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Our Grand Finale

Page 24

by Laraine Denny Burrell


  “I see you have come to gloat.” I hand a newspaper to a woman passing by.

  “Well, I thought it would be rude of me to be in the building but not come see how you are doing. I am on my way to rehearsal. For the show.” Stuart emphasizes the word “show.” He has a job as a chorus dancer in Jubilee.

  I want to get in my own dig that as a chorus dancer he is not exactly the star of the show either. But I take the high road and turn my back on him instead, smiling as I hand a newspaper to another attendee.

  I am embarrassed at what I have to do to make a living. I recognize that to change my situation, I need to go back to school to get another skill set with some type of certification or degree. With no educational history in the United States, and with no record of a high-school diploma because of the different English educational system, I am forty years old and have to argue my way into a college and into a classroom for the first time in almost twenty-five years. I decide that working in the legal field will be a worthwhile profession. I see a new school has opened up in Las Vegas and offers a two-year associate degree in paralegal studies. I apply and I am eventually accepted after having to jump through hoops to register because I am not an American citizen.

  After completing the very first class, I decide I should quit the school because I am apparently wasting my time. My teacher hands me my course report card showing that I only scored four points in the class. I am horrified, embarrassed. I pull my friend to the side and ask her quietly so no one else can hear, “Is the score out of ten?” I show her my pink slip. “Did I only get four out of ten?”

  “Oh, Laraine! Four point oh is a perfect score.” She shows me her slip with her score of three point one and explains the grading system. I am delighted. I have a perfect score! Then I think, What a stupid system! Who thought of this daft way to score a class? I don’t quit school but carry on to graduate with a four point oh and to become the valedictorian.

  I decide it is a good time to apply for citizenship because for the first time in my adult life, I intend to live somewhere long enough to go through the citizenship process, which can take as long as two years. I become a citizen in June 2000. It is a proud moment in my life as I am sworn in at the Federal Courthouse. But I don’t take time to stop and think of the significance because I am busy. After attaining my two-year degree in eighteen months, all while working full time, I enroll for a bachelor of science degree in business management. I complete this four-year degree in just over two years, again while working full time. The only class I miss during my first two degrees is a Saturday morning class. I miss it because I am taking the LSAT at the university. A law school has just opened in Las Vegas, and I want to give it a try.

  I astound myself and get early admission into law school to attend the four-year night program. This allows me to continue working full time during the day. I am now a law clerk with a prestigious law firm. But not a day goes by as I walk into the law school, passing the sign WILLIAM S. BOYD SCHOOL OF LAW, that I don’t feel amazed at my accomplishment. I often find myself sitting in class with wonderment that I am able to articulate legal arguments with law professors and discuss the law on equal footing with my scholarly classmates; I find my mind is at home in this analytical legal arena. Never in a million years as I danced around the stage in high heels and feathers, would I have credited myself with the ability to become a lawyer.

  After eight years of school, taking and doubling up on accelerated classes, all while working full time, I graduate law school a semester early, so the graduation ceremony is being held in December just before Christmas.

  Loretta and my parents travel to Las Vegas to attend the ceremony. Graduation from law school, or any university, is a big event for the family, as I am the first person in my family to get a degree of any kind. The fact that the event coincides with Christmas and the New Year creates a perfect opportunity for the family to celebrate the holidays together, something we haven’t done in many years.

  Among the celebration and happy times are snippets of less than happy moments. By the time my family comes to visit for my graduation, Loretta has lost a couple of toes on her right foot, the result of the gangrene that diabetics constantly battle. On this one December morning, Loretta is slow to come downstairs, and when she does, she sits hunched on the couch in my living room. Loretta’s petite frame is contracted as if enduring an unbearable stomachache. The corners of her mouth are turned up in a false smile, but her eyes are narrowed; she looks focused on something other than the present. She won’t look at the family directly.

  “Are you all right, love?” Mum asks, used to Loretta’s illnesses and health-related problems. It is a question asked several times a day; it is an automatic communication with Loretta.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” The soft, sweet response fools us all.

  Loretta’s gait is slow as we visit sites in Las Vegas, see the Fountains of Bellagio, have dinner at the top of the Stratosphere, and walk through the Fashion Show Mall. Loretta doesn’t walk much. She sits down when she can, waiting for us to go into the various stores and meeting us on the way out. Dad often sits with Loretta, his lack of interest in shopping allowing him to keep Loretta company.

  “Are your shoes too tight?” Mum asks, watching her daughter’s struggled steps, and the wince as Loretta puts weight on each foot. The nurse in Mum takes over. “Do you want me to take a look at your feet, love? I’ll treat you to a new pair of shoes if you like, if those ones hurt.”

  “No, no. I’m fine, thanks. Just a bit tired is all.” A faint smile tries to show itself but isn’t convincing.

  One evening the family goes to the Fremont Street Experience, a million colored light bulbs flashing across the street-long ceiling as computer-generated images are choreographed to appear with the accompanying music. Loretta sits on a stone bench in the middle of the street, not looking up at the show but hunched over looking down at the ground. Seeing my sister’s collapsed posture, I realize she is not well but is braving the evening, saying nothing, not wanting to spoil the family fun. I sit down next to Loretta and put my arms around my sister, drawing the younger woman to me, holding her tight and rubbing Loretta’s head with my hand. It must look odd, two women sitting in the middle of the busy street hugging each other tight, but I don’t care. Loretta is not well. I don’t understand what is wrong, but as the older sister I want to make my sister better. Not able to offer any medical help, I do the next best thing. I close my eyes, feel the warm body against me, and take a deep breath, trying to draw the pain away from Loretta. I hug Loretta for many minutes, hoping she understands that even though I rarely take the time to visit her and our parents, the love is always present. That hug, that moment, becomes significant.

  My mind releases me from my memories, and I find myself still sitting on the couch, the room now completely dark. I lie down along the length of the cushions. Thinking of Loretta, the challenges, the sacrifices, I cry myself to sleep, still not understanding my sadness and sense of loss.

  An annoying buzzing sound interrupts my sleep. Opening my eyes, I see daylight. I have been asleep on the couch all night. I reach for the buzzing phone and see it is my mum. Flipping it open, I say, “Hi, Mum. How are you?”

  “How was it?” Mum asks about the exam, and I give a condensed version of the process and how I am glad it is over.

  After letting me say my piece, Mum says, “I have some sad news for you.”

  The hairs on my neck rise, my heart sinks. “Sad news? What’s happened?”

  Mum softly and slowly explains that two weeks earlier on February 14, Loretta had her leg amputated. “We didn’t want to tell you,” Mum says, “because we didn’t want to upset you and for the news to get in the way of your exam studies.”

  “Poor Loretta,” I whisper into the phone as tears express my reaction to the news.

  Mum continues, “Loretta’s foot had been bad for months, it had become gangrenous, and the gangrene had spread. She had been in terrible pain du
ring our visit to Las Vegas in December but didn’t tell a soul.”

  Mum continues to explain that Loretta has an additional complication. “Her stump, her wound, is infected by the super bug, MRSA, prevalent in British hospitals. Specially raised maggots have been brought in and wrapped around Loretta’s stump to eat away the infected flesh.” Mum explains that the seemingly medieval and somewhat barbaric treatment is apparently the best remedy for the infection, but still it makes me shudder; my stomach heaves at the image and what my sister is enduring. “Until the MRSA is cured, and her wound healed, Loretta can’t be fitted for a prosthetic. It might take months.”

  I think back to December. We had walked along the Las Vegas Strip, among the neon lights, pirate ships, and palm trees, while Loretta was silently suffering to herself. She had traveled to the States from England and back again while experiencing excruciating pain but not wanting to ruin my graduation, the family’s Christmas holiday. Each day the gangrene went untreated, unattended, the more it spread. Only when she was back in England did Loretta disclose the circumstances. Even then she thought of me before herself, not wanting the family to say anything to me lest the news should impede my exam study and affect my ability to focus on the bar exam.

  More prevalent is my awareness that I had been able to sense the loss, even before the telephone call from my mother. From thousands of miles away, as soon as my mind had been released from the focus of exam study, it opened up to the pain my sister was facing. The loss I feel is Loretta’s loss. The sisterly bonds are close and unbroken despite the distance between us.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The day of Dad’s funeral arrives, and it is both sunny and rainy, as if highlighting the bright moments of Dad’s life yet crying because it is over. Mum is stoic, knowing the day will come sometime but clearly not ready for it to be now, today. I know what the plans are. I have worked with the people from the funeral home, talked to the minister, and coordinated events with the family. Mum has booked an events room with a bar at the sports center across the street, where everyone will meet for the wake after the funeral. Mum and I fuss and fret with our black outfits, wanting to look our best for Dad, a daft thought under the circumstances.

  Family and friends have started gathering at the house, having a drink in Dad’s honor, the conversation focusing on my father.

  “Laraine.” I hear my mother’s soft voice call me from the top of the stairs. “Will you come up here with me, love?”

  I go upstairs to her bedroom. Mum doesn’t want to be downstairs with everyone right now. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now. She wants peace and quiet.

  “We are going to wait here for the hearse to come because this bedroom window has a clear view along the road.”

  I sense this is important to my mother, as important as the funeral service itself, because of the ceremony involved, and Mum wants to witness it done for Dad. I look down at the woman. She looks uncharacteristically vulnerable. I sense my mum needs all her strength to help her get through this day. I will be here for her.

  We two women stand at the bedroom window, watching as the hearse finally comes down the road and approaches the house. It is the middle of the day, and despite the busy traffic on the two-lane road, the hearse stops about a hundred feet from the house; the attendant gets out, dons his top hat, and solemnly begins the slow walk in front of the hearse to the house. Family and friends step outside to watch the hearse approach, to pay their respects. Other drivers on the road slow in deference. Through the large windows of the hearse, I see it is full of flower tributes to my dad, including a rectangular arrangement depicting Scotland’s white-and-blue flag of St. Andrew. He loved flowers. He would have been pleased.

  My mother, Loretta, Mark, Uncle Colin, Uncle Russell, and I ride in the funeral cars to the chapel while other friends and family make their own way to Portchester. The hearse with Dad leads the procession, and I take the time during the drive to go over the words of the eulogy in my head. I have spent several days crafting the words, the story, until it sounds just right. Family members had come together for dinners and events in the evenings, but I had excused myself to sit alone in the old conservatory at the back of the house to write. I didn’t care what anyone thought about me not joining in. I didn’t want to be sociable. I had something more important to do, and I wanted to get it right.

  The hearse and cars arrive at the entrance to the crematorium. They drive slowly through the ornate iron gates, and I look around at the manicured gardens and the vibrant display of color provided by the flowers. I haven’t been here before, and I am pleased that it is as pretty as I had hoped. The cars slow down even more and a piper in full kilt regalia steps in front of the hearse to pipe Dad’s journey to the chapel, the lament of the bagpipes echoing the lament in everyone’s heart this day. As the cars near the chapel, I see many dozens of people gathered around, dark forms dressed in black, but as they come closer, the forms are crowned with familiar faces, all come to pay tribute to my dad. As the family gets out of the car, I am even more surprised to see dozens more people emerge from a large shed across the way as the coffin is carried from the car and placed on the shoulders of the pallbearers, Mark included. The turnout is tremendous. I am pleased to see so many people making the effort and giving up their time to pay their respects to my father.

  The piper continues to play the Scots ballads and Dad’s favorites. The coffin is carried into the chapel, down the aisle, and placed in front of the altar. The chapel is pretty, tastefully decorated with white flowers and greenery. I had ordered two large photographs of Dad, one of him as a young matelot, and one of him in later years, to be placed in front of the coffin so the mourners can see his cheeky grin as they pay him tribute. I take a moment to look at those photographs and acknowledge the disparity of the circumstances. This quiet, unassuming man, who had always sat quietly on life’s sidelines, is to be the center of our attention today. He deserves it. For a brief moment I wonder if as many people would come to my funeral as have come to his. I look around at the large number of people coming into the chapel. Probably not.

  Family and friends fill the pews of the chapel, and still many more people have to stand against the back wall. I know some people have traveled hundreds of miles to attend Dad’s funeral, including yotties, who have made the journey from across England and Scotland, all come to pay tribute to one of their own. I am grateful. Dad’s brother, my Uncle Rusty, arrived last night from Glasgow. I haven’t seen him in about thirty-five years, and I am still not over the shock of how much Uncle Rusty looks like Dad. He even has the same blue eyes and cheeky grin. It is as though Dad is back with us, and I want to hug him tight and never let him go. As the family of the deceased, we take our seats in the front rows of the chapel. I sit at the end of the row closest to the aisle so I can move more easily to the lectern to give the eulogy.

  The service begins, the congregation sings a hymn, and the vicar says the appropriate words for someone who had lived in her parish but whom she had never met, who had never attended one of her services. Like me, my father had been baptized in the Presbyterian Church of Scotland. Dad had attended church every Sunday at St. Andrews, the Presbyterian Church in Portsmouth, and when I was old enough, I joined him, going to the Sunday school held behind the church. Some years ago St. Andrews was closed. The family would attend Church of England services at St. Mary’s on special occasions, but it was the vicar of the parish where my parents lived who had to conduct the funeral service. Even though they had never attended the vicar’s church, I am grateful the vicar has agreed to do the funeral service today.

  I hear the vicar’s words, but am not really listening to them. I am mentally preparing myself for the tribute I am about to give. It will be my job to take the genericness of the service and turn it into something more meaningful and personal to those present. The vicar nods at me when my turn comes to give the eulogy. I calmly rise from my seat, walk unhurriedly to the lecter
n, prepare my notes, and look out at my audience.

  I take a deep breath and then exhale, allowing my muscles to relax, and to place myself within an intangible calming cocoon. Now is the time to put my own emotions aside, to be the consummate performer I have learned to be. Time to show my strength, as no matter how sad I am, and how moved I am by the words I am to speak, I must not cry. I have to rise above human emotions and hold myself together. Because only by putting my own emotions aside and speaking with a clear, true voice, and without faltering, can I properly deliver the eulogy and let people hear and learn of the person who was my father.

  I have memorized every word of the eulogy, as I had learned as a performer to rehearse and rehearse until the steps or the lyrics were automatic, because only then can you forget about them and concentrate on their delivery, on communicating their message to the audience. All eyes on me, I begin to speak.

  “I want to speak for my father today because it is important for us to take a moment to pay our respects. It is the least we can do for him, after all he did for so many of us. Everyone here has their own special memories of my dad, and I know that the tribute I now pay him doesn’t come from my heart alone.”

  I pause; take another calming breath.

  “Dad was born in 1931 and came from a very humble background, living in one of the poorest areas of Glasgow. He never knew his father. His mum worked long hours to give Dad and his two brothers the most basic of needs. Dad didn’t have much. He didn’t expect much. He would tell the story of when he was a small boy and had rheumatic fever. He was left home alone all day to fend for himself. He would wake up in the morning and his mother was already at work, his brothers on their way to school. But rather than lay in bed all day, Dad would gather his clothes and, in pajamas and bare feet, go out into the street to ask a passerby to help him get dressed. He wanted to go to school with his brothers. He wanted to do something useful. To me there was something tragic in this image of a small boy standing on the street asking strangers to help him get dressed because he wanted to be with his brothers, and I share it with you now so you can understand how far Dad had come in life; from his humble origins in Glasgow, to invitations to Buckingham Palace. We can take comfort in knowing that Dad’s life was far from tragic but was instead a truly amazing journey.

 

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