by Kim Holden
It’s dark outside and a good time for reflection. “I never imagined a week like the one I’ve just lived. Was it like this when you lost your dad?”
He’s thoughtful. “Much like this I suppose. It was chaotic. I don’t remember a lot of specifics, even from the funeral, but I do remember emotions. My mom was devastated. I was sad. Sebastian was distant. Death is a confusing creature.”
I stare at the table and nod. “That it is.” I hesitate a few moments before asking my next question. “Where do you think they are now?”
He tilts his head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve always gone to church every Sunday with Sunny, right?”
He nods.
“I’ve never set foot inside a church, aside from the occasional wedding or funeral. Since you’re the only religious person in the room, I thought you might know. They talk about death and heaven in the Bible, right?”
Another nod. “They do talk about death and heaven in the Bible.”
“Then where do you think my parents are now? Are they in heaven?”
His smile is slight and thoughtful. “Ronnie, just because someone attends church every Sunday doesn’t mean they know what happens after we die. There are theories, certainly—every religion has its own.”
“What is your church’s theory?” This is important to me, so I keep prodding.
He exhales and I’m not sure if I’m testing his perfect patience. “Ronnie, do you know why I go to church every Sunday?”
I’m prepared for a sermon of sorts. “No.”
His smile softens. “I go because Sunny enjoys it and I like to see her happy. But I also go out of pure curiosity. It fascinates me.”
“What do you mean, curiosity? I always just thought you were really religious and that we’d never discussed it because you knew I wasn’t.”
He chuckles and says, “Let’s just say that I tend to have a very clear set of beliefs and what I like to call ‘knowns.’ Occasionally these do coincide with the ideology preached at the church I attend. But usually they do not. I sit back and watch the congregation closely every week and it always astounds me how different they all are. I don’t mean physically. I mean spiritually, religiously. They’re all reading the same Bible, hearing the same sermons, yet each person in the room interprets it differently. No two people practice exactly the same, even though they huddle together under their chosen religion’s umbrella. Some are there for purely social reasons, some because they’re coerced by their spouses, some because they truly believe. But even the true believers believe variations of the story. People by nature are all wired differently; it’s what makes us individuals. Variety is beautiful. But with that kind of variety, how can any two people possibly have exactly the same beliefs about something as intangible as religion?”
I shrug. I’m following him, but admittedly shocked by the philosophical turn my questioning has taken.
He knows he’s just given me a lot to think about and he pokes my chest gently with his finger. “Where does your heart tell you they are?” He pauses. “Because that’s all that matters.”
I hesitate and take a deep breath. “I don’t know. I mean, I’m supposed to say heaven, right?”
He shrugs. “That is a widely popular view, at least in western civilization.” He says this in a mock-official tone, as a history teacher might. “People in eastern civilizations may beg to differ. But really, east and west don’t matter. Religious and spiritual views are highly personal. What did your parents believe?”
I shake my head and shrug. “They never really talked about death, aside from making it clear that they wanted to be cremated and didn’t want a funeral. As far as religion, they didn’t practice anything specifically. My mom was spiritual, but she focused more on how we live our lives, how we treat each other, and how our thoughts and actions affect future thoughts and actions. She believed there was definitely a larger force at work in the universe and she talked about life as if it were unending. She acknowledged the fact that death is inevitable, but the idea never seemed to frighten her. My dad was the same way. He just said ‘death is a part of life.’”
He smiles. “That sounds like Will and Jo.”
I let out an exasperated huff. “Exactly! Profound maybe, but extremely vague, which leaves me with no answers.”
His smile softens and he narrows his eyes. “What is it that Veronica Smith believes? You’ve had many years to ponder life. You can’t tell me you have no ideas. I know you too well—you analyze everything. The fact that you’ve never attended church makes you no less competent than any theologian to formulate your own theories. Religion and spirituality arise from within. And you, my dear, have an opinion … about everything.”
I hesitate and take a deep breath. “It’s going to sound silly to you.”
He winks. “Probably not, so let’s hear it.”
I bite my lip, unsure if I should share my thoughts. “Well … I would like to believe that my parents are still with me.” I eye him cautiously.
“They’re always with you,” he says in a comforting voice. “In your heart and especially in your memories.” He strokes my cheek and an almost pained look emerges in his eyes. “Memories are more meaningful and powerful than you can imagine.”
My eyes begin to burn with tears. “I don’t want them to be only a memory. I want them back.” I wipe the tears from my cheeks with my shirtsleeve and look down at the table. “I know it’s not possible, but deep down I feel like they haven’t left us. That they’re nearby. Not in heaven, but here on Earth.” I wait for a response but he doesn’t offer one. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” He doesn’t answer until I raise my head to meet his gaze.
His expression is gentle. “No.”
I’m relieved. “So, where do you think they are?”
“I think they are wherever your heart tells you they are; that should be all that matters.”
That statement is the single-most reassuring and comforting thing I’ve heard in days. Countless people have offered their condolences over the phone and through personal interactions. Even mere acquaintances have tried to reassure me with their own religious beliefs as if they are a universal truth we all share.
Guess what? We don’t all share one truth.
Religious sentiment, even, or especially, in the case of something as monumental as death isn’t always necessary, wanted, or warranted. I wish everyone realized this.
Dimitri’s words unknowingly sum up and shape a lifetime of my spiritual beliefs. It’s something I will always remember and look to for guidance. My beliefs are not in a book or a speech, but in my heart … and that should be all that matters.
Life is sometimes … whatever your heart tells you.
Chapter 17
Old guys are cool
And so is Billie Holiday
I finish out the week at home, but when Monday morning rolls around I force myself to go to work. Sunny, of course, insists that I take another week off, but the thought of another day alone with my grief and self-pity is nauseating. I need a distraction and though the house is paid off, I still need money for utilities and food. Work is a necessity now. I don’t want to touch my parents’ savings unless absolutely necessary.
I’m 18, and I’m officially grown-up.
I pack my lunch and grab my bag. As I turn the doorknob to head out the back door to the garage, anxiety grips me. I stand in the driveway, staring through the open garage door at Jezebel parked next to my dad’s truck and his old Porsche. It dawns on me that I haven’t been out to the garage since before graduation. Dimitri or Sunny drove me everywhere I needed to go for the past week. The cars are yet another reminder of the loss, but what aches most is the gaping hole where my mom’s Subaru is usually parked. It, of course, was the car they died in. It was completely destroyed, along with them.
Without realizing it, I’ve dropped to my knees on the driveway. Suddenly the nerve endings begin to scream in protest against the
rocks now embedded in my right kneecap. I ease myself up and lift my skirt to get a look at my knee. It’s bleeding, but overall it looks worse than it feels. I brush away the rocks and pick up my bag. I’ll clean it up at work. I’ve got an early start, and Sunny won’t be there yet to fuss over me.
I put the imaginary blinders on and walk straight to Jezebel, getting in without a sideways glance at the other two cars in the garage. I blink through tears, but the cars are like a neon sign flashing in the darkness of my peripheral vision. The sign flashes: “Your parents are dead. You are alone.”
My tires squeal as I hit the gas and back down the driveway. I hit the button to close the garage door on my way down the drive, and I don’t look back making a promise to myself at that moment never to park in the garage again. The idea of opening that door and seeing the void is too painful.
As I suspected, I don’t see Sunny’s car parked out front. I sling my bag over my shoulder and gather my skirt up to avoid getting blood on it from the scrape on my bruised knee. I unlock the front door and march directly to the back room of the office. I drop my bag on the floor in front of the sink and wet a paper towel with water. A thin line of blood has trickled down my shin. Normally, the sight of blood makes me a bit light-headed, but I prop my foot up on a nearby chair and inspect the cut for rocks before I start wiping it off. No rocks. No nausea. Bonus. I dab at the cut cautiously.
“Hello young lady. You must be Miss Veronica.”
I jump back and the chair my foot’s resting on tips over with a crash. I turn to look behind me, in the direction of the unfamiliar voice, quickly running over escape options in my mind.
A short, white-haired man with a gentle smile stands in the doorway with his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry to have frightened you, miss. That was thoughtless of me. Allow me to introduce myself properly.” He lowers his right hand and extends it tentatively toward me. “My name is Bob Carruthers. It appears we have the happy coincidence of finding ourselves co-workers.” He has a friendly, southern accent.
I unclench my fists—which I’d unconsciously raised to chest level, and exhale deeply. I’d been ready for the fight if escape wasn’t an option. I approach Bob and shake his hand. “I’m Veronica. It’s nice to meet you, Bob. I apologize; I’m not usually so jumpy; I just didn’t think anyone else would be here yet.” I walk back and set the chair back up on four legs.
“I realize it’s probably inappropriate for a gentleman of my age to be looking at your legs, Miss Veronica, but are you all right?” His face is creased with concern.
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Yes, I had a … an accident of sorts this morning. I’ll be fine.”
His features soften. “Does Miss Sunny have a first aid kit around here somewhere?”
I pause, fighting against tears threatening to erupt. I cannot and will not cry in front of this man I’ve only just met. I’m sure he knows about my situation and I don’t want or need his pity. I clear my throat. “I think Sunny keeps one in the bathroom.”
Bob disappears to fetch the first aid kit before I can look up. When he returns, he looks anxious to help. He hands me a cleansing wipe, some ointment, and two bandages.
I glance quickly at his dark eyes, slightly magnified behind thick spectacles, and then look away. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, miss.”
I clean up my knee and Bob briefly brings me up to date on the project he’s working on. It’s something new since I’ve been away. Bob and I work side by side without speaking for almost two hours. The radio plays softly in the background. It’s tuned to some jazz station that Bob appears to be fond of.
Our silence is uncomfortable at first. I feel rude for not striking up conversation, but the tightness in my throat is relentless. Bob, on the other hand, seems completely at ease with the silence. He works at a consistent and steady pace with a perpetually peaceful look on his face that always hints at a smile. He’s calming.
I began to relax as lunchtime approaches. Bob hums along to a song on the radio. His voice is unexpectedly pleasant. I look at him and smile.
He looks up, blushing. “I’m sorry, Miss Veronica, does my humming bother you?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Do you like Billie Holiday?” he asks.
“Is that who’s singing?”
He nods.
I smile. “It’s not bad. Different from what I usually listen to, but it’s … familiar in a way. I think I like it.”
He smiles triumphantly. “Tomorrow you’ll have to share some of your music with me. Sometimes I get stuck in a rut and forget that music has been made since 1950. I tend to stick with my favorites.”
The thought of this sweet older gentleman listening to “my” music makes me chuckle. “We have a deal, Bob. We’ll alternate days. You can school me on pre-1950 and I’ll bring you up to date.” I pause to look at his enthusiastic expression and smile. My heart softens a little. “Sometimes I forget music was made before the last five years. I could stand to expand my horizons.”
He nods. “Wonderful.”
The morning brings about an unpredicted, serendipitous friendship between an eighteen-year-old girl and a 75-year-old soul. By lunch we’re engaged in light conversation. Bob eats a peanut butter and butter sandwich on white bread, which he had wrapped in wax paper, and an apple sliced in quarters. When silence returns in the afternoon it’s accepting and legitimate; the kind of silence that can only be appreciated fully by the best of friends. We’ve also established an unspoken rule: he doesn’t ask about my parents and I don’t ask about his wife.
Sunny arrives just as we’re cleaning up to go home for the day and she’s surprised to see me there. “Veronica, I didn’t expect to see you here today, honey. I would’ve stopped by earlier if I’d known.” She’s clearly distressed in her usual motherly way.
“You do pay me to actually work, remember?” I change the subject before she has the chance to question my state of mind further and smile in Bob’s direction. “After we got introductions out of the way, Bob and I had a very productive day.”
“Oh heavens, I feel awful for not being here to introduce the two of you.” She’s fretting.
Bob is quick to defuse Sunny’s guilt with a gentle smile. “Miss Veronica and I were quite capable of introductions,” he says gently. “Though I’m afraid I may have frightened her near to death when I arrived. She’s feisty though, and was prepared to put up a fight. I can see why Dimitri fancies her. He’s smart, that boy of yours, always thought so. I must say I approve wholeheartedly of this match.” He winks at me before pulling on a felt fedora. He tips his hat to each of us. “Good evening, ladies. I’m off to catch my bus.”
We answer in unison, “Good evening, Bob.”
The door shuts behind Bob and I feel Sunny’s worried eyes on me. Hurriedly I offer, “Bob’s really nice. I like him a lot.”
Sunny smiles. “He is.” I can see that she is struggling with how to broach the subject.
I let her off the hook, trying to answer her unasked questions and concerns. “Sunny, I’m okay. I don’t need anything. I’m fine.” The words are unsettling, and hard to get out. The lump returns to my throat and I can’t continue. Hurriedly I hug her, grab my bag, and walk out the door.
I’m in tears by the time I reach Jezebel. Driving out of the parking lot I find myself unable to go home. Suddenly I want to be anywhere but home. I turn my phone off and drive until sunset. Eventually, not by conscious effort, I find my way home and park on the street, keeping my promise to stay out of the garage, and enter the house through the front door. I cannot remember ever unlocking the front door. We always use the back door.
This moment is symbolic.
I have to do things differently if I’m going to get through this grieving process.
Process. What an impersonal term for such excruciatingly intimate and gut-wrenching feelings. Whoever coined the term clearly hadn’t been through the “process�
� firsthand.
The only familiarity I cannot do without is Dimitri. I turn on my phone and see that he’s tried to call several times. I dial and he answers on the first ring, his voice verging on desperation, almost breathless. “Ronnie?”
The churning in my stomach subsides with the sound of his voice. “Hi baby.”
He exhales, relieved. “Ronnie.”
“Have you eaten dinner yet?” He’s come over and eaten dinner with me the past few days, beginning a trend that I discover I want to continue.
“Nope. I’m starving. Can I come over? I have a new recipe to try out.”
I smile; the pain of the past few hours releases its clutch on my heart. “A new recipe? Okay.”
He knocks on the backdoor exactly seven minutes later, even though the drive from his house should take at least fifteen.
I open the door to a bewildered expression on his handsome face. “Why is Jezebel parked out front?”
I fumble for words. “Um, yeah, I just decided I wanted to park out front tonight. The garage door is … the garage door is broken.”
He turns to go back outside. “I’ll take a look at it before we eat.”
I grab his shoulder. “No, you’re starving and so am I. It’s late, let’s eat. You can look at it another time.”
He turns and steps back in the house eyeing me suspiciously. “Okay.” He knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t push it.
Dimitri pulls out a recipe card from his pocket, and we set to work. It’s a recipe of Sunny’s—chicken cacciatore—and though he is admittedly challenged in the kitchen, he’s trying so hard to impress me. He told me once that he couldn’t cook anything but grilled cheese and I’ve discovered this past week that wasn’t far from the truth. We’re polar opposites in the kitchen: I measure ingredients by sight and taste. Dimitri measures ingredients with painstaking accuracy, using any and all available utensils or devices. I don’t follow recipes. Dimitri never deviates from them. Cutting, chopping, even using a can opener seems foreign to him. It’s almost comical to watch him struggle with something, especially something I’m good at. It definitely doesn’t happen often.