with her. With my knee injury, it is also hard for me to even imagine climbing into the back. “Thank you,” I sniff.

  He glances towards me and gives me a sympathetic smile. “You’re welcome,” is all he says.

  Soon we’re at the burial plot. Mr. Knapp parks the car and comes to the side to help me out of the vehicle. “Watch your step right there, Alex.”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  Then he ushers me and my family to the first row of seats. Just as I thought I had calmed down, looking at the hole in the ground, the grave, that has been dug for My Papa causes the tears to freely flow from my eyes. Everything is a blur.

  The ceremony starts. Thank goodness it’s quick. The typical ‘dust to dust, ashes to ashes’ spiel. I see a car in the distance with its lights on, but the person is still inside. It’s too far away for me to see who is in it, but it seems odd...out of place. Soon, I am distracted from it when I hear commands and guns being cocked.

  With each round shot, my body jumps. The memories of the war flood my mind. Images of mangled bodies flash before my eyes. Grown, strong men covered in soot, dirt, and grime, carrying their beloved buddies. Guys that they would give their own life for.

  Then I think of something I hadn’t really ever thought about before. My Papa was once one of those men once. We never talked about his time in the war. I’m sure it was partially in an effort for him to shelter me as much as he could, but he knew. He had to have known what I was about to witness. Now for the first time, I really understand why he wanted to spare me that.

  The thoughts just make my chest constrict tighter. Even though I’ve tried to compartmentalize what I’m experiencing right now, my cries grow into wails. I bury my face into the moist wad of tissues I’ve accumulated today.

  Moments later, a fellow soldier brings a folded flag to my grandmother. She is holding it together surprisingly well. “On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation.”

  The rest of the service is a blur. I’m far too familiar with the routine of a funeral. I sit in the folding chairs as people come by and tell me how sorry they are with the mournful look of pity and regret on their face, which is funny because I have never wanted pity. I’ve never wanted to be looked at differently.

  The movement of the car in the distance catches my attention for a moment. There are multiple exits to this cemetary, and I watch as the car leaves the one furthest from us. It renders me speechless. I don’t know what it is about that car, but seeing it leave stirs something deep within my soul. For some strange reason it has been a comfort to me through this part of the ceremony. Maybe the feeling is loss. I’m losing something that soothed my inner being, even if only slightly, and like everything else, I’m losing it. I shake my head realizing I have no relationship with that car or the person in it.

  The ECW, Episcopal Church Women, prepared a feast for our family after the funeral. It’s ready and waiting on us back at the church in the Parrish Hall. These ladies didn’t go to a fine culinary school. No, they were taught by their mothers, who were taught by their mothers on how to make the best food to feed a soul. They call it ‘soul food’ for a reason.

  It’s funny how when I was younger and lost my parents, I couldn’t think about eating. I was just too sick with worry and grief, yet I can this time. I feel guilty for that. It’s not like I didn’t love him as much. I loved him with all of my heart. I loved him hard.

  Then I reassure myself that the reason why I am probably scarfing food down like there is about to be a ration of the overabundant spread is that I’ve not had such good cooking in so long. There are a few things I miss, though. Miss Shirley passed away a few years ago. Others try to duplicate her recipe for her layered chocolate fudge cake, but I’ve yet to put a slice in my mouth that is even a fraction as good as hers.

  Usually we’d have Memaw’s sweet tea here, but when you’re on the receiving end of this...benefit? Benefit doesn’t seem like the right word. I don’t want to benefit if it’s like this. Recipient. Yes, when you’re the recipient of the wonderful cooking after such a devastating loss, bringing your own tea isn’t really an option.

  It’s like she’s having the same tho
ughts as I am because she leans in and whispers in my ear, “None of this tea is fittin’ to drink. They don’t put enough sugar in it.”

  I laugh. “Your sweet tea is enough to put someone in a Diabetic coma.” I shake my head as I take another bite of the brown rice that is nowhere close to as good as our family recipe. Oh and brown rice isn’t like the brown rice you buy in a bag and cook. This is white rice with a stick of butter and all kinds of broths that make it brown after it’s been cooked. Best. Rice. Ever. “Your tea isn’t healthy. And combined with everything on this plate, it’s like a coronary waiting to happen.” I freeze as I say it. Not funny, Alex. Not funny. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry,” I gush.

  She laughs. “Well, I guess we’re all gonna die of somethin’. One thing that can’t be said is that your Papa didn’t eat the very best food while he lived.” She picks at her bread. She’s barely touched her food. Funny how roles reverse as we age. “You know he’d been doing better with his diet the last several years. He cut out all of his salt. Watched his potassium. You would have been proud of him.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. My appetite is suddenly gone. “I was always proud of him. Don’t you know he could do no harm in my eyes? If there was ever a saint in my life, it was him?”

  She glances over to me. “You know he felt the same about you. I’d try to punish you when you were little, and he always got onto me.”

  I roll my eyes and smile. “I can only really remember once when he was stern with me. It was about Drew.” Drew. I pushed him away because it was easy. I don’t have anything left in me to give to him right now. “Speaking of Drew,” I say as I take a swig of my sweet tea. “Did he happen to say where he was staying while he was in town?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope.”

  I toss my napkin in my plate. “You finished?” I ask as I point to hers, stand, and pick up my trash.