Past Forward Volume 1 (4 page)

This time, she tucked her hair neatly under
a scarf and again, she carried a tote bag. Inside the bag were her
nicest sandals, but she wore her athletic work shoes—“tennis shoes”
her mother called them—but the boxes always said “athletic shoes”
when they arrived.

She stopped at the familiar convenience
store and entered the bathroom, feeling a little strange. This time
she was the woman conducting business in town. Today,
she
changed her shoes, removed her scarf, and brushed out her long
hair, frowning at stray curls that refused to remain tame. With a
quick rinse to her face, arms, and hands, she left the restroom
feeling less disheveled than she had on her previous visit.

Inside the convenience store, she purchased
a bottle of water, a courtesy Mother had always paid for using the
store’s restroom. As she left, the cashier smiled at her and wished
her a nice day. “Thank you. I don’t think it will be though. Can
you tell me where to find the mortuary? I need to speak to James
Jorgensen at the Fairbury Mortuary, but I don’t know how to find
it.”

Stumbling over herself in apology, the clerk
directed her to Main Street and then to East Elm. “It’s at the end
of the block on the right. Right in front of the cemetery. I’m—I’m
sorry for your loss.”

Willow thanked her and walked the eight
blocks to the mortuary, taking notice of the town as though it was
the first time she’d ever seen it. She’d been to the dentist twice.
His office was directly behind “the Fox,” as Mother called it. The
Clinic wasn’t far from there. She’d had a tetanus booster there two
years ago when she’d stepped on a nail in the barnyard. It hadn’t
been rusty, but with a puncture wound, they had decided to walk to
town and get the shot anyway.

She’d never visited the market or stores.
Her mother liked to purchase fruit any time she was in town, but
Willow had always been content to stay outside and watch the people
coming and going. Other than a glance in the windows, she’d never
shopped in her life, and for the first time, the idea appealed to
her.

A glance at her watch was enough to hurry
her along to the funeral home. Just outside the gates of the
mortuary, the phone in her tote bag rang. She dug for it,
eventually finding it in one of her shoes. “Yes? This is Willow
Finley. Who is it?”

William Franklin’s voice sent her into an
apologetic tizzy. “Oh, Mr. Franklin, I am so sorry! The mortuary
called yesterday and wanted me to come right away, and I couldn’t,
so I said I’d come this morning at ten o’clock. I forgot you were
coming too.”

“No worries,” his soothing voice reassuring
her. “I’m turning into Fairbury right now. Since you’re already in
town, I’ll meet you outside in just a minute.”

She protested and suggested that she go
inside so she wouldn’t be late for her appointment, but William
Franklin insisted that she wait for him. “I’ve not dealt with
Fairbury Mortuary, but even the most reputable companies are there
to sell you as much as they can convince you that you need. Ok,
I’ll talk to you in a minute. I’m turning onto Elm.”

When he arrived, William Franklin wrapped
his arms around Willow and hugged her briefly. “I’m very sorry. I
had a high respect for your mother. Kari was a good woman.”

Willow gave him a watery smile and nodded.
“Mother always said you reminded her of her little brother. I think
she thought of you as a replacement for Uncle Kyle.”

Inside, the sounds of bubbling brooks and
twittering birds surrounded them. Willow glanced around the room
confused until William whispered, “It’s a recording. They do it to
soothe people.”

Before she could respond, James Jorgensen,
built like a linebacker and with a grin too broad and happy to fit
a stereotypical mortician, hurried to greet them. “Welcome. I am so
sorry for your loss! Please come right in and we’ll get everything
settled for you.”

William waited until Willow took her seat
and then turned to James. “Can you give us a moment please? I’m
here to help Miss Finley with the arrangements, and I truly don’t
know what she has in mind.”

“Well I’ll be happy to show you some
options—”

“Shall we step outside instead?”

James waved him back into his seat and
hurried out the door, closing it behind him. William sat next to
Willow and spoke candidly. “Have you ever been to a funeral,
Willow?”

“No.”

Since she didn’t seem inclined to elaborate,
William tried again. “Did your mother ever discuss them? Did she
ever state a preference or an opinion on them?”

Willow shook her head, stopped, and then
nodded. “I do remember her talking about her grandmother’s funeral
when she was a little girl and how her parents hadn’t been able to
stop a huge expensive affair that Great Grandmother Finley would
have hated. I think—I got the impression that Mother agreed that a
lavish funeral was distasteful.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Do you
have an opinion on cremation vs. burial?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m more familiar
with burial.” She pulled another of the decorated manila envelopes
from her tote bag. “I think I’d rather you look this over instead
of Mr. Jorgensen. He seems nice, but you’re a friend—” Willow
stumbled over her words. “—or as near to one as I have.”

William Franklin took the packet and
squeezed her hand as he did. “I’m a friend, Willow. I’m honored
that you would trust me with this.” He paused and added, “Since I’m
a friend, and we’re both adults, you should call me Bill. Everyone
else does.”

“Bill. Mother called you William.”

“She was always a little formal that way,”
he agreed.

He pulled a few handwritten letters from the
packet. There were addressed envelopes in it and letters for each.
They all said very similar things. Kari had died, the funeral
wasn’t decided as of yet, but if they wanted to come they could
call the funeral home for information etc. However, the letter to
Kari’s parents was different. He read it interestedly.

“
Dear Grandmother and
Grandfather Finley,

I write today to tell you that Mother has
died. I know that she would want me to tell you as soon as possible
in case you wished to say goodbye in person. There will be a
funeral, but I do not know yet when or where. Please contact the
Fairbury Mortuary for further information. I believe James
Jorgensen is the man in charge.

I know that Mother’s disappearance and
continued absence from your life must have hurt you a great deal. I
am sorry for that, and I know it hurt Mother as well. However, I do
hope that we can begin a regular correspondence. I would like to
know that I do have some family—that I am not completely alone in
the world. That must sound incredibly selfish, but it is true. I
feel rather small and lost right now. Sometimes I think I’ll wake
up and realize that this isn’t a terrible dream—that this is
reality. Then I am afraid.

Most sincerely,

Your granddaughter,

Willow Anne Finley

Bill had never read anything so heart
wrenching. “Oh Willow—” His words were cut short when he saw the
address on the envelope. “Rockland? Your grandparents live in
Rockland?”

“I believe that most of my family does.
There is an address for Chicago, but the rest are in Rockland or
one of the other towns around the loop.”

Unable to fathom Kari’s reasoning, Bill
couldn’t help but ask, “Why? Why did she keep herself shut
away?”

“Do you know the circumstances of my birth?”
When he shook his head, she continued. “She was raped and the
father of the man who attacked her paid her to stay out of their
lives and not to go to the police. Mother accepted those terms by
her definition, and knowing the pressure she’d be under by family
and friends, she just disappeared.”

Bill couldn’t answer. Before he found any
words with which to reply, a gentle knock sounded on the door and
James opened it cautiously. “Are we ready? I have another family
coming in at eleven-thirty and—”

“We’re ready. We need to plan for a burial
preferably on Saturday or Monday. Whichever the local minister can
accommodate will do.”

James stood again. “Let’s go take a look at
your coffin options then.”

Bill placed his hand gently but firmly on
Willow’s arm keeping her in her seat. “That won’t be necessary. She
has decided on the most basic coffin you carry.”

James pulled a brochure out of his desk
drawer, pushed it across the table, and began explaining the
options as well as the advantages and disadvantages to each, but
Bill stopped him. “I see. We’ll have to go to Rockland then. I know
that much less elaborate coffins are available there, and Miss
Finley does not want an extravagant set up.”

Blustering a bit, James pulled out another
brochure. “I don’t like to show this to people. We only keep one of
each in stock in the back for charity cases and such. Most people
are insulted if I offer them something so shabby…”

Very decisively, Willow pointed to the third
coffin shown in the brochure. “Mother would have approved of that
one. I’d like that.”

A million details followed, each more
exasperating than the last until finally Willow stood. “I am done.
I want that casket, a plot in the cemetery if we cannot get a
permit to bury her on our property, and a nice minister to perform
the—the whatever it’s called.” After a moment, she regained enough
control to remember the word. “—funeral.” She took a deep breath
and continued. “I want a prayer, Mother’s favorite scripture read,
and we’ll sing ‘Our God is Alive.’”

Smiling through unshed tears, Willow nodded
at Bill. “I’ll see you back at my house. I trust you for the rest
of the decisions, but as far as a ceremony or whatever, that’s all
I want. It’s all Mother would have wanted. I’ll pick her some of
our flowers and cover the coffin with them or maybe she can hold
them. Whichever. Please try to get a permit for burial at the
farm.”

With that, she rushed from the building but
neither man followed. They stared at one another for a moment
before James Jorgensen said, “Wow. She’s going to crash hard when
it hits her, but right now, wow.”

Bill glanced at the closed door and nodded.
“Wow.”

Willow passed a small deli just around the
corner from the mortuary. She’d never eaten in a restaurant—for
that matter, she’d never eaten away from home except for their
occasional picnics at the creek. Suddenly, she felt a keen desire
to try restaurant food.

A line to the door of the deli dissuaded her
from entering. She asked a woman going into the deli if there was a
good restaurant in town and was directed to Marcello’s. Once
inside, she knew she’d been sent to exactly the kind of restaurant
mentioned in her favorite novels.

Stunned at the prices of the food, she
quickly opened her tote and retrieved her mother’s wallet. She
hadn’t counted the money from the teapot; she’d just taken a
handful and left another handful for another time. Seeing a hundred
dollar bill, she breathed a sigh of relief and slipped the wallet
back into her purse. As she did, her phone rang sending shrill
sounds reverberating around the quiet room.

“Oh, I am sorry!” she exclaimed as she
struggled to find a way to turn it off. In exasperation, she slid
the phone open and then shut it again disconnecting the call.

A waiter hurried to her table and asked if
she’d mind setting the phone to vibrate but she pleaded for help to
silence it. He showed her how to turn the phone completely off and
then turn it back on again when she was out of the building. “But
it’s not necessary, miss, we just ask that people put it on vibrate
so as not to disturb our other diners.”

“Well, it would be rude for me to talk while
eating anyway so off is better anyway.” As she spoke, she noticed
several people mumbling into their phones, many with a lunch
partner waiting for them to complete their call. “What is so
important to discuss that you can’t wait until after you eat?” she
mused aloud.

“That’s the question of the times, isn’t it?
Can I get you something to drink?”

And so began her first experience in a
restaurant. She asked about everything and finally settled on
lemonade. At first, she chose hard lemonade, thinking it was extra
sour. When she couldn’t produce identification to prove her age, a
question she’d found incredibly amusing, the waiter, Brendan, said,
“Sorry, we can’t serve alcoholic drinks to anyone who looks under
thirty-five without identification.”

“Alcoholic! I just want nice sour lemonade!
I don’t drink alcohol.”

Every lunch special sounded better than the
last, until she finally said, “Choose something for me. Anything. I
just don’t want anything with tuna. Tuna is for winter.”

Unable to find a suitable response for such
a strange statement, Brendan suggested the chicken parmesan and
scribbled on his pad when she agreed. As she waited for her meal,
she picked at her salad and watched the activity at the restaurant
with great interest. Business people discussed things in hushed,
serious tones, often glancing at paperwork with concentrated
expressions on their faces. Couples ate slowly, occasionally
touching hands or even a face. Inside jokes made ordinary things
seem delightful, and the scenes were very interesting to
Willow.