“I never want to touch those things again.”
“Tea?” I held up the kettle.
“Please.”
I nibbled on a cookie while the water boiled. It was the first thing I’d eaten all day. Maybe even since Bernie’s soup the day before.
“Tomorrow Frank and I meet with the people to make arrangements,” Mom said.
“For the funeral?” The cookie had turned in my stomach and I put the last half of it on the counter.
“Among other things.” She sat up. “There’s a lot to figure out.”
I nodded and turned off the heat, pouring the water into two cups. “Do I need to be there?”
“No,” she said. “I asked David to take you to a movie or lunch.”
“He has to work.” I put her cup in front of her.
“I guess he took the time off.”
I sat opposite her, watching the water darken as I dunked a tea bag below the surface.
“What about Joel? You won’t make him go to school, will you?”
She shook her head. “He’s going to a friend’s house.”
“Don’t fight with Frank, all right?” I said. “When you’re making arrangements.”
“I’ll try not to.” She blew on her tea. “He’s just so darned stubborn.”
“Hm.” I lifted one eyebrow at her.
“I know. I have no room to call the kettle black.”
“How long is he going to stay?” I got up for the rest of my cookie. “Do you want one?”
“One of the chocolate chip ones, please.” She sighed. “Frank hasn’t said when he’s thinking of leaving. It can take a while for the remains to arrive.”
I shut my eyes and swallowed hard.
“It’s not a nice thought, I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Have you talked to Joel today?”
“A little. He’s angry, which I expected.” She took the cookie from me. “I hope he’ll talk to Frank. Sometimes what a boy needs most is his father.”
Six months earlier and I would have had some snide comment to make about boys needing their fathers. But, then again, six months earlier Mom would never have said such a thing.
It was just past ten o’clock when I went to bed. The door to Joel’s room was ajar and I peeked in. He sat on the edge of the top bunk, his legs dangling off the side. Frank stood beside him, his hand resting on the bed frame.
When I saw the tears on my little brother’s face, my instinct was to rush in. To climb up beside him and put my arm around his shoulders. To tell him that everything was going to be all right even if I wasn’t sure that was the truth.
I put my hand on the door to push it open when I saw Frank step up on the ladder to pull Joel’s head to his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Joel’s neck.
I went to my own room, careful to turn the knob when I shut the door.
The last thing I wanted to do was disturb them.
Dear Gloria,
Forgive my handwriting. The nerves have taken over and I can’t seem to keep my hand steady.
You asked me today how I was holding up and I didn’t say anything. If I’m honest, I don’t know how to answer that question. The closest I can come is to say that I’m miserable and I have many regrets.
Most of all, I regret missing Mike’s life.
I don’t want to miss another day of Annie and Joel’s.
It may be foolish, but I don’t think it’s too late for me to try and be a father to them. The father I should have been all this time.
Still, I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done. My only hope is that someday they’ll be able to forgive me.
Frank
Dear Frank,
I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to say this to you in person. Maybe it’s just that there are too many people around or that I’m afraid it would come out wrong. Writing it seems easier, even though I’ve written and rewritten it at least half a dozen times.
For years I had myself convinced that the kids didn’t need a father. That I could fill all the holes you’d left us with. I taught them how to fish and paddle a boat, I took the boys to Scouts and taught Annie to sew. When they fought, I broke it up. When they were hurt or sick, I took them to the doctor. When they were upset, I comforted them.
I did this because I had no choice, Frank. You’d left me very few options when you went away.
But now I see their need for you.
It’s so hard for me to ask, but please don’t disappear again.
Gloria
66
The days before the funeral passed by in a haze. Hours either sped away, spent before I realized it, or dragged along, seeming to never end. Some days I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten or gone to the bathroom or when I’d last showered. Others, I was aware of every moment I’d been awake.
A few days in the interim Frank had gone back to Bliss to “tie up loose ends.” Mom went to work. Joel attended school and I popped in for a few hours here or there at the diner.
The world continued to spin, carrying us along with it whether we liked it or not.
Suddenly and finally, the night before the funeral arrived. Mom had set up her ironing board, pressing all of our black clothes for the next morning and starching Joel’s button-up shirt. She had her hair in rollers and cold cream smeared on her face.
“Your dress is hanging up in the laundry room,” she said. “You’ll need a sweater to wear with it.”
“Thank you.” I took my dress off the hook, walking with it to the foot of the steps.
“Do you think Michael would hate us for making such a fuss over him?”
Facing her again, I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Frank wanted the whole shebang.” She stood the iron on its end and moved the shirt she was pressing. “The honor guard and the salutes and ‘Taps.’ All of it.”
“It will be nice.”
“Nice?” She scowled at me. “None of this is nice. Nothing about this is nice.”
“Mom . . .”
“I didn’t want any of this for him. I wanted him to go to college so he could get a deferment. I wanted him to be safe.” She lifted her arms, palms up. “I worked so hard. Still, he went. And now look at the mess we’re in.”
She yanked the plug of the iron out of the wall and ripped the shirt off the board. The way she fit it on the hanger, I feared she’d tear the sleeves right off.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said, her voice raised an octave. “Not to my son.”
She placed her hands on the ironing board and breathed in and out through her mouth.
“Mom?” I said, taking one step toward her.
“I don’t know what to do. I can’t fix this.”
Rushing past me down the stairs, Joel made his way to Mom. Without a word, he put his arms around her and she didn’t fight him.
“It’s all right, Mom,” he said. “It’s all right.”
She didn’t argue with him and she didn’t push him from her. Because, I thought, she knew that what he meant was that it was all right for her to let go, to not try to be so strong.
It was all right.
I sat on the bottom step, my funeral dress still in my arms.
There was nothing else I could do.
67
We’d followed the hearse from the church to the cemetery. Mom sat in the passenger’s seat of her station wagon and Frank was at the wheel. Joel sat between Oma and me in the back. Behind us was a line of cars carrying most of the residents of Fort Colson, Michigan.
They’d come to honor Mike. To welcome him back home.
The honor guard was made up of six veterans from our little town. Bernie was among them and I was glad to have someone I trusted bearing the weight of my brother.
Their movements were slow, methodical, as if they were in no hurry to carry the casket to the grave already carved out of the earth.
The funeral director ushered us from the car to the wooden folding chai
rs less than a foot from where Mike lay in his casket. I couldn’t tell if the burning in my lungs was from the freezing cold air or panic.
Don’t duck and cover. Keep your eyes open.
“Would you like a blanket?” the funeral director whispered. “For your laps?”
“That’s so kind of you,” Mom said from her seat beside me. “Thank you, Clive.”
He helped us tuck up under the black, fleecy cover. “I hope that helps a little.”
His kindness made me cry and I nodded, hoping he’d understand my gratitude.
“Just a little bit longer, honey,” Mom said, taking my hand.
Frank sat on the other side of me and put his arm around my shoulders. He didn’t say anything, but that was all right. Joel, from the other side of Frank, leaned forward and looked my way, giving me half a smile.
Remember it all, Mike had written.
I took notice of all the people fitting in close to the graveside. Jocelyn was there and so was David. Larry and his mother stood beside the Vanderlaans. They’d come for Mike. They’d come for us. I observed the way no one spoke, paying silent reverence. How Mom shook during the opening prayer and let me put my head on her shoulder. I heard the minister speak, his voice muffled by the wind that whipped around us.
“Jesus told his disciples in the garden on the eve of his death, ‘I am not alone, because the Father is with me. These things I have spoken to you that ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.’ Christ has overcome death and the grave. While we may mourn today, we are not left alone. The Father is with us and praise be to him who gives us the victory through his Son, Jesus Christ.”
Remember.
I kept my eyes open, trying not to flinch with the three-volley salute of gunfire. And I did my best to listen closely to the bugle as it played “Taps.” I paid attention to the way Frank cleared his throat and sniffled right after, the way Mom’s hand tightened around mine.
The honor guard folded the flag, attentive to every crease, keeping the stripes straight. Tugging and smoothing, they started the triangular fold with the greatest of care, tucking the end under the blue field and the perfectly white stars.
An officer knelt in front of Mom, presenting the flag to her, reciting words in his deep voice. She nodded, holding the flag on her lap on top of the fleecy blanket. Her jaw clenched.
“Thank you,” she whispered to him. “You have all done a fine job today.”
“It’s been my honor, ma’am,” he answered before rising and saluting her.
When it was time, we left the fleece blanket on the chairs and walked away, Mom holding the flag to her chest with both arms. Frank at her side, holding her elbow in his cupped hand. Joel and me behind them, my arm linked through his.
I turned and looked back over my shoulder, hating to leave.
68
The Army had delivered a box of what they called Mike’s “personal effects.” It sat, unopened, in the middle of the dining room table.
“I’m not entirely certain I’m ready to open it,” Mom said, looking at Frank where he sat across from her. “My hands are shaking.”
Oma brought a plate of cookies in from the kitchen, handing it to Joel. “If you want to wait, that’s all right, dearest.”
“You might as well get it over with.” Grandma crossed her arms.
“I agree,” said Aunt Rose.
“Whatever you want, Glo,” Frank said.
She nodded at him. “Will you open it?”
Frank stood, lifting the top off the box and looking down into it. One item at a time, he passed it to Mom. A stack of letters from home, a pouch full of coins, my copy of A Wrinkle in Time, the Bible Oma’d given him, a can opener, and a few odds and ends. He hesitated when he picked up Mike’s dog tags and the St. Michael medallion, closing his fingers over where they rested in his palm. He cleared his throat, handing them to Mom, and reached into the box one last time.
“And his camera,” Frank said, sitting. “He has at least six rolls of film in there.”
Mom stood and peeked over the edge. “I’ll take them in first thing in the morning.”
It took more than a week to get the photos back from Mike’s box. By then Frank was back in Bliss, Grandma and Aunt Rose were at home in Grand Rapids. Mom had decided it was better anyway, just the three of us getting to look through them first.
“We can take our time,” she said, sitting in the middle of the couch.
Joel and I sat on either side of her.
My heart beat fast when she broke the seal on the first envelope, pulling out a stack of square photographs. The topmost one was of a little boy kneeling on the ground, holding a puppy to his chest. The next six or more were of a green field, most of them blurry.
But then was one of Mike wearing his grin, standing in front of a helicopter with a red cross painted on the side. Then one with him and three other men, all with serious faces. He’d taken pictures of a bunk that I assumed to be his, a few buildings I guessed were on the base.
Stack by stack, we found pictures that told part of the story he’d lived in Vietnam. Him with a nurse or sitting on his bunk, writing a letter. Who had taken the pictures? I doubted we’d ever know. But I certainly was grateful.
“Just one more,” Mom said, opening the last envelope. “Oh, Michael.”
It was of our Christmas together, the night before he left. He’d spent every shot of that roll on us. The picture of all of us together. One of Oma smiling sweetly. Bernie and Frank with arms crossed, not looking at each other.
“Look at this,” Joel said, pointing at a picture of him playing his guitar.
“You look so grown up.” Mom handed it to him. “Oh, and I took this one.”
Mom held up a snapshot of Mike and me sitting on the floor by the Christmas tree, face-to-face, laughing about something. How seeing that picture made me miss him.
We kept flipping through them, then Mom stopped on one of her, holding her cup of tea and smiling prettily into the camera, her head tilted and one foot kicked up to the side. Behind her, Frank looked at her, the sullenness gone from his face and replaced by his full smile.
“That’s a nice one, Mom,” Joel said.
“Yeah,” she answered, her voice soft. “It is.”
The last was of the three of us, my brothers and me. They’d put me in between them, both of them giving me a kiss on either cheek. If my smile could have gotten any bigger it would have surprised me.
“Oh.” Mom sighed. “I wish I could have that evening back.”
Joel put an arm around her. “Me too, Mom.”
“And to think I got after him for taking all these pictures,” she said. “I wanted him to save the film for Vietnam.”
“He never was very good at doing as you said.” I laughed. “The stinker.”
“How I love him.” She blinked. “I love him so much.”
We looked through all the pictures one more time before putting them away for safekeeping. Mom said she’d buy an album at the five-and-dime the next day.
It was late, but we didn’t go to bed. And we didn’t turn on the news. We just sat together, missing Mike.
Epilogue
SPRING, 1968
The loons came back to Chippewa Lake the last week of March. They announced their arrival with a night concert of tremolos and yodels. Frank had come back to Fort Colson that week too. His reentry was quieter, just a man in a rusted pickup truck full of his few earthly belongings.
He’d sold his business in Bliss and rented a cottage a block or two from us, promising not to bother us too much. Still, he came for supper most evenings.
Mom had decided against taking Frank’s offer of divorce. But she did accept his invitation to the occasional Friday evening movie or Sunday afternoon drive. She made no promises of happily ever afters. But she also didn’t refuse to entertain the possibility.
Not long after Frank moved back she started wearing h
er wedding ring again.
We’d visited Mike’s grave every week since his funeral. Oma had planted tulips on either side of his headstone, bulbs she’d brought with her from the Netherlands. Each time we went, the searing pain of losing him lessened, replaced by an aching longing for him.
Even a million years wouldn’t heal that. I wouldn’t have wanted the cure anyway.
On the last Saturday of March, I borrowed Bernie’s boat and rowed out to the middle of Old Chip. It seemed like a year since Mike and I had sat in that boat together. I felt of the oar handles, the sides of the boat, remembering my brother.
I believed that, as Oma had said, we were meant for eternity. That life on this side was a prelude to the real life ahead of us. At least that was what I hoped for.
Mike is.
Those two words in her thick accent had gotten me through more than a handful of really tough days.
I spotted the loons gliding along the surface of the water, tucked away in the safety of their usual cove. Lifting Mike’s camera to my eye, I took a picture, hoping that it would come out clear, crisp once it was developed. I snapped a second just in case.
Taking the camera away from my eye, I saw a waving motion in my periphery. Turning, I saw David, his arms in the air. I slipped the camera strap around my neck before grabbing the oars and rowing back to the public access.
“Hi,” I said, letting him take my hand to help me up on the dock.
“Hello,” he said back. “No life jacket?”
“It’s not that deep.”
“You do know that somebody can drown in a teaspoon of water.”
“That’s not true.” I pointed to the loons. “They’re back.”
“So I heard.” He helped me tie the boat to the dock. “Do you think they’re the same ones that were here last year?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I like to think so.”
We sat on the dock, side by side, looking out over the water. I put my hand on my thigh, hoping he’d catch the drift that I wanted him to hold it. I wasn’t disappointed.
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