by Неизвестный
I asked, “You heard that?”
“Sure, I heard the warnings the doctors gave to Dad,” said Joe. “I was pre-med, after all. But I think we all saw the writing on the wall, didn’t we?”
My father said to me, “The dead hear all sorts of things. We hear the unspoken wishes of the heart.”
“We?” I said. “You mean you’re not alone?”
“Of course I’m not,” said my brother. “Mom, Aunt Louise, Aunt Mary … I think we all knew Dad was dicing with death.”
“Well, I’m alone here,” said my father. “No one else is being laid to rest here today. But in the greater sense … we’re all part of something, Eileen.”
“Good to know,” I said, taking one more hit from Joe’s flask before I handed it back to him.
“It’s still a shock, though,” said Aunt Mary.
“Yes,” Aunt Ada agreed. “Fabian is the first of the seven Quinn siblings to pass away. It’s sobering. You suddenly realize that time is running out and the Reaper is on his way, mounting his skeletal horse to come in search of you any day now.”
“Ada always was the cheery one,” said my father.
“I can’t believe it!” cried Aunt Iris, determined to be more shocked than anyone else. “My own brother! Dead at sixty-nine!”
“I was only sixty-eight.” Dad sounded insulted. “Eileen, tell her. I was sixty-eight.”
“He was sixty-eight,” I said.
“Do I look sixty-nine?” he asked me.
“Are you still in your coffin?” I asked him.
Everyone looked at me.
Rather than explain this question to them, I decided to get up and look. I was still shaky (and who can blame me?), so my mother and brother helped me rise awkwardly to my feet. I stood there swaying uncertainly for a moment, then I stepped up to the casket and looked down. The old man was there, just as he should be. I was relieved, since I was pretty sure this meant we could go ahead with the funeral and burial, as planned. I wouldn’t have known what to do if the coffin was empty and no one but me noticed.
“So you’re definitely dead?” I asked my father, who was now standing on the other side of his coffin and looking down at his corpse with me.
“Of course he is, dear,” said my mother, patting my shoulder.
“Dead as a doornail,” Dad said sadly.
My brother snorted. “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry. He’s gone for good.”
“Joe,” my mother chided.
“What did he say?” my father snapped.
“Sorry, Mom,” Joe said right before my mother turned away from the coffin to go greet Father Kennedy, my parents’ parish priest, who had just arrived.
My brother leaned closer to me, and I could smell the booze on his breath. I realized he’d been nipping from his flask, too. He lowered his voice and said, “But, honestly, Eye … now that I know I’ll never have to see him again, I’m starting to relax for the first time in my life.”
“What did your brother just say?” my father demanded.
“I thought the dead heard everything,” I replied.
“Oh, I heard him,” said Dad. “I just can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“You think he hears us?” Joe asked me. “In that case … ” He cupped his hands on either side of his mouth and called very softly, so as not to be overheard by our relatives, “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, old man.”
“Watch your tongue! I am not too dead to turn you over my knee!” my father threatened him.
I was pretty sure I felt my blood pressure rising. “Dad … ”
“Don’t call us, we’ll call you!” Joe’s speech was a little slurred, and I realized he’d been nipping enough to get slightly drunk. “It wasn’t a pleasure knowing you, and you’re not welcome back here any time!”
“Joseph Michael Quinn!” my father shouted.
I flinched. My brother noticed.
“Sorry. I know how it sounds,” Joe said to me.
“No, I don’t think you do,” I said faintly. “Not to … everyone.”
He glanced around at our gathered relatives. “They didn’t hear.”
“I didn’t mean … Um. Never mind.”
“Believe me, I felt so guilty for the first few hours after he died,” Joe said.
“Because you let me die?” my father accused.
“What could you have done, Joe?” I said soothingly. “Even the medics said he–”
“No, I don’t mean that,” said my brother. “Though maybe if I had stayed in pre-med … ”
“Ah-hah!” said my father. “You see?”
I gave the old man a sharp glance as I said to my brother, “Let it go, Joe. Medicine just wasn’t right for you. If Dad hadn’t pressured you — ”
“If he hadn’t pressured me, I’d have stayed in pre-med,” said Joe. “Now that he’s gone, I have to be honest with myself, Eye. The biggest regret of my life is that I didn’t go to med school.”
“What?” my father blurted.
“What?” I blurted.
“I quit pre-med just to spite the old man.”
My father sputtered.
I stared at my brother in astonishment. “Joe … I had no idea.”
“I must have thought a hundred times about going back to medicine,” Joe said. “I should have. I just didn’t want to give Dad that satisfaction.”
“Ohhhhh,” my father growled. “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth is a no-good son.”
I don’t think that’s quite how that quote goes.
“Who asked you?” my father snapped.
“Ironic, huh?” said Joe. “Maybe if I had become a doctor, I could have saved his life three days ago.”
“This is what I’m saying!” said our father. “Are you listening to your brother? He as good as killed me.”
“Oh, you’re dramatizing,” I said to both of them.
“I am not!”
“Maybe.” Joe shrugged. “But, anyhow, I’ve been thinking about it a lot for the past three days, and … ”
“And?” my father prodded impatiently.
“And?” I said.
“I’ve decided to go back to school and study medicine.”
“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Dad cried. “He waits until I’m dead?”
“Now that Dad’s dead,” Joe said, “I’m ready to make my own choices and find my destiny.”
“Oh, for the love of Mike!”
“It might be too late for me to become a doctor — I mean, that’s years of school, isn’t it? But I could certainly become a nurse, right?”
“A nurse?” my father said in horror.
“Of course you can,” I said. “I think it’s a wonderful goal, Joe.”
“Do not encourage this, Eileen! He wants to be a nurse? Is that any kind of profession for a man?”
“It’s a very good profession,” I said to them both.
“This is my legacy?” my father cried in outrage. “A spinster daughter and my son the nurse?”
The “spinster” comment made me grind my teeth as my brother continued, “I feel like Dad’s death has freed me to be who I really am. So I felt guilty when he died — because all I could feel was relief. Just relief. I was sure that must be wrong, that I must be a bad son.”
“You are a bad son!” said our dad. “Tell him, Eileen! Tell him he’s a bad son!”
“Grief works in mysterious ways,” I said to both men.
My father paused and frowned. “Hmm. That’s true, I suppose.” He added hopefully, “Hey, could your brother be having a breakdown? Maybe he’s so distraught over my death that he’s losing his mind.”
“We’ll talk more about this later,” I said to Joe. I glanced at my father and added, “When we’re alone and not surrounded by, um, relatives.”
“Yeah, I guess the old man’s wake isn’t really the right time to talk about how guilty I feel about not missing him,” Joe said wryly.
“Oh, you think?” said our father.
“I’m going to go outside for a cigarette,” Joe said.
“He told me he quit!”
“Now that Dad’s dead,” my brother added, “I guess I don’t have to keep pretending I quit.”
As Joe walked away, Dad fumed and grumbled in outrage.
“You might as well let it go,” I said, “since I’m not going to convey any messages to him from you.”
“Hmph.” Dad continued muttering angrily (I heard “nurse,” “smoking,” and “ingrate”) while we stood on either side of his coffin, looking down at his corpse. I didn’t rise to his bait or respond to any of his rambling grievances against my brother, and after a few minutes, his attention drifted to a new topic of discontent.
“Who told them to comb my hair like that?” he demanded. “I never wore my hair that way.”
You always wore your hair that way.
“I did not! The part’s on the wrong side.” He reached into the coffin and tried to fix his coiffure. His fingers, less substantial than air, passed right through his skull without stirring a single wisp of hair. “Damn.”
“So you really are a spirit,” I said. Until that moment, I’d still thought it was possible I was just having some sort of weird hallucination.
“Reach in there and fix it, would you?” he said. “I don’t want to go to my eternal rest with my hair looking like that.”
“Fix it?” I shook my head. “I don’t think I want to touch your corpse, Dad.”
“There’s no need to be squeamish, Eileen. It’s just an embalmed body. Besides, it’s my embalmed body, and I’m asking you to help me fix the way it looks.”
“You’ve always worn your hair parted that way, Dad. It just looks wrong to you because you’re used to seeing your reflection in a mirror.”
“My reflection … Oh! Hmm.” He frowned as he looked down at his well-groomed remains. “Do I really always look like that?”
“Yes. So let’s leave it, okay?” Looking down at the body, I added, “Your hair looks fine. And the suit was a good choice. It’ll wear well.” I paused. “Um, I mean … I think you look good.”
“Is Eileen talking to Fabian?” Aunt Ada murmured behind me.
“She’s talking to God!” Aunt Mary cried rapturously. “She’s in communion with Him.”
“That’s not who she’s talking to,” said Aunt Louise. “God’s not wearing a suit.”
“How do you know?” Aunt Mary challenged.
I looked over my shoulder and saw my four aunts staring at me. Iris, Ada, and Louise looked concerned; Mary just looked nosy. I assured them I was fine and was not talking to anyone, and I encouraged them to go about their business, adding, “I’d like a few moments alone with my father.”
“Of course,” said Aunt Ada.
Aunt Louise said to her sisters, “Eileen’s becoming rather morbid, isn’t she?”
“I think it’s so spiritual!” declared Aunt Mary.
“Well, I’d like a moment alone with him, too,” said Aunt Iris. “He was my brother, you know!”
“You’ll have your turn,” said Ada. “Let’s give Eileen a little space.”
My mother, who was returning to my father’s coffin with Father Kennedy in tow, overheard this and said to her sisters-in-law, “It upset Eileen terribly that she wasn’t at our house for Easter when Fabian died.”
“You weren’t?” Aunt Iris said in horror. “I hadn’t realized! Oh, you poor child!”
“Will you listen to this?” my dad said irritably. “Isn’t it just like Iris? I’m the one lying dead, three feet away from her, but you get all the sympathy.”
“Oh, Eileen.” Tears misted Aunt Iris’ eyes. “You must hate yourself! Despise yourself! You must feel you can never be forgiven!”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite — ”
“The silly women has a point, though,” said Dad. “What was so important that you couldn’t even come home for your father’s final meal? And on Easter Sunday, too!”
“I had to work,” I lied.
Aunt Iris burst into sobs. “It’s so tragic!”
“And that’s why you’re still unmarried at your age,” my father said critically. “Always putting work before family.”
I’m unmarried because I had your marriage as my example of what marriage is like, old man.
“I heard that!”
“I know,” I said.
“Oh, poor Eileen,” Aunt Iris wailed. “Now her father’s dead, and she can never make it right!”
Aunt Louise poked her and said sternly, “Stop that this instant, Iris.”
“Perhaps if I led you all in prayer now … ” Father Kennedy said.
“Good idea,” my mother and I said in unison.
We recited “Our Father” and “Hail Mary” (three times), then Father Kennedy read a couple of psalms. By now, Aunt Iris’s wails had softened to sniffles, and my father’s ghost was looking bored. After the priest left the hall to go speak with my brother, I noticed how weary my mother looked.
“Mom, are you okay? Are you going to make it through the rest of the day?” I asked with concern.
“Yes, I’m all right,” she said. “I guess I shouldn’t have stayed up so late packing.”
“Packing?” my father and I said in unison.
“I’m going on a little trip right after the funeral, dear. I’d have told you sooner, but you’ve been so upset about your father’s death … ”
“A little trip?” I repeated.
“I’m renting a condo in Florida.”
“What?” I blurted.
My father exclaimed, “I’m not even cold in my grave — I’m not even in my grave yet! — and she’s packing for a vacation in Florida?”
“I’ll only be gone two months.” Mom paused, then added, “Maybe three, if I like it down there.”
“You’re just … leaving?” I said in confusion. “Right after we bury Dad?”
“Well, they say that a change is as good as a rest, dear. And after nearly forty years with your father, I really need a rest.” She smiled and gave me a quick hug. “I just knew you’d understand. And you’ll tell your brother for me, won’t you? Thanks!”
Before I could respond, she went to greet some nuns from Sacred Heart who had just arrived.
“Well,” Dad said sourly, “I see your mother’s taking to widowhood like a duck to water.”
“Oh, you know, grief affects people differently,” I said. Nearby, Aunt Iris started wailing again.
“I wish I had just stayed in my coffin,” the old man muttered.
“Me, too.”
“You’re the one who summoned me,” he said irritably. “All that wishing you could speak to me one last time. If it weren’t for you, I’d be resting in peace right now.”
“Sorry about that,” I said. “My bad. But how was I to know you’d pop out of your coffin and haunt me?”
“This isn’t a haunting, it’s a visitation.”
“Meaning … you’re just visiting?” I said hopefully. “As in ‘stay a while and then leave’? That kind of visit?”
“Yes, Eileen, that kind of visit,” he replied with an injured air. “God forbid that I should stick around where I’m not wanted.”
“How long a visit?” I prodded.
He sighed in exasperation. “It’ll end as soon as you tell me whatever it was you wanted to say when you were wishing you could speak to me just once more.”
“Oh! Okay. Well, um … ”
“Yes?” he prodded impatiently.
“Uh, sorry I wasn’t there when you died,” I said awkwardly. “And … I hope the coffin is comfortable.”
My father looked appalled. “That’s it? Nothing else? I’ve made a visitation for that?”
“Well … ” I sighed and leaned against the coffin, ignoring the offended glances of my aunts as I did so. “Look, I know what you want me to say, Dad. Or, I mean, I know what I wanted to say when I thought I’d never have the chance to say it. But when you’re actually here
and, you know, being you … it’s a lot harder to want to say it. It turns out that you’re easiest to love when you’re ex-you. When you’re dormant and in a coffin. When you can’t criticize or talk back or make me so mad.”
“Ah. I see.” My dad nodded, and I was surprised that he didn’t explode or look angry. After a moment, he said, “I’ve known a lot more dead people than you have, Eileen, and most of them were easier to love after they died. I’m not special that way.”
“Really?”
“I swear to God.” He added, “And believe me, a person in my situation doesn’t say that phrase lightly.”
“No, I guess not,” I said. “So … does this mean I’ll feel sentimental after you’re gone?”
“You will. At least sometimes. I guarantee it.” He smiled wryly. “Even your mother and your brother may get a little sentimental once in a while, after I’m safely buried.”
I looked down at the corpse again. We were going to bury him. Soon. He’d be gone for good. And I couldn’t count on a second visitation after I’d wasted this one.
So I took a deep breath and said “I love you, Dad. I always did. Even though we never got along well … You’re still my dad. So I love you.”
“I know, Eileen. It’s what we do,” he said. “Like it or not, in our family, we love each other.”
“And I’m sorry I wasn’t there the day you died,” I said sincerely, with no awkwardness now. “Sorry I didn’t spend Easter with you. Sorry I didn’t see you one last time or share your final meal with you.”
“I’m sorry about that, too, but it’s all right.” He shrugged. “I’m over it. The dead don’t cling to these things, Eileen.”
Feeling my eyes mist, I continued, “And I’m sorry I lied about being too busy to drive down that weekend. I should have — ”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “You lied?”
“Yes, and I’m really sor — ”
“You lied?” he said.
“Well, uh … ”
“There I was, in my final moments of life, wishing I could see my only daughter — ”
“The medics said it happened too fast for — ”
“And you weren’t there — on Easter Sunday! — because you lied about being too busy with work? What kind of a daughter are you? My own flesh and blood! I swear, strangers in the street would treat me better than — ”