A Widow's Awakening

by Maryanne Pope

  I shrug. “Hanging in there, I guess.”

  “Adri?”

  I turn to him. “Yeah?”

  “I, uh…I was with Sam in the ambulance.”

  I place my beer bottle on the table as the air in this room gets sucked out.

  “What was he like?” I ask, terrified of the answer.

  “Unconscious.”

  “The whole time?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Sam was completely out of it.”

  I nod slowly. I am suddenly extremely thirsty again.

  The officer clears his throat. “I was also in the emergency room when they first brought you in to see Sam.”

  My most horrific moment comes crashing back. I take a big drink of water.

  “And for what it’s worth,” he continues, “seeing you that day was the worst moment of my career. I’ve never seen a human being look so…vulnerable.”

  I put down my water glass rather shakily. “That’s a good word for it.”

  It’s now been five weeks since Sam’s death and I’m feeling more vulnerable with each passing day.

  THE NEXT afternoon, I visit Sam’s parents as per his mom’s request.

  “What the heck is all this?” I ask, walking into the kitchen.

  The kitchen table and the top of the two beds in the spare bedrooms are covered with bags of supplies and containers filled with what appears to be grains of wheat mixed with red seeds.

  “It’s for Sam’s forty-day ceremony tomorrow,” his mom says.

  “Oh.”

  “When a loved one passes away, Adri, this is what we must do.”

  I scrunch up my nose. “But what do you do with all this stuff?”

  “That’s what I’m going to show you.”

  I watch as she sprinkles icing sugar on top of one of the mixtures. Then, tears flowing, she places a piece of waxed paper on top and uses both hands to gently smooth out the icing sugar beneath.

  “But what,” I ask from the peanut gallery, “does all this mean?”

  “Well, the wheat symbolizes what’s left behind when the seed goes on to new life—just as the human body is the shell left behind when a person passes away.”

  “OK…”

  “And the seed represents the soul that has gone on to eternal life with God.”

  I point to the mixture. “The wheat seed? Or the red one?”

  “That’s a pomegranate seed.”

  “So which seed represents the soul?” I ask.

  “I think they both do.”

  “In ancient Greece,” chimes in Sam’s dad, now standing in the doorway to the dining room, “they believed the pomegranate symbolized rebirth.”

  I look at him, nodding slowly.

  “Your job,” Sam’s mom says to me, reaching into a plastic bag, “is to decorate this mixture.”

  So, under her watchful gaze, I place candied almonds and silver decorations around the edges of the icing sugar. Then I stick a silver-studded cross in the middle.

  THE NEXT day, at Sam’s Greek Orthodox forty-day service—November 4th—I find myself in the front row again, this time with the chief of police beside me.

  “Adri,” she whispers, “what exactly is the significance of today?”

  Having been well briefed myself by this point, I reply: “Apparently these past forty days have been a time of reflection for Sam’s soul. From the ninth day to the fortieth day, the Archangel—St. Michael—took Sam back to review all the good and bad deeds he’s done over his lifetime. And today is the day St. Michael takes Sam to God, where he is told what work he’ll do in heaven.”

  “I see,” she says, then resumes staring straight ahead.

  The ceremony itself is sadly reminiscent of Sam’s prayer and funeral services. In case we weren’t paying attention the first two times, we listen again to an hour of chants in ancient Greek accompanied by the powerful smell of incense. Instead of Sam’s dead body, however, now there is a large photo of him at the front of the church.

  After the service, the congregation is directed to the hall, where each person is given a small white bag containing the wheat mixture. Most of our non-Greek family and friends suspiciously sniff their packets. Out of courtesy to Sam’s parents, I devour mine. Crunch goes the pomegranate seed. Am I symbolically eating Sam’s soul, his body, or both? Finding none of these possibilities remotely comforting, I toss back a shot of throat-burning brandy and continue my own spiritual quest.

  “Let me get this straight,” I say to the nearest Greek lady, “today is not only Sam’s forty-day ceremony, it’s also St. Michael’s day—according to the Greeks?”

  “That’s right.”

  I gulp another glass of brandy and approach the tall chaplain. “Lemme get this right: according to you Catholics, September 29th is St. Michael’s day?”

  He nods. “And since St. Michael is also the patron saint for peace officers, that’s why we hold a Mass on that date every year.”

  I frown. “Huh?”

  “That’s why we just happened to be having a Mass for police officers on September 29th.”

  “You were?”

  “I thought you knew that, Adri.”

  I shake my head, astounded. “Are you telling me that Sam died on the same day you were already planning to have a Mass to pray for police officers?”

  “All peace officers, yes. So then when Sam fell that morning, attendance at Mass understandably went through the roof.”

  I wince at his choice of words. “No shit,” I say. “And you don’t think Sam dying on St. Michael’s Day is just a bit of a coincidence?”

  “There are no coincidences.”

  I throw up my hands. “Then why am I the only person trying to make sense of what’s going on?”

  He opens his mouth, but I hold up my hand. “Don’t say God’s plan.”

  “OK,” he replies, smiling.

  I pull out Sam’s medal. “What about St. Jude? I thought he was the patron saint of police officers?”

  “It depends on what you read. St. Jude is mainly known as the patron saint of desperate or hopeless causes—and hospitals, too, if I remember correctly.”

  Geez…maybe Sam really was with Jesus and Jude the day he died and St. Michael the Archangel! I toss back another shot of brandy and resume wandering, half-cut, around the room full of family and friends—most of whom have no clue as to the religious meaning of the day but have simply come to support me. Regardless of what may or may not be going on in the spiritual realm, I’m certainly getting the sense that both Sam and I are in good hands. We just aren’t together.

  “Adri?”

  I recognize that voice. I whip around.

  Tom asks how I’m doing. Funny, I’ve never noticed before how blue his eyes are.

  “Not bad,” I reply, smiling. “Thanks for coming today.”

  “You’re welcome. Would it be all right if I drop by your place tomorrow?”

  “Sure!”

  “I have another insurance cheque for you.”

  “Oh.”

  THE FOLLOWING afternoon, Tom is standing in front of my fireplace, where the wolf picture from Sam’s team rests on one chair and the blue “mean streets” picture from his recruit class sits on another. In front of the blue picture is a small branch, which Tom asks me about.

  “It’s from an olive tree,” I explain. “Sam’s family sent it from Greece. It’s for when a hero dies.”

  Tom’s eyes widen. “Oh man…”

  I nod. “I know. I haven’t let my heart go there yet.”

  Truth is, I haven’t let my heart go a lot of places yet. The risk of landmines is way too high.

  I walk over and sit in my big chair. Tom sits on the couch.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you pray?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you pray for?”

  He tilts his head to one side. “It’s strange you’d ask me that because ever since Sam died, I find that
I’m praying differently. I don’t ask for specific things from God anymore. My prayers are less selfish…now I pray for other people, not myself.”

  I nod. “That’s how Sam prayed.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. He said the exact same prayer every night before going to bed. He just asked God to look after me, his family and friends—and that was it.”

  “You and Sam talked about everything, didn’t you?”

  “Uh huh,” I reply. “That’s what’s getting me through this.”

  Tom looks to the floor then back at me. “Adri, I know how close you and Sam were, so don’t take this the wrong way. But I don’t think your shared past is the only thing that’s going to help you.”

  Thinking he’s referring to my support system, I say: “Well, I know all my friends and family and you guys are helping, too…”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh.”

  “I just think that you’re going to have to find your own path.”

  “But it’s Sam’s path,” I hear myself say, as if finally remembering my lines to a script memorized long ago, “that will lead me to that.”

  SOON AFTER Tom leaves, my doorbell rings, sending Sasha into a barking frenzy. Standing on my front porch, with a suitcase in one hand and a container of peanut butter cookies in the other, is this week’s Adri-sitter: Kristy, a friend of mine since junior high.

  Over lasagna, I ask for her help getting my photos in order.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Tonight.”

  Up go both brows. “Are you sure you’re ready to do that?”

  “I think so.” Because with Sam gone, who else will do it?

  “What’s the rush?”

  I shrug. “I just want stuff organized.”

  So, over hot chocolate and cookies, Kristy and I devise a plan. I’ll sort the photos into chronological order and she’ll place them into albums.

  I soon come across a picture taken of Sam at a New Year’s Eve party back when we were twenty-one. He’s wearing a shower cap, grinning and waving at the camera.

  “Geez, do you remember this night?” I ask Kristy.

  “Yeah.”

  “He got a straighter nose out of the deal, you know.”

  Sam had ended up in hospital after getting into a fight in the hotel elevator. Actually, it wasn’t much of a scrap; two guys had sucker-punched him in the face, breaking his nose and shattering his cheekbone. The cosmetic surgeon had asked Sam if, while he was wiring up his cheekbone would he also like the bump filed off his nose.

  “Well why not, eh, Adri?” Sam had snorted at me through the bandages.

  Killing two birds with one stone was reflective of his life philosophy. The wiring of his cheekbone was a necessary repair; improving the shape of his nose was an added bonus. Maybe grief works like that too. While coming to terms with Sam’s death, perhaps I ought to deal with a few other issues, such as us not having a child…

  “Adri?”

  I look up.

  “Are you all right?” Kristy asks. “You look pretty pale.”

  “Did I ever tell you about the oil Sam’s mom rubbed on his face after that surgery?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, she put some sort of holy oil on Sam’s face and when the doctor removed the bandages the next day, the bruising had disappeared—but only where the oil had touched his skin.”

  “Oh.”

  “You could see a really clear line between the bruised area where the bandage had covered his skin,” I say, “and the healed area where the oil had done its thing.”

  Kristy looks rather concerned. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “Mmm…hmmm…” I reply and resume sorting pictures.

  I come to a lakeside photo I’d taken of Sam during a camping trip years ago. I recall the source behind his flushed face wasn’t just a tan, but another afternoon spent with me in our tent. Then I whip past a cute shot of him cleaning the oven in our first apartment, then a picture of him lying on our old futon in his pajamas, wearing glasses and reading a textbook. I flip faster.

  “Let’s take a break,” Kristy suggests.

  “Soon.”

  I come to a photo of me and Sam at my farewell party prior to my seven-month backpacking trip. There are only six months left till I see him again—and I won’t even be picky about the reunion details: eternity, heaven, the afterlife, reincarnation, hell, purgatory or a combination thereof…

  Kristy reaches over and removes the photographs from my hands. “That’s enough for today, my friend.”

  THE NEXT day, I return to a task somewhat higher on the list of priorities—and less emotionally onerous. The graphic artist wants to discuss with me the wording and artwork for Sam’s headstone. I take Angela along, partly because I value her opinion but also because I no longer trust my own.

  “How about a photograph of Sam?” the artist suggests.

  I shake my head. “What if some kid draws a mustache on him or something?”

  “Uh…you don’t see that very often,” is her reply. As an alternative, she suggests a laser etching of his badge.

  I think of Sam doing similar work in heaven that he did here on earth. “That’s not a bad idea,” I say.

  She then asks if I have any ideas for his epitaph. I shrug and look to Angela.

  “Let’s check with my mom to find out what other Greeks have on their headstones.”

  “The closest English translation,” Sam’s mom says an hour later, over lunch at her kitchen table, “is Until We Meet Again.”

  “Done,” I say.

  Then I resume eating enough meatballs, spanakopita, tirama, bread and olives to sink a battleship. I’m reaching for yet another meatball when Sam’s dad gets up from the table and leaves the kitchen. We hear him crying softly in the living room.

  Sam’s mom looks at me. “He is so worried about you, Adri.”

  I give her the wave. “I’ll be fine.”

  ON NOVEMBER 10th, Stan and his wife, Megan—now eight months pregnant—fly in from Vancouver to visit me. They wake up on Remembrance Day morning to find me sobbing in front of the TV. The two of them squish together on the loveseat while I remain sprawled out on Sam’s perch and we all watch the wreath ceremony at the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa.

  How many people will bother to take a moment out of their crazily busy lives to stop for two lousy minutes of silence? Just like the soldiers who had died to secure our freedom, so, too, had Sam given his life protecting the peace we take for granted. Who remembers the dead soldiers and surviving veterans? Who will remember Sam?

  Stan asks me what I’m thinking.

  “That people don’t appreciate that Sam gave his life serving this goddamn city.”

  He and Megan stare at me, mouths open.

  “Sam will never be forgotten,” says Megan.

  “In the ways that matter,” I reply, “he already is.”

  “Adri!” she cries.

  Although I know our family and friends and the officers close to Sam won’t forget him, is simply remembering enough? What about asking a few questions? Like why do we need to alarm our homes and workplaces in the first place? Why are there so many break and enters? Why is our legal system more concerned with protecting the rights of the bad guys than the rights of the victims, or those of the peace officers trying to enforce the law? Why do we accept crime and violence in society with a shrug of the shoulders and a flip of the channel? Why does the responsibility for maintaining peace and order fall on the shoulders of police officers, but the real power and money goes to big business? What about the circumstances that led to Sam’s fall—doesn’t anyone else find them unacceptable? Why does everyone else get to go on with their precious little lives, baking and having babies while I’m stuck asking the questions that no one else, it seems, can be bothered to?

  “It’s like people have written off Sam’s death as a freak acciden
t,” I say.

  “I don’t know what to think,” is Stan’s reply.

  “Well for God’s sakes,” I say, “think something.”

  All three of us resume staring at the TV until Megan breaks the silence by suggesting we visit Sam.

  When we arrive at the cemetery, we find his candles lit and fresh footprints in the snow.

  “Sam’s mom and dad have already been here,” I explain. “They come every day.”

  We toast Sam with brandy snifters full of sherry then Stan empties Sam’s glass out onto his grave. I watch as the liquid soaks into the snow and think back to the three of us standing beside Sam in his ICU room. How solid is Sam now?

  Stan looks at me. “If you need anything, let me know. Sam made me promise that if something ever happened to him, I’d take care of you.”

  “He said that?” I ask.

  “A few times, actually.”

  I drink the rest of my sherry. “Everybody wants to help me by phoning or sending a card or dropping off food. But as grateful as I am for all the support, what I really want is assurance that Sam’s death wasn’t in vain.”

  “People help you in ways they know how,” Megan says.

  “But I can only eat so many cookies! What I need is help solving the problem.”

  “Is Sam’s death a problem to be solved?” Stan asks.

  I nod toward the white cross marking his grave. “You’re goddamn right it is.”

  Megan places a hand on my shoulder. “Adri…”

  I turn to Stan. “You’re an investment banker—do you know of anyone who could handle my finances?”

  BY MID-NOVEMBER, the weather has shifted again and the snow from Remembrance Day melted away. It’s now been six weeks since Sam’s death and I’ve been deemed sane enough to stay at home alone. With the constantly ringing phone, drop-in visitors, requests for coffee, appointments, writing and relentless thinking, I figure when bedtime rolls around, I’ll be too tired to notice no one’s in the spare room. That Sam isn’t in bed beside me, however, is still a significant source of concern.