“I can only imagine.”
I stand up. “This is bullshit. We were told in no uncertain terms that when he died, his church would not bury him. What’s changed now?”
The chaplain waits a moment before replying. “Perhaps what’s more important right now is that we focus on what Sam would want for his funeral.”
I sit back down.
He nods toward the will in my hands. “Would he want a police funeral and a Greek Orthodox service?”
“Want isn’t the word Sam would be using at the moment.”
“Fair enough.” The chaplain tries a different approach. “I can’t fathom what you’re going through right now, but you and Sam are both Christians, correct?”
I shrug. “That’s a loaded question.”
Although my faith is a meandering stream, Sam had been very black and white about his Christian beliefs: you either believed in something or you didn’t.
“In light of what’s gone on,” the chaplain says, “you may have to consider forgiveness. You’ve got enough on your plate without having to deal with anger, resentment and bitterness about things in the past.”
“That’s not easy.”
“No, it’s not,” he says. “But it is possible.”
“It’s also why nothing changes.”
He nods slowly. “And yet perhaps there is a time and place for affecting change.”
And this, I gather, isn’t it. I let out a sigh and a quasi-sense of calm comes over me. Is this what forgiveness feels like? Regardless, I agree to the dual service.
The chaplain then asks me if I’d like to talk further about Sam’s death.
It takes me a moment to realize what he might be referring to. “What? Like the God-stuff, you mean?”
He smiles. “That’s right.”
“Nah.” I give him the wave. “Maybe next week.”
“No,” Harry says, breaking the family silence. “She’ll talk to you today.”
My family is usually keen to speak their mind, especially on Adri-related matters, but this has not been the case over the past twenty-four hours. However, I now watch as each person stands up and walks into the kitchen. I hear the back door open and close.
With my herd gone, I feel rather like I did in the doctor’s office yesterday, prior to receiving the news about the stellar state of Sam’s organs—and that since he was done with them, perhaps I should share.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” the chaplain begins.
“Uh huh.”
“What are you thinking about Sam right now?”
Hmmm…let’s see. Well, wherever he is at the moment, he’s one pissed off Greek. And I’m pretty sure he was in the hospital bathroom with me yesterday because if there’s one place on the planet where Sam’s soul would be sorting things out, it would be a toilet. I know he felt me kiss him in the ICU and managed to hold my hand, brain-dead and all. He’s very concerned that I’ll let my mother control my life now that he’s not here to be the buffer. I suspect the squirrel at the bird bell was some sort of sign. I think Tom falling and hitting his head the day after Sam fell and hit his head is significant, as is the fact that one of the happiest days of my life and the absolute worst happened exactly one week apart. And furthermore, what am I supposed to make of the fact that I saw a red light in my window at the exact same time Sam’s heart was being removed?
I shrug. “Stuff.”
“What does the word hope mean to you?”
“I dunno,” I say. “I guess just that one day things will get better.”
“Yes…”
“Yesterday morning,” I continue, figuring the chaplain is looking for a more God-related answer, “I had a fleeting hope for some sort of biblical style miracle—like Sam’s brain injury being reversed. But I knew that was impossible, so I let it go.”
He nods slowly.
“And since the transplant surgeries were a success, I guess there’s a kind of hope that Sam lives on in the donor recipients.”
“Sam will also live on in you,” says the chaplain, “and in many of us because of the good man he was. And for what it’s worth, Adri, I believe…”
Wait for it.
“Sam is in good hands because he’s with Jesus.”
I smile politely but this guy is used to skepticism. He doesn’t preach in a church to the converted; he deals with disillusioned cops all day, most often in times of crisis.
“I believe Sam is OK,” he says. “To me, the word hope has a capital ‘h’ because Jesus said we would all see each other again one day in heaven.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Uh huh.”
“Jesus died on the cross for our salvation. He died so that our souls and spirits would live forever.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember all this from Sunday school.
“Sam’s body is only the shell that housed his soul and spirit. Sam is waiting for you in heaven. I really believe that.”
“Too bad the women in my family live ’til they’re ninety-seven.”
I get the raised eyebrows.
“That means,” I explain, “I have sixty-five more years without him!”
“Oh,” he says. “But time is different in eternity than it is on earth. Even if you do live many more years, in heaven that’s like a handful of dust.” He puts his hand out, palm up, and blows imaginary particles into the air. “It’s gone in an instant.”
“For him, yeah.”
“Trust me, your time here will go by very quickly.”
I glance at Sam’s digital watch on my wrist. The blinking numbers mark the passing seconds.
“Maybe don’t think of this as goodbye,” he says. “Think of this as ‘see ya later.’”
I lean back against the couch. That does sound better.
“Adri, I know you have a strong faith…”
I do; I just don’t know what in. I believe one day, all this will make sense but since I don’t understand how I can know this, I begin to doubt my undefined faith.
“I believe God has a purpose for each of us,” the chaplain finishes. “He has one for Sam and He has one for you too.”
Well then, I’d best discover what these are. For what’s the point of there being a purpose if it remains unknown?
AFTER THE chaplain leaves, I retreat to the serenity of our blue bedroom. Downstairs, the phone and doorbell continue to ring so I close the door, open the window and lie on our bed. Sasha curls up beside me. The late September sun streams through the blinds, casting horizontal beams of light across the duvet cover. I think about the chaplain’s words. Maybe I should grab onto the Hope-with-a-capital-h life preserver because believing I’m going to see Sam again in heaven makes me feel a hell of a lot better than the reality that his body now has no heart in it.
There’s a knock at my door. “Goo, can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
Harry comes in and hands me a white envelope. “An officer just dropped this off for you.”
I open it up. Sam’s cross and St. Jude medal are sticky-taped to a piece of paper with my name written on it; dried blood is still stuck to his pendants. I breathe in sharply.
“I guess these are mine now,” I say, gently peeling off the pendants and placing them on the chain around my neck.
“Oh Googie…”
I bring the cross and medal to my lips and kiss them.
Harry tilts his head to one side, watching me. “Maybe the big fella kept them for as long as he needed them?”
“Maybe.”
Then I turn the medal over and read the inscription on the back. “Pray for us.”
“What?”
“That’s the wording on the St. Jude medal,” I say. “Jude is the patron saint of police officers and lost causes.”
“Oh.”
“Where the hell were they yesterday?” I ask. “On a goddamn coffee break?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Jesus and Jude! Great protection they turned out to be—useless fucks.
”
Harry’s mouth drops open. I lie back and pull a pillow over my head.
“Umm…Adri?”
“What?”
“I hate to bother you, but I think we better get you over to Sam’s parents’ place.”
I pull the pillow off my head. “Why?”
His eyes widen. “Because his mom and dad really need to see you.”
MY DAD drives my mom, Anthony and me the twenty minutes to the house where Sam grew up. Not five minutes into the drive, I hear my mother ask Anthony how military school is going.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” I snap from the back seat.
She turns around. “I’m sorry, Adri. I was just trying…”
“Not now, Mother. That’s completely inappropriate.”
In the rear-view mirror, I catch my dad’s tiny smile. Nobody says a word for the rest of the drive. When my father pulls up in front of Sam’s parents’ place, both sides of the street are lined with vehicles. “Oh, for God’s sakes,” I say, “look at all the cars.”
Still no one says a word.
“Surely they can’t all be visitors.” I try again.
“Er…they’re probably Sam’s relatives,” my dad says.
“Well, I’m not going in there and talking to everyone!”
Thankfully, Nick and Angela immediately come out to the car. I tell them I’m not talking to a bunch of people right now.
Nick nods. “We’ll meet in the backyard.”
It seems to me that Sam’s brother and sister are handling this pretty well. When I walk in the back gate, I see why. Sam’s parents, dressed completely in black, are sitting on white lawn chairs in the middle of the yard. With her arms folded tightly across her chest, his mom rocks back and forth, sobbing loudly, as her husband holds her. Nick and Angela have to place their own sorrow aside to care for their parents.
What is one to say to a grieving mother? Wait, I know! I walk straight over to Sam’s mom, hug her and announce: “Don’t worry. Sam is in heaven and one day we’ll all be together again.”
This goes over like a lead balloon.
“I know that!” she screams. “But he’s my son and I want him here.”
My first thought? If I can find some solace in Christianity after a single conversation, why isn’t a strong believer like Sam’s mom able to do so?
I shut my mouth and hold her as she sobs. Then I look up and see a squirrel scurrying along the top of the fence with what appears to be a peanut in its mouth. I catch myself smiling because Sam loved nuts, but they’d upset his stomach. Now that he’s free from the confines of his body, he can eat as many as he wants…
Speaking of nuts, you better get a grip on yourself; Adri: it’s a squirrel.
The gate opens and the two police chaplains and Tom, now sporting a bandage above his right eye, walk in the backyard. I ask Tom how he’s doing.
“I am so sorry, Adri…I don’t know what happened at your place.”
You were removed from the scene, so the chaplain could tell me about Hope.
“I’m just glad you’re OK,” is what I say.
We all sit in a circle of lawn chairs beneath the apple trees—a garden party of grief. After a prayer by the Hope Chaplain (a nicer undercover name than the Shorter Chaplain), Sam’s family is told about the police component of the funeral. But I don’t think his parents catch much because Sam’s mom rocks and sobs throughout the meeting and his dad’s attention is on her.
Afterward, Nick and Angela pull me aside. “We saw something strange this morning,” says Nick.
“What?”
He tells me how they saw the first letter of their brother’s name in a cloud.
“Huh?”
“I mean, it was the same shape,” Nick says sheepishly. “Except that the letter was backward.”
I don’t feel so silly about my squirrel thoughts, but cloud-shapes are not my concern at the moment. I nod toward their mom. “Is she going to be OK?”
“She’s definitely better with you here, Adri,” says Angela.
“That’s better?”
Nick nods. “And thank God her best friend came up right away.”
“From San Diego?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Sam and I just saw her last week—she showed us her prayer room.”
“Oh, we’ve heard all about your visit,” says Angela.
Two minutes later, the Greek lady from San Diego is in the backyard, hugging me. “I just don’t understand how this could happen,” she says.
For privacy, the two of us go to the side of the house and sit by the yellow daisies. I ask her if she believes Sam is in heaven.
“Absolutely. But I don’t understand why God would have taken him.”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I say.
“Perhaps we’re not meant to know God’s plan, Adri.”
“If indeed there is one.”
She places her hand on my arm. “There is.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because there has to be.”
I raise an eyebrow. Then she asks me if I’ve heard about the Greek Orthodox forty-day ceremony.
“No.”
“Well, we believe that starting on the ninth day after a person passes away, Michael the Archangel takes the soul on a journey and shows him all the good and bad deeds he’s done throughout his lifetime. It’s a time of learning and then, on the fortieth day, God tells him what his work in heaven will be.”
“Are you saying that Sam’s soul leaves after forty days?”
“No, no!” She shakes her head. “Sam’s soul will always be with you. Just because he’s working in heaven doesn’t mean he can’t also be watching over all of us.”
“What’s your take on the Second Coming?”
She looks as surprised at my question as I am hearing myself ask it. “On Judgement Day,” she replies, “Jesus will be coming back as our Saviour.”
“To do what, exactly?”
“Judge the living and the dead.”
I frown. “The dead? How’s that gonna work?”
“Well, the deceased souls are in a sort of temporary heaven right now, waiting for Jesus to come back to earth. Then, after the Second Coming, God will decide who goes to heaven and who goes to hell for all eternity.”
I picture billions of souls, flipping through magazines in heaven’s waiting room. “That’s getting kinda complicated,” I say. Never mind ridiculous.
“Look,” she says, “what I’ve told you are my Orthodox beliefs. You need to follow your own heart on this. You and Sam were very much in love…”
“Are.”
“Are. And that’s what really matters.”
Except that my heart is currently shattered into thousands of pieces, so which one do I pick up first?
“…you could do that too, if you like.”
I look to the Greek lady. “Sorry?”
“I was just saying that Sam’s parents have put a glass of water out for Sam’s soul to drink so you could do that, as well.”
“Why water?”
“I don’t know. But it’s connected to the soul somehow.”
WE ARRIVE home to find that food and flowers, gifts and cards have been dropped off in droves. Containers of baked goods are piling up on the kitchen table.
For dinner, Dale has ordered Chinese food from our favourite restaurant. I sit at our dining room table and try to eat but all I can think of is the first night Sam and I spent in this house. We’d ordered dinner from this same restaurant and eaten it at this table, planning the next chapter of our life together—which wasn’t supposed to end three years later. I stand up and slide my dinner into Sasha’s dish.
“Goo,” Harry says, “you have to eat.”
I force a smile. “Never thought I’d hear those words.”
I take a chocolate chip cookie from the stack of baking and then open the china cabinet where the liquor is stashed. I pour myself a glass of sherry—an e
vening ritual Sam and I enjoyed on occasion. When I wander into the living room, a dozen eyeballs watch my every move.
I sit on the couch and sip my sherry, glaring at the stairs. Katrina asks how I feel about going to bed tonight.
“I want him here.”
“But that can’t be,” she says softly. “You know that, right?”
I nod, watching as tears well up in her eyes.
“I’m sorry!” she cries. “This is just so unfair.”
I sigh. “Where do you think he is right now?”
“Heaven.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I can’t just be grasping at straws here. When I go upstairs, I have to know that Sam can somehow hear me talking to him.”
“I believe Sam is here, too,” Ed says from where he’s sitting on the stairs. “I think his spirit lives on in you, Adri.”
“Yeah…”
“Who knows,” he continues, “maybe when you go up to bed and talk to Sam, you’re actually talking to yourself.”
Kaboom. I leap off the couch. “Thank you very fucking much!” I scream, hurling a cookie at his head.
He ducks, and it bounces off the wall. Sasha cowers beside me.
“Oh my God,” he says. “I am so sorry. I…I didn’t mean that in a bad way.”
I glare at him, hands on my hips. “How else am I supposed to take that?”
“There is a time and a place for a philosophical discussion,” Katrina cuts in, “and I don’t think this is it.”
My devastated brother creeps off to the kitchen as Katrina begins damage control.
“Everyone has their own beliefs and that’s fine. You need to listen to your own heart, Adri.”
I down the rest of my sherry as the fear, confusion and anxiety build again.
“You and Sam shared a beautiful love,” she adds. “Hold onto that.”
But Ed’s sentence hangs in mid-air, taunting me. How could Sam exist in me?
I stomp downstairs to collect some pictures of our now historical beautiful love to put in my bedroom. I find a classic Sam & Adri selfie—taken in Banff when we were twenty-one. Two young, naïve faces smile tentatively at the camera. Sam with jet-black hair and a diamond stud in his ear, me with my toothy smile. I see a second photo taken three months ago, another selfie taken on the beach in Vancouver. Sam has plenty of gray hair and I’ve got crow’s feet, but our smiles are the same.
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