“I want her to look as Katie-like as possible,” I tell him, “so I want to do her makeup and hair myself.” Scott shoots me a surprised look. “No regrets,” I whisper. He nods.
“All right,” Karl says. “We’ll leave her hair and makeup for you.”
We need to pick out a casket. And for cremation, we need to select an urn.
“We have a lovely assortment of urns on display in the front lobby,” Karl says. Ahhh . . . the vases in the curio. “And we offer an inexpensive pressboard casket for those choosing cremation, but I’d encourage you to look around before you decide.”
Scott and I wander the room and examine the caskets on display. Some are simple but elegant, some are ornate, and some are downright gaudy. We walk past caskets with themes like Catholic patron saint, Harley biker, American patriot, and hunter’s camouflage. Scott and I exchange a few wide-eyed glances. I guess there is no accounting for a variety of tastes. But all of the caskets are of fine quality. We are shocked at the sticker price that some people (or their families) are willing to pay for a fancy casket. It’s like buying a car.
“We don’t want to seem cheap,” Scott finally tells Karl, “but since Katie is being cremated, we really don’t want to spend a ton of money on a casket. It seems wasteful.”
“I completely understand,” he assures us. “Let’s go with the pressboard casket.”
I feel a little guilty choosing the cheapest option for our daughter.
“She’d be appalled if we spent thousands on a casket for cremation,” Scott says, as if reading my thoughts. “She would declare it bad stewardship of money.”
The director nods. “For the viewing, we can make a gurney look like a comfortable, tall twin bed. Then after the viewing, we can place her in the casket for cremation.” Perfect.
“I’ll bring you her pillow and her favorite quilt to lay on the gurney,” Scott says. The director suggests a second blanket to cover her legs and waist. I start writing a list.
“Send everything over by Wednesday,” Karl tells us. “And choose clothing that covers as much of the body as possible—long sleeves, boots, pants, that sort of thing. In Katie’s case, with her organ donation surgery, this will be even more important. Mrs. Vaudrey, be here by eleven o’clock on Thursday. We’ll schedule Dan’s private viewing for two o’clock. That will give you plenty of time to get Katie ready.”
I nod and write down the times.
“Also, someone needs to write an obituary for the Herald and the Trib,” he continues.
“That would be me,” I say.
“The print deadline is two thirty tomorrow. I’ll e-mail you their obituary guidelines.” I give him my e-mail address and write everything down, not trusting my addled brain to remember any of this once we walk out the door.
My cell phone rings. I recognize Fremd High School’s number on my caller ID. It must be Curt Pinley, Katie’s former art teacher, returning the call I placed earlier. He has already learned of Katie’s death and is heartbroken, our son Sam told me earlier this morning. But now I have a monumental favor to ask of him, so I excuse myself to answer his call. Scott continues talking with the director, making decisions we normally would make together. We are tag-teaming this thing once again.
Curt expresses his shock and sorrow when I answer my phone. I can hear the devastation in his voice. I give him a too-brief update on all that has happened. “Our friends are organizing an art exhibit for Katie’s wake,” I explain. “Her art from college is being shipped from California and will arrive here in a day or two, unframed. Plus most of her high school portfolio is also unframed. We’d like to display as much of her art as possible—which means everything needs to at least be matted. Is there any chance you and your students could mat her entire portfolio by Friday?”
“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation.
I then tell him about The Bleeding Tree. “Would you be willing to take a look at it and see if it can be restored?” I ask. “No hurry. It was just a rough-draft watercolor she threw together on pen and ink paper, but it was her final work of art.”
“Absolutely,” he says again. “It would be an honor.”
“Thanks, Curt. I’ll have Sam bring everything to the school as soon as it arrives.” I write down this task on my growing list. “Katie loved you, Curt. Thank you so much for giving her wings as an artist.”
“It was my pleasure. That girl was something, for sure. What a talent! We had a sparring sort of relationship, she and I. I gave her a hard time, and she gave me a hard time right back, and we both were good with that.” I knew this to be true from the stories Katie told me during high school.
“She and I had different ideas about religion,” he continues. “I’m not that into the God thing, but your daughter talked about God like she knew the guy. When she graduated last year, she gave me this book called Blue Like Jazz, and she would e-mail me from college and nag me about reading it. The book is religious, sort of. I’m not a huge reader, but I like how this author talks about God. He isn’t all hellfire and brimstone. Katie knew that would’ve turned me the other way. The author, Miller, he’s just like . . . a normal guy, talking straight about his struggles. I like that.”
I didn’t know Katie gave Mr. Pinley a book, but I recognize immediately that she handpicked a title she knew would resonate with him. The book tells of author Donald Miller’s journey of figuring out where God fit in his life. I grin at Katie’s astute selection for her mentor-friend.
The Blue Like Jazz gift was a continuation of a lifelong pattern of Katie’s that began around age six. She came bounding in after school one day and asked, “Mama! Can we buy a Bible for Heather? She wants to learn more about God!”
She and her friend had evidently been having conversations about God on the school bus. Heather was the first of many friends to receive a Bible from Katie, who wanted to be sure they could read about God for themselves, firsthand.
Curt continues. “Katie came by to see me a few weeks ago as soon as she got home from college, and right away she began nagging me about that dang book,” he says, chuckling. “I only have fifteen pages left, and I’m gonna finish it for Katie.”
By the time I hang up and return to the casket room, the funeral director is handing Scott our credit card. Bizarre. We are earning frequent-flyer miles by purchasing a casket and funeral services on plastic. We shake Karl’s hand and head for home.
We forget to pick out an urn.
24
BACK AT HOME, Sandy’s sons Brian and Collin have arrived from Spokane. The house continues to fill up—and become more complete.
Around dinnertime, the doorbell rings, but I am lying down on the sofa in the family room and pretend to be asleep. Too much.
Matt answers the door. It’s Kaleen and Wally from church, and they have brought over a huge dinner from El Molino, my favorite Mexican restaurant. Matt and Andrea help them unload the trays of food onto the kitchen counter.
From my hiding place on the sofa, I can smell the spectacular meal. I hear Wally and Kaleen chatting with Scott, and I hear the clatter of plates and silverware as the hungry people in my kitchen dive into dinner. I should get up off this dang sofa and be a good host and welcome our friends and thank them! I feel ashamed, but I don’t move. I am paralyzed. I am an ostrich, face buried in a throw pillow, eyes closed. I lie motionless, hoping no one will notice me.
Soon a cool, gentle kiss lights softly on my cheek. I open my eyes and look up. It’s Kaleen. Two tears glisten at the brims of her eyes.
“Don’t get up,” she says. “We love you. We are so sorry.”
“Thank you—” I rise up on one elbow and try to speak.
“Shhh . . . ,” she says. “Lie down. Just know we love you and are praying for you. Now, shhh . . .” She strokes my hair like I am a child. I let her. Then she pats my throw pillow. I lie down again and close my eyes. I listen to her quiet footsteps as she walks away. She asks nothing from me except to express sorrow and love. I he
ar Kaleen and her husband say goodbye as Andrea walks them to the front door, thanking them profusely.
So many wonderful people—we don’t deserve this outpouring! But these friends aren’t offering their help because we deserve it. They are doing so because that’s what Christ followers do. As best they can, they are trying to be the community of Jesus for us. And they’re doing a fantastic job. People offer spare bedrooms for our out-of-town guests. They buy us hotel rooms and loan us cars. They drop off groceries—and Kleenex. Lots and lots of Kleenex. Scott’s administrative assistant at church has created a meal schedule, and night after night—for six more weeks—these meals will keep coming. It absolutely saves us.
Our appetites all respond differently to grief. Bethany, Scott, and I are on one end of the spectrum: Food is a lost cause for us. We have no appetite whatsoever. Everything makes us queasy. On the other end of the spectrum is Tember, who stands at the kitchen counter in her size-two jeans, polishing off the third “edible arrangement” someone sent.
“I’m just a sad, fat monster,” she says with a smile and a shrug, stuffing yet another piece of cantaloupe into her mouth.
All throughout the house, people cluster in quiet conversation, or cry together, or laugh their heads off telling Katie-stories or watching The Office on TV. Some are writing, planning, or choosing photos and video clips for the memorial service—or for the photo boards Katie’s siblings and friends are making for the Life Exhibit. I find Andrea curled up on the sofa in a world of her own, rereading the second Harry Potter book. I smile at my newest daughter. She has been selfless and relentless in caring for her husband and his family all day. Now she has found—and earned—a way to escape and refuel.
The funeral is in just five days. We put Bethany in charge of choosing music for the service. She and Kati Harkin spend hours upstairs, sitting on Katie’s bed, scouring her laptop and iPod to find her favorite songs. It gives me peace knowing that the music will be perfect—and that Bethany and Kati have something productive to do with their grief.
It is past midnight when Scott and I finally climb the stairs.
In bed in the dark, again staring at the ceiling, Scott says, “Well, we made it through a day.”
“One day,” I say.
He slips his hand over mine. “One day.”
The next few days are a blur of activity, but a couple of patterns keep me sane.
My early morning routine—startling awake around four o’clock, then grieving alone outside with God—gives me sturdy footing to face each day. I don’t fight the tears. I invite the brutal waves of emotion to simply pummel me without resistance. I cry hard, hoping that by releasing some of the steam from this pressure tank of grief, I lessen the likelihood that I will leak excessively on my kids later in the day. They will see me cry, of course—anything less would be disingenuous. But I don’t want them to feel any sense of responsibility toward comforting me when their own hearts are a wreck.
I check my e-mail each morning and read new messages from friends and family who are aching, praying, and grieving with us. I linger over each kind word and write short notes in response. The sheer power of community bolsters me with its strange paradox of pain and love. Both are palpable. I can feel people’s prayers. There is no way I should be thinking as clearly as I am able to think this week, or functioning as well as I seem to be functioning—knock on wood—given all that has happened. Yet somehow, inside, I am solid, unshaken. This fortitude I discover inside myself isn’t from me. I’m not that good. I’m not that strong. I recall a verse of Scripture about “the peace of God, which transcends all understanding.”[2] And I get it. This is what that peace from God feels like.
Tuesday morning, I notice Alice acting funny. Then Henry tries to climb on her. Terrific. The dog is in heat. We’ve been planning to breed a litter of registered pups from the two of them—but not now! The awkward timing strikes me as funny: A house full of people in crisis, and our two dogs are now going at it at every turn.
Sure enough, throughout the week every time we turn around—with company, without company, indoors, outdoors—no matter: Henry is making a move on Alice. If math has anything to do with it, Alice will be giving birth to about one thousand puppies.
Later, on Tuesday, Deanna and Brooke show up at the house. “We’re here to clean!” Deanna announces when I open the door. The two of them brush past me, and Deanna’s spitfire sprite of a daughter, four-year-old Anya, is at their heels.
“I know you’ll have a houseful of guests this week, and we are going to scrub your toilets, wash your towels, and change your sheets!” Friends like this—unbelievable! I should feel mortified or at least sheepish that I need friends to clean my house, but I feel only relief.
Deanna and Brooke get right to work, and our kids cluster around adorable Anya, who brings a much-needed spark of brightness to the day. Sometimes God gives you a freebie, a little something extra to help you along. He does so today through Anya.
Over the hours that her mom is at the house, Anya hears us repeatedly shooing Henry away from Alice. “Henry! Get off of her! Get down!” we keep saying. Each time, Henry obeys resignedly. But hope springs eternal, and soon he is back, looking for action. “Henry! Get down!”
Anya catches on. When Henry makes yet another move on poor Alice, Anya takes charge. “Henry!” she says, wagging her tiny finger in his face. “No climbing!”
This brings down the house. “No climbing” sticks. It becomes the euphemism of the week—and one we must repeat often to poor Henry. It remains part of our family’s vernacular to this day.
Our kids’ college friends begin arriving, having driven across the country from California or landed at O’Hare. The house is bursting at the seams, but there is such comfort in being together that no one wants to get a hotel. The basement and kids’ rooms are wall-to-wall air mattresses. Somehow there are enough beds, pillows, blankets, sofas, and quilts to go around. We are all together. No one complains.
Sandy and Andrea find their niche in the kitchen, rolling out custom-cooked orders at breakfast and lunch. Each dinner is a home-cooked or catered meal delivered by friends. Being on the receiving end of people’s generosity and kindness helps me understand firsthand how important it is to rally around those who have suffered deep loss. These practical gifts are lifesavers for our family.
Adam, Bethany’s boyfriend, makes it his personal mission to ensure that Scott, Bethany, and I—the three Vaudreys whose stomachs rebel against food in a crisis—are eating. He lures Scott into eating lunch by fixing a sandwich of his favorite foods: sausage, sourdough, and Velveeta. He keeps pecking away at Bethany with offerings of toast, Malt-O-Meal, and fruit smoothies. He makes me a smoothie at lunch one day.
“This is for you to drink now, Mrs. Vaudrey,” he says, adding a straw and aiming it my direction.
“Thank you,” I say. He waits, watching. I take a sip. It is the first food to cross my lips since my hospital strawberry two days ago. The tart coolness of the fruit is refreshing. I manage to down a few more sips before the sawdust flavor returns.
My mother and I talk by phone each day. She and my dad will be flying in from Seattle on Wednesday. My five children are their only grandkids, and they are devastated by Katie’s death. I feel guilty that I don’t have one spare ounce of anything to offer them. Mom doesn’t ask for my comfort or make it about her. She understands that my bank is empty and that I need to spend what few emotional dollars I have on my own family.
I have yet to speak with my dad, though he has left messages. My dad is rather stoic but so tender toward his grandchildren. I know our first conversation will be hard for both of us, and I keep putting it off. I relay messages of love to him through my mom, with promises to call soon.
My parents are rocks. A whole cotillion of my aunties and uncles are flying in from all over the country, and my mom and dad handle all their hotel reservations, trips to O’Hare, car rentals, everything. They are truly amazing in a crisis. And Matt, li
kewise: Scott’s parents, brother, and sister are flying in from Spokane, and he handles all the plans for them.
Katie’s death is especially devastating for my brother. Despite the two thousand miles that separated Katie and her uncle Greg, she was purposeful about investing in her relationship with him, and he adored her. In fact, Katie was chatting with him via Skype to the computer in his nursing-home room on Saturday morning before she left for work.
Greg has no shelf upon which to put this kind of loss. Mom tried breaking the news to him slowly—in small bites over two days—so he could absorb it all. The first day she simply told him, “Katie’s been in a bad car accident, and she is very sick in the hospital.” But when she arrived in his room on the second day, he turned his electric wheelchair to face her.
“Katie is dead, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yes, son,” my mom said, resting a hand on his arm. “Katie died.”
His eyes filled. “When I woke up this morning, I knew she was dead,” he said. “She really loved me, you know. She told me all the time. And I told her, ‘I love you, too, Katie.’”
My brother will not be able to come to the funeral. His health makes him too fragile to fly. So on Saturday, when the rest of us will be gathering together to grieve my daughter, he will be sitting in his wheelchair, alone in his room in Seattle, eating his breakfast from a cafeteria tray. This image brings more pain than I can absorb. God, cover this. Please—just cover it. I push Greg out of my mind.
I finish writing Katie’s obituary by Tuesday’s 2:30 p.m. deadline. Flowers and cards have been arriving at the house, and we are touched by each one. But soon we are running out of space to hold them all, and the house looks a bit jungle-like. I recall obituaries that read, “In lieu of flowers, please send a charitable donation to . . .” This seems like a good plan for Katie, who sponsored her little girl, Anjelin, through Compassion International. Bethany has decided to continue Anjelin’s sponsorship in honor of her sister—but on top of her own sponsored child, the extra thirty-eight dollars per month is beyond her college-student “fun money” budget. I add Compassion as an option to the obit and hit send.
Colors of Goodbye Page 13