The air was heavy as Uncle Jess’s words rattled around, the room.
“He doesn’t know us very well, does he?” Megan muttered. She crossed her arms in front of her and stared at the floor.
Jane sighed and pretended to doodle invisible designs on the tablecloth. Ellen clucked her tongue softly and fiddled with her fingernails. Amy and Aaron stared into space, apparently intent on ignoring the uncomfortable currents in the room.
The doorbell rang, and it was Aunt Betsy and her family from California. Their plane had arrived the day before at Detroit Metropolitan Airport and they had rented a car. They planned to stay several nights after the funeral so that Mom would not be alone once the others left.
Aunt Betsy was crying as Megan welcomed them inside.
“I’m so sorry about your dad.” She hugged Megan and turned to the others. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone. He was so … ” She searched for the right word, struggling with her emotions. “I don’t know, so full of life.”
Aunt Betsy sat down, joining the circle of siblings. Amy asked her about her flight.
“It was fine, not that I noticed.” She wiped her tears daintily with her fingers. “I thought about your family the whole time. The trips to the lake, the ice-skating and football games. You kids have always been so close, such a great family.” She paused a minute. “Me and your uncle, we divorced years ago, you know. The two kids went their own way and well, I guess we never were much of a family really. But you guys—” she looked at them—“you guys had something really special. Whenever I think of how a family is supposed to be, how the kids should be close and the parents should love each other, I think of you.” She wiped her eyes again and pulled a tissue from her purse.
“My brother must have been awfully proud of the family he raised. I’m so sorry he’s gone.” She looked at them, her eyes making a circle around the room. “At least you still have each other. No one can take that away from you.”
She stood up then, dabbing at her face as she went to search for their mother.
Ellen squirmed uncomfortably in her chair, as did Jane and Megan. Was that really how others saw them? A close-knit, loving family? Apparently so, for that same sentiment was expressed continually for the next two hours as people stopped to visit and then returned to their various motel rooms to prepare for the viewing.
How fortunate Ellen and the others were, they would say, raised in a family where love had no limits. How close their relationships with one another were compared with other families … how blessed they were to have each other.
Silently, Ellen was struck by the irony. She exchanged furtive glances with her siblings and saw by their faces they were feeling the same thing. When did we change so much, Lord? Or were we ever really the family everyone eke remembers?
Finally it was two o’clock and the house cleared as relatives left to ready themselves for the evening viewing. Diane Barrett waited until only her children and their spouses remained before addressing them.
“I’m going to the mortuary now so that I’ll have a few minutes alone,” she said. She only hoped she had the strength to endure what was coming.
“Are you sure you should go by yourself?” Megan looked concerned.
“Yes. I’ll be fine. I’d like you children to join me in a little while.” She looked at Jane. “The kids are taken care of for the evening, right?”
Jane nodded. “A friend of mine is keeping them until late tonight.”
“Good. Well, I’m sure I’ll see you there within the hour. I’ll take the small car. Ellen, why don’t you drive the van.”
Diane looked at the stiff way her children sat together and she was struck, again, by the fact that they were clearly not the family they had once been.
“I know you haven’t gotten along this week and I think that’s to be expected. We’re all under a great deal of stress.” She searched their faces, pleading with them. “But please, for your father’s sake, try to be a family tonight and tomorrow. It would have made him so sad to see you like this.”
Her request met with utter silence and finally, with tears welling up in her eyes, Diane picked up her purse and left.
27
Well, that was nice. You guys are really something,” Aaron sneered at his sisters. “All Mom wants is a little reassurance that everyone can get along these next few days and no one says a word.”
Ellen raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me, Aaron. I’ve done everything possible to get along this week.”
“Oh, so I guess that makes me the bad guy,” Jane piped in. Troy put his hand over hers and squeezed gently. They exchanged a knowing look and Jane seemed to lose interest in the argument.
“Why’d you have to start a fight, Aaron?” Amy’s eyebrows creased in frustration. “Everything was fine until you opened your mouth.”
“Look, you little witch … ” Aaron rose from his chair and towered over Amy. Ellen watched as Frank pretended to read a magazine, but she saw how he sat a little straighter, moving closer to his wife and keeping an eye on her brother.
“You girls are the ones fighting this week,” Aaron shouted. “I haven’t said a word.”
“Well, you also haven’t done a thing to help Mom. So don’t blame us for getting her upset.” Obviously Amy was not in the mood to back down. “I guess you think the girls will do everything just like we always have, right?”
“You want me to do something, Amy?” Aaron’s voice boomed as he took giant strides toward the kitchen. “Fine!” He picked up a dish and threw it into the sink, shattering it into a hundred pieces. “I’ll do the dishes.”
Ellen cringed.
“Here’s another one.” He smashed a second dish against the sink.
Then suddenly he stopped his tantrum and stormed out of the kitchen. He grabbed his truck keys and slammed the front door behind him.
“Same old Aaron,” Ellen mumbled.
“You know, Ellen, why don’t you lighten up?” Jane glared at her sister. “All week you’ve been feeling sorry for yourself, wishing you didn’t have to be around the rest of us.” She stood up, ignoring Troy’s efforts to stop her. “Things start to seem a little tense around here and what do you do? Run off and spend time with your friends.”
Megan raised an eyebrow and stared at Ellen accusingly.
“Did you ever stop and think that maybe there’s a reason why the rest of us are so edgy? Maybe Aaron’s life isn’t as good and golden as yours. And maybe my memories of Dad aren’t straight from a storybook like the ones you have. Did you ever think of that?”
Ellen crossed her arms tightly and stared back at Jane. “I don’t need to listen to this.” She started to get up but Jane blocked her way.
“No. Don’t leave. Not this time.” Jane put her hands on her hips, her face flushed with the intensity of her anger. “Did you ever think that maybe there’s a reason why Amy’s so quiet and Megan’s so sentimental? Did it occur to you that maybe there’s a reason why Dad’s funeral has me so edgy? Or that there just might be an explanation for Aaron’s anger?”
Ellen stood staring at her sister, waiting impatiently for her to finish her tirade.
“Let me say this, Ellen. If there was a reason, you sure wouldn’t know it. Because all you care about is yourself. Is Ellen having a good time? Is everyone being nice to Ellen? Is Mike doing what Ellen wants him to do?”
Ellen sucked in her breath at the mention of Mike. She hoped Megan didn’t notice. “That’s not true. I care about everyone here and you know it.”
“You care about us if everything’s going good and we’re all happy-go-lucky. But when there’s a problem, you split. That’s what you’ve been doing all week.”
Amy shifted uneasily and reached for Frank’s hand. Jane’s anger seemed to fade suddenly, and Ellen was surprised to see her eyes fill with tears.
“We’re here for one week together, Ellen, and I’m sorry if I haven’t been very nice. But you’re so caught up in yourself you can’t eve
n see the way the rest of us are hurting.”
Ellen’s eyes stung with tears at the accusation. “That’s not fair. I’m hurting, too, you know. I don’t remember anyone asking me how I was doing.”
“I asked you,” Megan said quietly.
Jane’s tears came harder now and she looked from Megan back to Ellen. “When we were younger we were like best friends. I still think of you that way. But what kind of friend are you when you don’t even ask me what’s wrong? I have things I’m dealing with this week that you know nothing about.”
“Is it my fault you don’t tell me what’s wrong?” Ellen cried.
“Yes! I thought you were my friend, Ellen. I know I haven’t been very nice to you, but did you even once think that something might be bothering me?”
Ellen released a burst of air, frustrated by Jane’s summation of the week-long struggle between them. “If you want me to be interested in your feelings then think of mine for a change.” Ellen maneuvered past Jane and found her bag. “You’ve been hateful toward me since we got here. Now you expect me to pretend that didn’t happen, paste a sympathetic smile on my face, and ask you how you’ve been? Well, you can forget it, Jane.” She looked at the others. “I’ll be at the mortuary.” Then she stormed out the front door.
The room fell suddenly silent as Jane stared at the door Ellen had just slammed. She’d tried. She really had. And look where it had gotten her.
She swore under her breath. But instead of sounding angry, it just sounded desperate. She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Troy standing there, his eyes filled with understanding.
She turned to him and buried her head in his chest, finally sobbing as she hadn’t all week.
28
Ellen drove to the mortuary like a woman on a mission. She was determined not to let Jane’s outburst affect her. She cared about Jane; the others had to see that. But it was impossible to be interested in the problems of a person who spent so much time on the attack. Ellen thought about Jane’s statement and wondered vaguely what had been troubling her that week. But she refused to play games. If Jane wanted to talk then she would have to make the first move.
As she drove, images from the past week demanded her attention and suddenly she could no longer shut them out—she and Jake making omelettes … she and Jake at the beach, on the swing. She could feel his fingers entwined with hers.
She slammed her fist onto the steering wheel and the images disappeared. Five minutes later she was at the mortuary. The public parking lot was empty except for her mother’s car and Ellen parked alongside it, cutting the engine.
The truth hit her then. In a moment she would come face-to-face with her dead father’s body. How many times had she walked into her parents’ home, rounded the corner toward the den, and seen him sitting in his easy chair? How many times had he looked up, noticed her, and burst into a smile, stretching his left hand toward her?
“Hi, honey,” he’d say. “Come sit down.”
She would walk toward him, tucking her hand in his warm one and bending to kiss him on his cheek. Somewhere through the passing of the days, he had greeted her that way for the last time. And she hadn’t even known it.
She leaned back in the van, sitting in the seat that had been his alone, and closed her eyes. If only she could remember the last time he had done that so she could savor the moment forever. She wanted something real and alive to remember him by. Otherwise the lifeless body she was about to see would be her final memory of him. She drew in a deep breath and steadied herself. Then she climbed out of the van and headed for the mortuary.
It was quiet inside; the lights reverently dim. Ellen moved through the lobby and entered a narrow doorway leading to the front of a small chapel. Twelve wooden pews lined the room on either side of a center aisle. Ellen glanced to her right and saw the oak casket they had chosen the day before. It was propped open, and her mother knelt before it on a padded kneeler, her head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer.
Ellen headed soundlessly toward her mother. She refused to look at her father’s body until the last possible minute.
“Hi, Mom.” She put her arm around the older woman and knelt beside her. Then she turned toward the casket and felt her breath catch in her throat.
There he was. Hands folded peacefully over his considerable abdomen, graying blond hair neatly combed. His suit was pressed and starched, the shoes shined. She stared at him and felt herself about to collapse.
Her mother looked up then and studied him, too.
“He’s at peace now,” she said. Her voice was calm but tears spilled down her face and her eyes searched her husband’s still face.
Ellen nodded, unsure what to say. She was horrified by the sight of her father like that and needed a moment to grasp what she was seeing.
Her mom struggled to her feet. “I’m going to go make a few phone calls,” she whispered. “Will you be all right?”
Ellen nodded quickly, thankful for the chance to be alone. When her mother was gone she tentatively reached toward her father’s hand and touched him.
He was cold and stiff, and she recoiled as if she’d pricked her finger on a needle. She narrowed her eyes, studying the face, the body that once housed her father.
His skin was pale, dusty from the makeup they’d used. It wasn’t how she remembered him, and she thought how different a body looked when there was someone living inside.
She studied his eyes, closed for all time.
If only he could open them once more, smile at her the way he had all his life. She had the urge to nudge him, to wake him up and help him out of the satin-lined box so that everyone could see he was all right. Her eyes moved slowly up the lid of the casket and she shuddered thinking of the moment when they would close it, shutting him in darkness for eternity.
Get up, Dad.
But he remained motionless, nothing but a shell of the man he had been. She wanted to talk to him, to say something she might have said if he were alive and only sleeping.
“Dad,” she whispered as tears sprang to her eyes. “I love you.”
She had brought something for this moment. Reaching into her purse she wrapped her fingers around them, familiar with the way they felt. She opened her hands and tried to make out the items through eyes blurred with tears. There they were … she could see them clearly now. A worn white handkerchief and a plain black comb.
She had visited her parents a year earlier when her father was hospitalized with chest pain. Deeply concerned, she accompanied her mother to the operating room where doctors performed the final test to determine the cause of his discomfort. When they saw the gravity of his condition, they quickly decided to perform emergency triple-bypass surgery.
Ellen had been devastated, certain he wouldn’t survive the surgery. But the urgency of the situation left them no time for lengthy good-byes. Instead, just before they wheeled him into surgery, he took his handkerchief and black comb from his hospital table and folded them into the palm of her hand.
“Hold these for me, Ellen.” His lower lip quivered slightly and his voice was choked with emotion. “I’ll be back for them. I promise.”
She had nodded and clutched them purposefully. For three hours, while doctors searched for the perfect vein in his leg with which to replace the arteries leading to his heart, she kept his handkerchief and comb in her hand, praying he would survive.
Three months later she was going through the nightstand next to her bed when she found the comb tucked inside the neatly folded handkerchief. After that she looked at them now and then, running her fingers over the threadbare cloth and remembering how thankful she had been when he had come out of the operation alive.
They were the first items she packed as she prepared to come to Petoskey to bury him.
Gradually, relentlessly, sorrow welled up in her chest as she held the handkerchief to her cheek and closed her eyes. Tears spilled onto her face and she surrendered as deep, gut-wrenching sobs exploded from the center of
her being.
She cried for every single distant memory, moments she would have given any-thing to have again. Scenes from the past flashed through her mind and she grieved for each of them, crying for the little girl she had left behind and the father who would never again take her hand or swing her around the backyard.
She stared at him, thinking of the football games when he patiently taught her the difference between the quarterback and defensive back. And the times when he had listened to her read her game stories over the telephone so he could catch her mistakes before her editors did.
She sobbed harder and reached toward him once more. She knew what to expect this time and she didn’t pull away. Instead, she ran her fingers gently over his hands, remembering the way those same hands had loved her and her sisters and brother through the years. The hugs and hand-holds, the ball-tossing and shoe-tying … hands that had been loving and warm, gentle and strong.
“Dad, I wish we had more time,” she whispered. The sobbing finally slowed but the tears continued, as did the empty ache in the depth of her heart.
Suddenly she couldn’t stand to see him that way a moment longer and she closed her eyes. Why was she doing this to herself, participating in a ritual that meant nothing? He wasn’t there, resting in a casket. He had moved on to a better place, the place for people who have loved God and done his work on earth. She knew the Lord was watching over her that very moment, wishing he could comfort her, willing her to know that her father was all right.
She opened her eyes and looked into the coffin again. Dad’s body would be buried there, but not his soul, his heart. No one could bury that.
She clutched the handkerchief and comb tightly, holding them to her face a final time. Then she gently tucked them under his hands.
“Dad,” her voice was choked with tears. “I have to give them back now. I … I can’t hold them anymore.”
She hung her head and cried again, knowing that Jake had been right. For the first time, her dad’s death seemed real. She looked at him once more, still, lifeless.
A Kingsbury Collection Page 30