All of It (27 page)

I quickly learn, in the sleepless days that follow, that death is not an easy process for anyone, save one: the deceased. My own grief is somewhat postponed, due to the shear amount of time and focus I have to expend on planning and doing what needs to be done. There are meetings with a lawyer to administer the will and grant me power of attorney over all of my parents’ assets. There are meetings with insurance companies and banks. Sunny or Dimitri accompanies me to each meeting. I’m surprisingly composed given the overwhelming severity of the situation. It’d mechanical. Dealing with finances is preferable at the moment to dealing with my emotions. I’m grateful that my parents had the forethought to ensure that I’ll be taken care of financially for a while.

Their bodies were cremated in Lincoln and then shipped to me. I make Dimitri handle the boxes at first, which are rectangular and heavy, like shoeboxes filled with sand. Their wedding rings are in a small envelope wrapped in bubble wrap. I don’t think I’ll ever look forward to receiving another package in the mail after having to sign for my parents’ ashes.

I return home on Thursday—four days after I received the phone call. Sunny begged me to stay with them, but I insisted on some time alone. I haven’t slept since Sunday, and my mind and body are beyond exhaustion. Putting off returning to my parents’ home, to
my
home, is only delaying the inevitable grieving process. I can only hope that the house will provide me a haven to rest.

Dimitri drives me home and hesitantly drops me off at the back door only after my repeated insistence to be left alone for the night. His familiar hug is warm and comforting, a security blanket. With my ear pressed against his chest, the beat of his heart becomes almost hypnotic. My own breathing and heart rate slow and the world begins to dull and fade. Then everything is quiet.

Life is sometimes … dead.

I wake from a dreamless, seventeen-hour sleep to the reality that is my new life. Just me, alone … in
my
empty house. I stretch and my body, still wrapped in sheets, protests painfully. Apparently, so much time in a prone position is not good for the back.

As I head for the bathroom I notice a vase of pink lilies on my desk. Beside it are a brand new cell phone and a note from Dimitri. It reads, “I hope you had a long, peaceful rest and that these flowers make you smile. Call me when you are up and about. I Love You!’

The lilies do make me smile.

I take a long, hot shower and relish in every second of it. Even though the previous days at Sunny’s had felt like staying at a luxury resort, returning to my own home is comforting, even my tiny bathroom with its old, thin, faded towels.

Walking upstairs and through each room is like reacquainting with a childhood friend I haven’t seen in a long time—familiar, yet different. It’s like I’m seeing things through older eyes. Tragedy has an aging effect. Maturing decades in the mere span of a couple of days is not something I welcome, but given the situation, I don’t have a choice. I can face this head on or I can submit and fail miserably. I’ve never been much for failure.

After walking through every room, I stop in the middle of the front room and stare at the piano. It’s an opponent, a confrontation in the making. Determined, I walk to the piano bench and lift the top. My mom’s music books are piled loosely inside. She attempted to learn how to play several times, and there are numerous lesson books inside. I select one of them, mainly because the white margin on the cover has my mom’s handwriting on it.

With trembling hands I open it, place it in the music holder, and sit down. I played tenor sax in my elementary school band, but it’s been years since I’ve even looked at a page of music, and even longer since I attempted to play the piano. Luckily, the book is written for a beginner and illustrates the keys, so I’m able to follow along. I spend the better part of an hour fumbling my way clumsily through the exercises. I lose myself in my concentration, and when I finish the book, I pull out the next one. I like this book much better because my mom has notes written on almost every page, most of which don’t even pertain to her lessons: “Pick up Ronnie at 4:00;” “Make dentist appointment;” lists of groceries; doodles. My mom could never focus on one thing at a time. I imagine her stopping her instructor in the middle of a lesson to jot down whatever popped into her head. It’s
so
her. It makes me smile through teary eyes.

I flip through book after book. My fingers grow more confident, and reading the music is coming back to me like riding a bike. Hours go by and it’s only when my stomach begins growling louder than the music that I decide I’d better stop for the evening.

My appetite, like sleep, has eluded me for days. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything. I call Dimitri to see if he wants to join me for dinner.

He answers on the first ring. “Hi baby.” His voice is sweet and cautious.

“Hi Dimitri. Thanks for the new phone and the flowers.” It feels like days since I’ve seen him. His voice is comforting.

I can hear the relief in his voice. “You’re welcome. We can exchange it for another model if you don’t like it.”

“No, no, it’s great, really. Much fancier than my old phone though. It may take me a while—and apparently a degree in computer programming—to figure it out. But I’m sure I’ll get there eventually.”

My joking relaxes him and he laughs. “It’s just like Sebastian’s. He can tutor you on it. He probably won’t charge much.”

“Not much.” I smile. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“Actually I haven’t eaten all day. I was kind of waiting for you to wake up so that I could take you out for breakfast or lunch, but dinner’s perfect.”

“I was hoping we could just eat here if that’s okay. Looks like I’d better get used to cooking for myself, so I may as well start right now.”

His voice is tentative again. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

I peer in the refrigerator as I consider this. Bleak—it is almost bare, and what is there looks beyond expiration. “Don’t have a choice, do I? Looks like Jo was planning on being gone for a while … huh, that’s irony for you … because there’s not much here in the fridge.”

“No problem, I’ll stop at the store on my way over. Anything specific you need?”

I half laugh. “Everything. Do they sell that at the store?”

He laughs at my sad attempt at humor. “I’m leaving now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I clean out what remains in refrigerator while I’m waiting. He arrives with the Porsche completely full of groceries, which isn’t saying much. It maxes out at a five bag limit. Dimitri even has bags under his feet on the floor. Clearly Porsches were not manufactured for mundane, domestic chores.

He helps me put all of the food away and we decide on spaghetti for dinner. He starts boiling water for pasta while I cut up a head of romaine lettuce, a tomato, and two carrots to make a salad. Dimitri dumps a jar of spaghetti sauce into a pot and heats it on the stove. Food has never smelled so good—even just store-bought pasta sauce. As it turns out, when you don’t eat for days on end your appreciation for food only grows. When it’s all ready, we sit down and devour our food in silence. When we’re both satisfied, we clear the dishes. Dimitri makes us tea as I load them into the dishwasher. Then we talk.

It’s dark outside and a good time for reflection. “I never imagined a week like the one I’ve just lived. Was it like this when you lost your dad?”

He’s thoughtful. “Much like this I suppose. It was chaotic. I don’t remember a lot of specifics, even from the funeral, but I do remember emotions. My mom was devastated. I was sad. Sebastian was distant. Death is a confusing creature.”

I stare at the table and nod. “That it is.” I hesitate a few moments before asking my next question. “Where do you think they are now?”

He tilts his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve always gone to church every Sunday with Sunny, right?”

He nods.

“I’ve never set foot inside a church, aside from the occasional wedding or funeral. Since you’re the only religious person in the room, I thought you might know. They talk about death and heaven in the Bible, right?”

Another nod. “They do talk about death and heaven in the Bible.”

“Then where do you think my parents are now? Are they in heaven?”

His smile is slight and thoughtful. “Ronnie, just because someone attends church every Sunday doesn’t mean they know what happens after we die. There are theories, certainly—every religion has its own.”

“What is your church’s theory?” This is important to me, so I keep prodding.

He exhales and I’m not sure if I’m testing his perfect patience. “Ronnie, do you know why I go to church every Sunday?”

I’m prepared for a sermon of sorts. “No.”

His smile softens. “I go because Sunny enjoys it and I like to see her happy. But I also go out of pure curiosity. It fascinates me.”

“What do you mean,
curiosity
? I always just thought you were really religious and that we’d never discussed it because you knew I wasn’t.”

He chuckles and says, “Let’s just say that I tend to have a very clear set of beliefs and what I like to call ‘knowns.’ Occasionally these do coincide with the ideology preached at the church I attend. But usually they do not. I sit back and watch the congregation closely every week and it always astounds me how different they all are. I don’t mean physically. I mean spiritually, religiously. They’re all reading the same Bible, hearing the same sermons, yet each person in the room interprets it differently. No two people practice exactly the same, even though they huddle together under their chosen religion’s umbrella. Some are there for purely social reasons, some because they’re coerced by their spouses, some because they truly believe. But even the true believers believe variations of the story. People by nature are all wired differently; it’s what makes us individuals. Variety is beautiful. But with that kind of variety, how can any two people possibly have exactly the same beliefs about something as intangible as religion?”

I shrug. I’m following him, but admittedly shocked by the philosophical turn my questioning has taken.

He knows he’s just given me a lot to think about and he pokes my chest gently with his finger. “Where does
your
heart tell you they are?” He pauses. “Because that’s all that matters.”

I hesitate and take a deep breath. “I don’t know. I mean, I’m
supposed
to say heaven, right?”

He shrugs. “That is a widely popular view, at least in western civilization.” He says this in a mock-official tone, as a history teacher might. “People in eastern civilizations may beg to differ. But really, east and west don’t matter. Religious and spiritual views are highly personal. What did your parents believe?”

I shake my head and shrug. “They never really talked about death, aside from making it clear that they wanted to be cremated and didn’t want a funeral. As far as religion, they didn’t practice anything specifically. My mom was spiritual, but she focused more on how we live our lives, how we treat each other, and how our thoughts and actions affect future thoughts and actions. She believed there was definitely a larger force at work in the universe and she talked about life as if it were unending. She acknowledged the fact that death is inevitable, but the idea never seemed to frighten her. My dad was the same way. He just said ‘death is a part of life.’”

He smiles. “That sounds like Will and Jo.”

I let out an exasperated huff. “Exactly! Profound maybe, but extremely vague, which leaves me with no answers.”

His smile softens and he narrows his eyes. “What is it that Veronica Smith believes? You’ve had many years to ponder life. You can’t tell me you have no ideas. I know you too well—you analyze
everything
. The fact that you’ve never attended church makes you no less competent than any theologian to formulate your own theories. Religion and spirituality arise from within. And you, my dear, have an opinion …
about everything
.”

I hesitate and take a deep breath. “It’s going to sound silly to you.”

He winks. “Probably not, so let’s hear it.”

I bite my lip, unsure if I should share my thoughts. “Well … I would like to believe that my parents are still with me.” I eye him cautiously.

“They’re always with you,” he says in a comforting voice. “In your heart and especially in your memories.” He strokes my cheek and an almost pained look emerges in his eyes. “Memories are more meaningful and powerful than you can imagine.”

My eyes begin to burn with tears. “I don’t want them to be only a memory. I want them back.” I wipe the tears from my cheeks with my shirtsleeve and look down at the table. “I know it’s not possible, but deep down I feel like they haven’t left us. That they’re nearby. Not in heaven, but here on Earth.” I wait for a response but he doesn’t offer one. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” He doesn’t answer until I raise my head to meet his gaze.

His expression is gentle. “No.”

I’m relieved. “So, where do you think they are?”

“I think they are wherever
your
heart tells
you
they are;
that
should be all that matters.”

That statement is the single-most reassuring and comforting thing I’ve heard in days. Countless people have offered their condolences over the phone and through personal interactions. Even mere acquaintances have tried to reassure me with their own religious beliefs as if they are a universal truth we all share.

Guess what? We don’t all share one truth.

Religious sentiment, even, or especially, in the case of something as monumental as death isn’t always necessary, wanted, or warranted. I wish everyone realized this.

Dimitri’s words unknowingly sum up and shape a lifetime of my spiritual beliefs. It’s something I will always remember and look to for guidance. My beliefs are not in a book or a speech, but in my heart … and that should be all that matters.

Life is sometimes … whatever your heart tells you.