She’s laughing, and her bottom two teeth are showing. Grammy is grinning with pride.
I go from picture to picture, watching my mother grow up and Grammy grow older. Why have I never seen these before?
I pull out a few of the pictures and set them aside on the table. Soon I have so many that I know I’ll have to do a PowerPoint slide show so the few mourners at the funeral can see her.
Grammy’s smile is even broader in the pictures where she’s holding me as a baby. It feels self-indulgent to pull all of those out for the PowerPoint. But this is the life I had before my first memories. The life I lost when my mother died and my father was left alone with me. Somehow these photos comfort me.
Then I realize Grammy never showed me these because I so rarely sat down with her. I was always in triage mode, seeing to her needs, but not spending time with her. Not listening. Not seeing.
I miss her voice, and her embarrassing proclamations, and her way of thinking. I miss her wrinkled face and her soft touch. She was so proud of me. No matter how often I thought I’d let her down, I could do no wrong in her eyes.
I turn from the pictures and go to my back window, looking out on my yard. It was beautiful when I bought the house, with rosebushes and a little fishpond. I have a guy who mows and weeds, but I haven’t walked out there in months. What a waste.
I step out onto the patio now. The Adirondack chair I bought with the house is covered with old pollen, but I drop into it anyway and look up to the dusky sky.
“I’m so sorry I missed all that,” I whisper. “I missed everything she said. Everything she showed me. I want to honor her now, even though it’s too late. I want to do what I should have done before.”
I can’t believe I’m talking to God again, whom I’ve rarely talked to before. But Grammy prayed as if God was sitting right beside her, as if there was no difference between that and any other kind of conversation. And as I attempt the same thing, I can tell that God takes notice.
A while later, Finn stops by to bring food as I’m trying to figure out what to wear to the funeral.
“Would you give me your opinion on something?” I ask him. “I have to decide what to wear tomorrow.”
“Sure. Do I get a fashion show?”
“No, but I’ll bring the outfits out here.” I run into the bedroom and grab my choices, realizing I have way too much black in my wardrobe. I take them to the living room and lay them over the back of the couch. I pick up the first one—a business suit with a short jacket and a midcalf skirt.
“Nope,” he says. “Next.”
I gape at him, surprised. “Really? I thought you would be one of those guys who pretends to like everything.”
“Have you met me?”
I laugh. “Okay, what about this one? It has a longer jacket, and it has some blue in it.”
“Next.”
“Wow. Okay, this one?”
“Don’t you have anything other than suits? Just regular dresses?”
“I mostly buy suits for work.”
He drops into the easy chair next to the couch. “That’s what gets me. Why do women in professional positions like yours have to dress in suits?”
“Because we have to try harder.”
“You don’t. I bet you’re a great lawyer.”
I sigh. “It’s just the way it’s done. We wear jackets. Heels. We have to look professional.”
“So that explains the opiate epidemic. Women who have to clomp around in heels. The men don’t wear heels. Why do women have to?”
I can’t believe Finn is making me have this conversation. “Because it looks more dressy. But you know, I’ve always thought that a man must have invented high heels. No one who had to wear those things would ever inflict that on the rest of her gender.”
“Then stop wearing them.”
“But they’re cuter than flats.”
“Oh, so you do want to look cute? Not like a man?”
“In some ways, yes.”
“Sydney, you have the market cornered on cute. You don’t need to walk on stilettos.”
I’m touched, but I pretend I didn’t hear it. “So I’ll wear lower heels to the funeral. But seriously, you don’t like any of these outfits?”
“No.”
Sighing, I stack them up and carry them back to my room, and go through my closet to pull out the few real dresses I have. I take them out and find Finn in the kitchen checking the food in my fridge. “These aren’t black. I don’t know if I can wear any of them.”
“Why should you wear black?”
“Because I’m sad.”
“But Callie is happy, right? She’s celebrating. Walking and running and working the crowd. I bet she’s wearing color.”
“I think she’s probably wearing one of those white robes we read about in her Bible.”
“So wear white.”
“Are you crazy? You don’t wear white to a funeral.”
He leans toward me across the kitchen island. “You may have noticed this about me, but I’m not big on style.”
“I know,” I say. “You want me to be comfortable. But I can’t wear a T-shirt and yoga pants.”
He comes back into the living room and looks at the choices, considering them more carefully. “This one,” he says. “I like the purple.”
I incline my head and consider it. It’s a dark purple, not bright, so maybe it would be appropriate enough. I take it and hold it up to me.
“Yep, that’s it.” He grins. “Look at those eyes.”
I’m not sure how he’s done it, but he’s made me feel beautiful and happy rather than awkward and sad. “Okay, I’ll wear this. Thank you.”
He won’t let me lift a finger as he brings lasagna to the table and serves me. I savor the taste. “This is fantastic. You really are good.”
“Thanks.”
“You should be cooking for a living. Not that you’re not a great cab driver. You are. But this . . . this is a real gift.”
He smiles, and as he takes a bite, I realize he enjoys what he cooks as much as I do.
He’s just one more thing to be grateful for.
CHAPTER 30
Finn
I’m cleaning the dishes in Sydney’s kitchen when she asks if I want to see the pictures she’s going to use for the PowerPoint slide show for the funeral.
I dry my hands and go sit beside her, studying each one.
“Did you make one of these when your mother died?” she asks.
I shake my head no.
“Did you have framed pictures?”
I stare at a picture of Callie holding baby Sydney and clear my throat. She thinks I’m a nice guy. Maybe it’s time to tell her the truth.
“Sydney, I’ve let you assume something about me without setting you straight.”
“What?”
“About my mother. See . . . I loved my mom. But I was a jerk when she died.”
“Well, it’s a hard thing. People react differently.”
I shift in my seat. “No, I mean . . . Maybe jerk isn’t the right word. Maybe coward is more accurate.”
I have her full attention now. I wish I didn’t have to go on, that I could rewrite that chapter of my life so it doesn’t sound so bad.
“I went to see her in the hospital when she was dying, and . . . when I saw her lying there with all the tubes and wires . . . I just left. I didn’t even go in.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and I know what’s going through her mind. He’s inadequate, he’s cold, he’s nothing but some cab driver who didn’t feel empathy even for his own mother.
But she doesn’t say anything like that. She surprises me by touching my hand. “Okay.”
“There’s more.” I draw in a ragged breath and meet her eyes. “I didn’t show up for the funeral.”
She blinks. “Oh.”
“I was her only child, and I didn’t go.” I rub the sweat forming over my lip. “You know, now that I think about it, jerk probably does cover it.�
�
She lets go of my hand. “No, I think coward was good.”
It takes me a minute to realize she’s not serious. She takes my hand again and leans toward me. “Finn, you’re not a coward now.”
Tears pushing to my eyes horrify me, and when she hugs me I’m glad she can’t see them.
I don’t want to leave, so I watch her cues and she seems to want me to stay. After I’ve cleaned up the dishes, I join her on the couch, watching some romantic comedy that I couldn’t care less about. I just want her to feel content.
After a while, she lays her head on my shoulder, and I take that as a cue that I can put my arm around her. Before I know it, she’s sound asleep. I wonder if she’s slept at all in the last few days.
I could sit here with her all night, basking in the warmth that defines her. I could be here when she wakes up. But will she want me here in the light of a fresh morning?
What if she wakes up and thinks I’m the most presumptuous idiot she has ever shared time with? What if she remembers she’s out of my league, that I’m nothing but the cab driver, that I wasn’t there for my own mom?
Reminders of my inadequacy will run like a loop through her mind. Sure, I’m good when she’s stunned by a death and doesn’t want to be alone. But given a choice, given a comparison with almost any other guy, I’ll come up lacking.
I don’t know what I was thinking to let myself be this familiar with her.
I gently slide out from under her head and move a pillow there. I find a throw over a chair and cover her with it.
Then I grab her phone, which doesn’t require a passcode, and I set an alarm for the morning so she won’t oversleep. I set it on the coffee table next to her. I text her that I’ll see her at the funeral. Then I press the shadow of a kiss on her cheek just before I leave.
CHAPTER 31
Finn
The main floor of the sanctuary of Callie’s church is filling up. There’s her banker coming in with some others, and just before it starts, the dry cleaner slips in. Several of the neighbors I visited scatter throughout the room. And her church turns out in a way I never would have expected.
I’m surprised by the group I see crowding through the doorway. My dispatcher, LuAnn, trots in, wearing stretchy black pants too tight for her not-so-skinny hips, and her teased flip-up hairdo and cat’s-eye glasses. She’s followed by Lamar, with his Duck Dynasty beard, and at least a dozen other taxi drivers wearing their usual jeans and T-shirts. It has to be a big day for Uber.
I get their attention, and they squeeze into the pew next to me.
“How ya doing, Finn?” LuAnn says.
“Good. How’d you get all these guys here?”
She grins. “I told them she was your mama.”
I groan. “LuAnn, you’re kidding.”
“Hush now,” she whispers. “They think they’re doing something nice.”
I make room as the ragtag team of drivers scoot past me, each shaking my hand and offering awkward condolences.
The more I think about it, the funnier it gets. Still, I’m touched that they would come. You wouldn’t get a bunch of Uber drivers here.
By the time the pastor takes his seat on the stage, there’s a respectable crowd gathered to pay their respects to Callie. Her body has already been donated to the local medical college, but there are flowers and sprays that people have sent. I want to kick myself. I should have sent some. Why didn’t I think of that?
I’m beating myself up about it when Conrad and another funeral guy go to the front and motion for us all to stand. Then the door opens, and Sydney walks in, followed by some strangers I assume are relatives. I wonder if she even knows them. I watch as her gaze sweeps the crowd, and she smiles with soft surprise at the number of people. She takes her seat on the front row. The rest of the relatives file into the row behind her. I don’t like her sitting there alone, but I can’t very well walk up there like I’m somebody.
I’m still just the cab driver.
“Why aren’t you up there?” Squint-Eyed Bill asks me as the pastor walks to the stage.
“I don’t like people staring at me,” I explain. He’s satisfied with that.
A woman goes up onto the stage and sings “I’ll Fly Away,” and Callie’s church friends begin to clap like they’re at a hoedown. I’m not sure it’s appropriate for a funeral. But when the pastor gets up, he tells us why.
“That was Miss Callie’s favorite song,” he says. “And every time she heard it, she would clap a little off rhythm, until the whole church was clapping along. I never hear that song without thinking of her.
“Those of you who knew Miss Callie have stories of your own, but I want to share some of the Callieisms that I witnessed personally,” he says. “She was always funny and blunt, but as she got older, she kind of lost her filter. Like the time she told a guy whose pants were sagging that nobody wanted to see his patootie.”
The crowd laughs, and I smile, too.
“Yes, she really said patootie. She asked him how he could even walk with his pants falling down. He mumbled something about it being comfortable, and she said, ‘It’s sure not comfortable for those of us who have to see it.’”
The audience cracks up, and I see that Sydney is laughing, too.
“Back when my dad was the pastor here, Miss Callie had the youth group over for tea to talk to us about a mission project. After the tea, she revealed that the mission project was in her yard. Before we knew it, she had us weeding her garden and planting flowers. She had a way of getting you to do what she wanted. You didn’t say no to Miss Callie. And if she told you to pull up your pants, you did.”
We laugh our way through the ceremony, and somehow that makes the sorrow seem a little more manageable. When the pastor lists the things Callie did for the church over the years and reads her Post-it note scripture about heaven, I find a sense of peace falling over me.
I’m glad I knew Callie and got caught up in the tornado of her intentions. I’m glad she entangled me in her schemes. I’m honored to have been there with Sydney at the end.
And I’m glad I had the chance to meet the God she trusted in. I hope someday I can trust him like that, too.
CHAPTER 32
Finn
There’s quite a group in the fellowship hall by the time I make my way through the crowd. The large dining hall is flanked by a kitchen, where some of Callie’s churchmates have fixed lunch. They stand in a line behind a series of tables, serving food as mourners come through with trays.
Sydney isn’t eating. I see her across the room, shaking hands and collecting condolences. She looks more relaxed than she has at any time during this process. Maybe the laughter during the service steadied her.
I’m glad. I can’t stand to think of her trapped in sadness.
I make my way toward her, staying on the outskirts, trying not to look like I’m waiting for her.
A cute brunette moves gracefully in front of me. “I have to say this is the best-looking funeral crowd I’ve ever seen,” she says. She looks like another lawyer. She’s wearing a black suit with a white blouse and the trademark black pumps.
“You think so?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m Joanie,” she says.
I shake her hand. “Hi, Joanie. How did you know Callie?”
“Oh, I didn’t. I work with her granddaughter. Well . . . worked, until Christmas Day. Imagine my surprise when I came in yesterday and got her cases dumped on me.”
“Yeah, bad day to lose your job. But she shouldn’t have been having to work that day.”
She takes a sip of her iced tea and grins up at me. “So how did you know Miss Callie?”
I smile. “I was her driver.”
Her warmth seems to cool a bit. “Seriously?”
“Yep. I drive a cab.”
“Oh, you’re the one who took her to the doctor?”
I’m surprised Sydney has admitted that. “Yeah, among other places.”
“Sydney mentioned that. She
felt horrible that she couldn’t do it. But it was brutal at work. Seriously brutal.”
It sounds as if they’re friends, so I let my guard down a little. “So did you get stuck with her Burger King crasher case?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. I could kill her. I can’t believe she survived the staff cuts and then let this happen. I know it was Christmas, but if she could have just hung on.”
I bristle a little. “Her grandmother was dying.”
All traces of her flirty smile are gone now. “I know, but she needs a job. It’s her lifelong dream.”
“Maybe it’s your lifelong dream to work for a group of people who won’t let you have Christmas Day off when your grandmother is dying, all because your drunk client ran into an electrical pole. I don’t think it’s hers.”
She seems offended and mutters something about having to talk to someone. She moves on to the banker who’s hovering near Sydney.
I feel bad about insulting her. She did care enough to come, after all.
I go to the drink table and pour myself an iced tea. I’m closer to Sydney now, and I listen as Callie’s dry cleaner takes Sydney’s hand. “Your grandmother tried to fix me up with you,” he says. “I never paid attention. But when I saw you today, I realized she was onto something.”
Sydney laughs, and her cheeks blush. “Well, I’m sorry about all that. I never asked her to do it.”
“I thought maybe we could have dinner sometime. You know, in her honor.”
Her gaze snaps up to mine, and I turn away. I move out of the crowd so she can feel free to give her number out to as many of Callie’s picks as she wants. She seems in her element, and she looks lovely. I should have let her wear the first man-suit she picked out last night. What was I thinking, talking her into a purple that highlights the blue in her eyes?
But why shouldn’t she show all those losers what they’ve been missing? What made me think that she would settle for the only one who came for Christmas? Just because she seems perfect for me doesn’t mean I’m perfect for her.
I’m the cab driver. I’m Callie’s last resort, not her first choice for Sydney. Sydney turned to me in a vulnerable moment, but really, can I hold her to that? Can I expect any of it to continue after this awful time is over?
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