“Therefore, let us pray for those who have lost a great friend and neighbor. Let us pray that Marie’s example of Christian charity will shine forth in all of us.”
She pictures Dad driving the bus along Hennepin. Where is he at this moment? Drinking coffee and surveying the range? Riding a horse through the hills? She had to phone him about her death, of course, but was unprepared for his long, ragged moan, which said everything about regret and resignation.
The communion line is short. Neither Monica nor Jeanne receive. Not even today, she thinks, not even for this woman who lit all those candles.
Now it’s over. Father instructs them to stand, to go in peace. She’s supposed to walk outside. Pretend Mom is truly gone. Spend the rest of her life without her.
The organist plays “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”
Beata takes her arm, whispering. “Come, they expect us to be the first to leave.”
Already Jeanne and Eric are in the aisle behind Father, who leads them to the door.
Dazed, she walks along, holding Beata’s hand.
Jeanne stands next to Father Dolan, numbly accepting condolences. Monica takes her position on the other side of the priest.
Sometime in the late afternoon, she notices Beata’s spacious flat is packed with people enjoying plates of ham, chicken and potato salad. The Altar Society ladies have brought cookies and pies. Eric has supplied cold drinks and is supervising the coffee and tea. She’s so lucky to have attentive, abiding Eric in her life.
Jeanne looks calmer. Monica maintains her distance, still afraid of what she might say, also leery of smelling her sister’s breath.
During a lull in the sincere, effusive, overwhelming condolences, she drifts over to the window and glances at the back yard.
Mom never did take down the swing set.
Every night of summer vacation, she and Jeanne played on the swings after dinner. Monica loved to soar high, high above and dream about the chain looping over the top as she made a beautiful circle. Maybe one day she’d fly hot air balloons or airplanes. Jeanne preferred a shorter, boring rhythm closer to the ground.
“Come on, try, Jeanne, you can get this high too.”
“I don’t want to. I’m fine.”
“Come on, it’s fun…”
“Not my kind of fun,” she grumbled.
Monica watched the pretty, apple-faced girl sway monotonously back and forth.
“You’re just scared,” she prodded.
“You’re nuts!” Jeanne shouted. “Nuts. Nuts. Swings are dangerous. Kevin O’Reilly spent two weeks in the hospital. Do you know people can die? Mom and Dad could die, you and I could…”
Baffled by this cautiousness, Monica cajoled. “Come on, nobody’s going to die. Not for a while. You’re six years old. You’re smart enough not to go too high.”
Jeanne jumped down and ran to the back porch. She picked up Felix and stroked the cat ardently.
Monica shakes her head, startled to see that the swing set is painted blue, that it resides in Beata’s back garden. That’s right, they sold the house when Mom moved to Duluth. The swings are gone; the homestead is gone. Mom is dead.
A tap on her elbow.
Mrs. Wilson looks healthy, alert, a little tired, with sweat along her hairline from the June humidity. “I’ll be going now, dear.”
“Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Wilson.”
“Of course. Marie was the model neighbor. She was lucky how successful, yet dutiful, her daughters were in different ways. What a saint Jeanne was at the end.”
“Yes,” she nods numbly. “We both loved Mom a great deal.”
“Yes, both of you. She was so proud of her daughter, the doctor. There weren’t many children from our neighborhood who went as far as you did.”
She smiles faintly, wants to disappear.
Now that it’s evening, her attention clicks on and off. One minute, she’s thanking Eric and the next she’s silently arguing with Jeanne. One minute she’s talking to Father and the next she’s wondering when Mom will show up at this lovely party.
Time to go. Does she imagine this? Is she being released? All the guests have gone. Jeanne, too. Washing up is finished.
“Thank you, thank you. She throws her arms around Beata and Eric. “You’re the best of friends.”
They all hang on tight, swaying affectionately.
Monica sighs, detaches, reaches for her purse. “I have early morning patients.”
“No, Monica,” Eric demurs. “Beata has made a dinner reservation at Frosts. To unwind. You don’t want to go back to an empty apartment.”
Empty apartment. There’s nothing she craves as much.
“Yes, Monica, it will be good for all of us to debrief,” Beata tries, “or even to sit quietly over a glass of wine in a room without funeral echoes.”
“Sorry. You’ve both been very, very kind. I need to be alone. So much to absorb.”
“Monica,” Eric takes her hand, “stay.”
“No,” Beata touches his shoulder. “If solitude is what she needs, we must let her go.”
“Okay,” he says reluctantly. “Remember we love you. Call if you want company.”
She nods, afraid that if she says another word, she’ll burst into tears.
Hours later, she’s still driving the streets of St. Paul. Very dark now, it’s time to head home. On the freeway, she feels queasy but she makes it safely to the Hennepin exit. She pulls over and starts walking, starved for fresh air.
The sky is that majestic blue-black before the night shade is completely drawn. She hopes Beata and Eric aren’t trying to reach her at home. Finally, the temperature has dropped and there’s a slight wind. Or is that the breath of cars zipping along Hennepin?
Dad will be by soon. She looks for him on each bus. He has to pass here. She buttons her sweater. Mom will be mad she’s left home without a jacket.
“Spare change, Lady?” The skinny man reminds her of Armand Millar from fourth grade.
“Spare change, Lady?” he says more loudly, as if she’s really a lady.
“Sure,” she digs in her pocket for a dime. She won’t need bus fare. Dad always let her ride for free and she’s not allowed to tell Mom, who is strict about the seventh commandment and doesn’t believe in cheating the bus company.
“Thanks, Ma’am.” He shuffles off.
“Ma’am,” imagine that.
Her watch says 11:30. Mom will be frantic at this hour. She must wonder where Dad is, too.
A police car pulls over, idles nearby.
Two concerned cops hop out and approach her. One officer, the woman, sits beside Monica at the bench. “Waiting for a bus, Miss?”
“I’m not a miss,” she says for some reason. “I’m a doctor. Dr. Murphy. Well, I plan to be a doctor when I grow up.”
“Dr. Murphy,” the officer repeats solemnly. “May I see your ID?”
She hands over a big wallet. Where did she get that?
Something cracks. The breeze stops. Monica is freezing on a dark bench talking to a police woman. Crazy. They think she’s crazy.
“Yes, officer,” she pulls herself together. “I had a problem with my car. My mother died and…” She’s weeping uncontrollably. Sobbing as she couldn’t sob at home, at church, keening at midnight at a bus stop on Hennepin Avenue.
“There, there, Doctor,” the officer places a light hand on her shoulder. “I see you live about a mile from here in Uptown. Why don’t we drive you home? Is your car safely parked?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Is there someone we can call? A relative?”
“No, no relative,” she panics.
“Perhaps a friend?”
“Beata,” she says numbly and recites her best friend’s phone number.
TWENTY-SIX
September, October, 1999, Minnesota
Beata lounges across from her in the blue easy chair, reading a novel. Monica stares out at the yellowing gingko and the fiery maple. Soon the early dark will be upon them. And perhaps sleep will come easier than it has this summer.
Beata looks up. “You OK?”
“Fine, just thinking about autumn.”
“Great colors this year, they predict.”
“You’re really the best.”
Beata frowns doubtfully.
“Spending all this time with me. Being good company, reading or watching silly videos. I’m so grateful.”
“This is what friends do, hang out together.”
The telephone rips through the evening’s hard-won tranquility. Monica’s nerve endings are completely exposed.
Deliberately, she returns to her book.
The ringing persists. Does it grow louder?
Beata watches her.
“Machine will get it,” Monica says, eyes fixed on her book.
Two clicks, then: “Monica, it’s Eric. Again. Please pick up. Why are you avoiding me? Did I do something? Not do something? Please call. I’ve put off going to the cabin for weeks and I should leave soon. Call me, Monica. Please.” Click.
She gazes out the back window.
“So what’s going on?” Beata asks.
“How do you mean?”
“Why aren’t you answering his calls? OK, you needed space the first few weeks, but he’s been ringing a very long time.” Her brown eyes round with worry.
“I can’t take care of anyone right now.”
“What if he wants to take care of you?”
Jeanne sat on the swing, her face wrenched with anguish. “Do you know people can die?”
She shrugs.
“Are you angry with him?”
“Why would I be angry?” she flares. Startled by her intensity, she adds quietly, “What makes you say that?”
“You feel this groundless guilt about Marie’s death. Maybe you think he was some kind of accomplice?”
“Thank you, Dr. Johnson, for your shattering insight.”
Beata sits back. “Sorry, that was intrusive.”
Monica can’t hold back the tears. “No, you’ve been wonderful, Beata. Eric, yes, in some twisted way, I may hold him complicit in that awful weekend. I feel so ashamed.”
“There was nothing shameful about it.”
“Then why do I feel so god-damned guilty?”
“Because it’s easier than feeling other things?”
“Like torment about not saying good-bye to Mom.” She pounds the arm of the couch. “Like rage at Jeanne.”
Beata joins Monica on the couch, slips an arm around her shoulder. “Maybe, yes.”
“And betrayal. I failed utterly in the last, most important time. I abandoned her, like Dad. I feel so alone. I’m grateful for your friendship. And for Eric. I truly wish I knew how to take him back into my life.”
“You could start by answering one of his calls, just talking.”
“I don’t think I can risk it, the disappointment. Deep down, I feel all alone now. So alone.”
“Monica, there’s something I’ve been wanting to mention.”
She looks up, wiping the tears with the back of her hand.
“Now don’t get upset.”
“A shopping expedition?” Monica aims for a change in tone. “Another big shoe sale?”
“Metaphorically speaking,” Beata studies her. “Shopping for equanimity.”
Monica adroitly extricates herself from Beata’s embrace. Yet she knows she’ll acquiesce. There’s no choice.
“A retreat but not what you think. This is ecumenical: Buddhist and Catholic, considering the Paramitas from different spiritual traditions—at St. Ursula’s in a few weeks. Fall is stunning out there. We could take walks. You could attend as few sessions as you liked.”
*****
Most days are slow, ponderous. One early Friday morning, before anyone arrives, she reviews patient notes. It takes a while to settle in, the grief counselor says. Monica has given the same advice to her own patients. Even after years in Medicine, watching people die, helping people die, it’s completely unbelievable that her mother is gone.
A rap on the door. “Monica, are you there?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“It’s me, Jill.” A pause. “May I speak with you?”
Cautiously, Monica opens to the door.
Jill holds out a book. “This was really helpful when my dad died. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“No,” she says, suddenly aware of her defensive posture. “Would you like to come in?”
“For a moment,” Jill says. “I have to be at the station by eight. But I didn’t get to speak with you after your mother’s Mass.”
“Thank you for coming.” She is chastened.
“I hope you are taking care of yourself. I’m doing a series on family leave this month. Paternity, caretaker, grief. Have you caught any of the spots?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Compassionate leave is an important preventive measure. And if you need more time, I’ll talk with Louise.”
“Thank you. Really, thanks.” She can’t think of anything she’d like less than Jill appealing to Louise or being the poster child for her radio show. She should be grateful. The woman is trying to help. Like so many people. Eric urges her to come up to the Boundary Waters. The grief counselor invites her to join a group. Mrs. Wilson calls every week, offering a home-cooked meal.
“It’s the least I can do.” Jill takes her hand.
“Actually, Jill, work is the best therapy for me. Thanks so much for coming by. And for the book.”
Jill touches Monica’s arm. “Just let me know.” She closes the door softly behind her.
Head on her desk, Monica sobs in dry heaves.
*****
The room is almost monastic, well, cheery monastic. A single bed and a small sink. A bathroom shared with the neighboring cell. Straight back chair with a small desk facing French doors which open out to a woods of oak and maple. She thinks about Carol Fitzpatrick and the certainty of their youth.
Monica unpacks and pulls out a map of local hiking trails.
The opening evening, Beata has promised, will be light on ritual.
*****
She sits beside Beata and watches the speakers appear. The round, sixtyish woman named Mary Arneson, is a Buddhist teacher. The priest from Pondicherry, Father Sanjay Daniel, is as thin as his colleague is round and as dark as she is fair. Perfect Minnesota nod to diversity, she thinks sardonically, checking out the audience, mostly white, save for Beata and a Southeast Asian man near the back.
Beata pats her hand encouragingly.
Pay attention, Monica. Don’t waste the entire weekend stewing in suspicion.
Mary Arneson introduces each of the Paramitas: Generosity. Morality. Renunciation. Wisdom. Energy. Patience. Truthfulness. Determination. Lovingkindness. Equanimity. Her long dark hair falls to the shoulders of a shapeless blue dress, a tent capacious enough to contain all these virtues and more.
Father Daniel explains that they’ll review five Paramitas on Saturday and five on Sunday. Each afternoon there will be a general discussion. Monica likes his informal authority and openness.
“A room at the south end of the building is always open for silent meditation.” He tugs absently at his clerical collar. “Curiosity. Dispute. Enthusiasm. Skepticism. All attitudes are embraced here.”
***
**
She follows Beata in the cafeteria line and they snag places at a corner table. She prefers a personal chat to a “getting to know you” chat with five unknown seekers.
Dusk huddles in. Autumn days are growing shorter. Orange and red leaves glow in the last light.
“May I join you?” A high-pitched, familiar voice.
Monica’s heart sinks at the thought of being trapped in “community.”
“Certainly, Father,” Beata answers for them. “Please sit down.”
She recovers. “Yes, welcome, Father.”
“I’m eager to meet Americans on their home turf, as it were,” he speaks with British-inflected English. The crisp lyrical accent Monica enjoyed this afternoon.
“You’ve never met Americans before?” Beata inquires.
That’s it. Let Beata handle him: she loves priests. Monica can zone out. Maybe excuse herself early and read in the room.
“Oh, I know Americans in India,” he smiles. “Several work in our medical mission.”
“Medical mission?” Monica asks.
Suddenly, they’re the only ones left in the cafeteria. Beata sips her tea and watches happily as they chat.
“You know a fair amount about India,” Father Daniel is pleased.
“Not really. A grade school project. Close Indian friends from med school. And I devour novels from South Asia.”
Beata stretches, “If you’ll both excuse me, I should prepare for bed. I understand tomorrow is a big retreat day.”
Father Daniel throws up his hands. “Apologies for monopolizing your evening. I didn’t expect to find another doctor here and someone like you, Beata, so well-versed in public health questions. Thank you for a most enlightening conversation.” He bows and departs.
Traveling with Spirits Page 23