Traveling with Spirits (27 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

June, 1999, Minnesota

  She walks along Beata’s leafy, quiet street toward St. Luke’s, having parked near her friend’s apartment for a quick exit from the reception. So gracious of her to host the gathering after Mom’s requiem Mass. The church parlor is too institutional. And her own apartment is too far away for Mom’s older friends.

 
Jeanne bristled at the idea. “She’s not even a member of the family.”

  Monica didn’t reply, “She’s the closest thing I have to a sister.”

  One of the many things she didn’t say. For the moment, Monica has given up on family communication. Given up trying to understand why she didn’t let her say good-bye. They only discuss practical details of the cremation, mass and reception.

  “It’s the one sensible plan,” she answered matter-of-factly.

  Jeanne surrendered. The right word. Accepted, agreed, understood: none of these concepts seemed to be in Jeanne’s vocabulary.

  She takes a long breath of sweet early summer air and continues toward church, where Jeanne and Beata and Eric will be waiting in the front pew.

  He wanted to escort her to church. Jeanne said it would look weird if family appeared separately. Beata understood this walk was her one occasion for solitude today.

  Her opportunity to be alone with Mom.

  Monica pictures her now: the trim woman cooking corned beef in the kitchen, supervising the potato scrubbing and Jeanne’s table setting. Always Dad’s favorite dish on his birthday.

  Mom smiling proudly at the U, taking a photo of Monica in cap and gown.

  Mom walking warily along the wharf several weeks ago: a blurry vision of herself, but still there. Marie Murphy. Mom.

  Now this gentle, loving presence, has evaporated. “Oh, Momma,” she whispers, “I love you. I love you so.”

  She reaches St. Luke’s five minutes before Mass. She’ll chat with Mom’s friends afterward. That will be enough.

  The parking lot is full. Mourners stream into the church.

  Stricken with panic, she’s sure she missed it as she watches all these strangers, young and old.

  This is someone else’s funeral.

  Her watch says 3:55. Father Dolan is waving from the steps. Smiling. He’s happy to see her as if she is on time, in the right place.

  Although Mom wasn’t much on fashion, she would like her black linen suit, would approve of the green scarf. “A little bit of color,” she’d say, “always makes the outfit.”

  Father squeezes her hand. “Bless you dear.”

  “Thank you, Father.” He wasn’t the kind of priest to say, “We haven’t seen you in quite a while.” Still, she’s feared the encounter.

  “All these people knew Mom?”

  “Your mother was a blessing to parish and community. People have been phoning all week to check the time of Mass.” He pats her hand.

  She whispers, “I better get in there, then.”

  She nods to Mom’s long-time St. Paul neighbors, then to the Somali family who moved in more recently. To Angela and Dorothy of the famous bridge club. Then, an even bigger surprise—Dr. Jill, herself, sitting with Alonso and Terrence. Don’t think about motive, not here, not now.

  Beata has carefully arranged seating in the front pew. Jeanne is at the center aisle. Eric beside her, Beata next to him, saving a place by the far aisle for her.

  She takes her seat and holds Beata’s warm hand. “Thank you.”

  “Bless you, Monica.”

  The first notes of “Amazing Grace” strain as Father processes to the altar.

  Everyone stands.

  Monica thinks how Mom loved this hymn, even when it was considered “Protestant.” A natural ecumenical, Mom embraced Vatican II and the vernacular mass. But she once confessed, “I can’t get used to guitars in church. Maybe, dear, it’s because the Larsen boys are always off key.”

  She gazes around reassured there are no guitars or tambourines, just an organist. The Larsens moved to Eden Prairie years ago.

  Mass proceeds, as if in a childhood memory. The old words and music are comforting. After so many masses, confessions, rosaries, the Church has marked her indelibly.

  Father Dolan stands before them. “Eternal Rest grant onto them, O Lord…” She remembers how much Mom loved his lush, baritone voice, “And let perpetual light shine upon them.”

  Monica is glad Jeanne also nixed inviting speakers from the floor. They both want a simple Mass. Mom hated being center stage. Dad was the one who enjoyed spotlight: when he fled West, they were all a little confused about where to focus their attention.

  Now Monica recalls the shock and sadness in his voice when she phoned him on Monday. She pictures the yellow roses—her parents’ favorite flower—he sent to the funeral home. Sees Jeanne tossing them in the waste basket.

  “Marie Murphy was a true Christian,” Father Dolan begins. “Deeply involved in worship and service. She reared two fine daughters, Monica and Jeanne, who now grace the world with their different talents in medicine and business.”

 
“Believe in God?” Her fifteen-year-old sister demanded one night after Mom had gone to bed. “Would a loving god give Mom this cruddy life? Tear her away from Ireland? Take her husband off to Nevada?”

  “Wyoming,” she whispered.

  “Wyoming, who cares,” she sped on. “Would a god give her arthritis? Leave her with a mortgage and a paltry salary?”

  She still has no answer. She wonders if Jeanne was drinking then, in high school.

  “Many here don’t know each other. Marie Murphy’s generous spirit extended so widely—the food shelter, the library literacy program, St. Luke’s Good Neighbor Committee. Some of you had the joy of working with her for thirty or forty years.”

  “Momma, I love you. I miss you. Please know I would have come.” She’s kneeling now, praying directly to Mom. Praying for herself and Jeanne. It’s been a long time since she felt the kneeler. Odd how she and Carol Fitzpatrick planned to become nuns when they were in seventh grade. Carol writes, occasionally, from her climate field station in Tanzania. They had been so sure in those days. She doesn’t know about Carol, but her own certainty turned upside down at college where she learned to ask questions.

  She glances at Jeanne, the once open-hearted child, now harder and wider from years of drink and lousy diet. Through all her disappointments, she remained fiercely dedicated to Mom. Jeanne’s barely holding herself together. Her face is set just so; the wrong word from Father will spring her into a rage or a loud wail.

  “Therefore, let us pray for those who have lost a great friend and neighbor. Let us pray that Marie’s example of Christian charity will shine forth in all of us.”

  She pictures Dad driving the bus along Hennepin. Where is he at this moment? Drinking coffee and surveying the range? Riding a horse through the hills? She had to phone him about her death, of course, but was unprepared for his long, ragged moan, which said everything about regret and resignation.

  The communion line is short. Neither Monica nor Jeanne receive. Not even today, she thinks, not even for this woman who lit all those candles.

  Now it’s over. Father instructs them to stand, to go in peace. She’s supposed to walk outside. Pretend Mom is truly gone. Spend the rest of her life without her.

  The organist plays “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

  Beata takes her arm, whispering. “Come, they expect us to be the first to leave.”

  Already Jeanne and Eric are in the aisle behind Father, who leads them to the door.

  Dazed, she walks along, holding Beata’s hand.

  Jeanne stands next to Father Dolan, numbly accepting condolences. Monica takes her position on the other side of the priest.

  Sometime in the late afternoon, she notices Beata’s spacious flat is packed with people enjoying plates of ham, chicken and potato salad. The Altar Society ladies have brought cookies and pies. Eric has supplied cold drinks and is supervising the coffee and tea. She’s so lucky to have attentive, abiding Eric in her life.

  Jeanne looks calmer. Monica maintains her distance, still afraid of what she might say, also leery of smelling her sister’s breath.

  During a lull in the sincere, effusive, overwhelming condolences, she drifts over to the window and glances at the back yard.

  Mom never did take down the swing set.

 
Every night of summer vacation, she and Jeanne played on the swings after dinner. Monica loved to soar high, high above and dream about the chain looping over the top as she made a beautiful circle. Maybe one day she’d fly hot air balloons or airplanes. Jeanne preferred a shorter, boring rhythm closer to the ground.

  “Come on, try, Jeanne, you can get this high too.”

  “I don’t want to. I’m fine.”

  “Come on, it’s fun…”

  “Not my kind of fun,” she grumbled.

  Monica watched the pretty, apple-faced girl sway monotonously back and forth.

  “You’re just scared,” she prodded.

  “You’re nuts!” Jeanne shouted. “Nuts. Nuts. Swings are dangerous. Kevin O’Reilly spent two weeks in the hospital. Do you know people can die? Mom and Dad could die, you and I could…”

  Baffled by this cautiousness, Monica cajoled. “Come on, nobody’s going to die. Not for a while. You’re six years old. You’re smart enough not to go too high.”

  Jeanne jumped down and ran to the back porch. She picked up Felix and stroked the cat ardently.

  Monica shakes her head, startled to see that the swing set is painted blue, that it resides in Beata’s back garden. That’s right, they sold the house when Mom moved to Duluth. The swings are gone; the homestead is gone. Mom is dead.

  A tap on her elbow.

  Mrs. Wilson looks healthy, alert, a little tired, with sweat along her hairline from the June humidity. “I’ll be going now, dear.”

  “Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Wilson.”

  “Of course. Marie was the model neighbor. She was lucky how successful, yet dutiful, her daughters were in different ways. What a saint Jeanne was at the end.”

  “Yes,” she nods numbly. “We both loved Mom a great deal.”

  “Yes, both of you. She was so proud of her daughter, the doctor. There weren’t many children from our neighborhood who went as far as you did.”

  She smiles faintly, wants to disappear.

  Now that it’s evening, her attention clicks on and off. One minute, she’s thanking Eric and the next she’s silently arguing with Jeanne. One minute she’s talking to Father and the next she’s wondering when Mom will show up at this lovely party.

  Time to go. Does she imagine this? Is she being released? All the guests have gone. Jeanne, too. Washing up is finished.

  “Thank you, thank you. She throws her arms around Beata and Eric. “You’re the best of friends.”

  They all hang on tight, swaying affectionately.

  Monica sighs, detaches, reaches for her purse. “I have early morning patients.”

  “No, Monica,” Eric demurs. “Beata has made a dinner reservation at Frosts. To unwind. You don’t want to go back to an empty apartment.”

  Empty apartment. There’s nothing she craves as much.

  “Yes, Monica, it will be good for all of us to debrief,” Beata tries, “or even to sit quietly over a glass of wine in a room without funeral echoes.”

  “Sorry. You’ve both been very, very kind. I need to be alone. So much to absorb.”

  “Monica,” Eric takes her hand, “stay.”

  “No,” Beata touches his shoulder. “If solitude is what she needs, we must let her go.”

  “Okay,” he says reluctantly. “Remember we love you. Call if you want company.”

  She nods, afraid that if she says another word, she’ll burst into tears.

  Hours later, she’s still driving the streets of St. Paul. Very dark now, it’s time to head home. On the freeway, she feels queasy but she makes it safely to the Hennepin exit. She pulls over and starts walking, starved for fresh air.

  The sky is that majestic blue-black before the night shade is completely drawn. She hopes Beata and Eric aren’t trying to reach her at home. Finally, the temperature has dropped and there’s a slight wind. Or is that the breath of cars zipping along Hennepin?

  Dad will be by soon. She looks for him on each bus. He has to pass here. She buttons her sweater. Mom will be mad she’s left home without a jacket.

  “Spare change, Lady?” The skinny man reminds her of Armand Millar from fourth grade.

  “Spare change, Lady?” he says more loudly, as if she’s really a lady.

  “Sure,” she digs in her pocket for a dime. She won’t need bus fare. Dad always let her ride for free and she’s not allowed to tell Mom, who is strict about the seventh commandment and doesn’t believe in cheating the bus company.

  “Thanks, Ma’am.” He shuffles off.

  “Ma’am,” imagine that.

  Her watch says 11:30. Mom will be frantic at this hour. She must wonder where Dad is, too.

  A police car pulls over, idles nearby.

  Two concerned cops hop out and approach her. One officer, the woman, sits beside Monica at the bench. “Waiting for a bus, Miss?”

  “I’m not a miss,” she says for some reason. “I’m a doctor. Dr. Murphy. Well, I plan to be a doctor when I grow up.”

  “Dr. Murphy,” the officer repeats solemnly. “May I see your ID?”

  She hands over a big wallet. Where did she get that?

  Something cracks. The breeze stops. Monica is freezing on a dark bench talking to a police woman. Crazy. They think she’s crazy.

  “Yes, officer,” she pulls herself together. “I had a problem with my car. My mother died and…” She’s weeping uncontrollably. Sobbing as she couldn’t sob at home, at church, keening at midnight at a bus stop on Hennepin Avenue.

  “There, there, Doctor,” the officer places a light hand on her shoulder. “I see you live about a mile from here in Uptown. Why don’t we drive you home? Is your car safely parked?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Is there someone we can call? A relative?”

  “No, no relative,” she panics.

  “Perhaps a friend?”

  “Beata,” she says numbly and recites her best friend’s phone number.

TWENTY-SIX

September, October, 1999, Minnesota

  Beata lounges across from her in the blue easy chair, reading a novel. Monica stares out at the yellowing gingko and the fiery maple. Soon the early dark will be upon them. And perhaps sleep will come easier than it has this summer.

  Beata looks up. “You OK?”

  “Fine, just thinking about autumn.”

  “Great colors this year, they predict.”

  “You’re really the best.”

  Beata frowns doubtfully.

  “Spending all this time with me. Being good company, reading or watching silly videos. I’m so grateful.”

  “This is what friends do, hang out together.”

  The telephone rips through the evening’s hard-won tranquility. Monica’s nerve endings are completely exposed.

  Deliberately, she returns to her book.

  The ringing persists. Does it grow louder?

  Beata watches her.

  “Machine will get it,” Monica says, eyes fixed on her book.

  Two clicks, then: “Monica, it’s Eric. Again. Please pick up. Why are you avoiding me? Did I do something? Not do something? Please call. I’ve put off going to the cabin for weeks and I should leave soon. Call me, Monica. Please.” Click.

  She gazes out the back window.

  “So what’s going on?” Beata asks.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Why aren’t you answering his calls? OK, you needed space the first few weeks, but he’s been ringing a very long time.” Her brown eyes round with worry.

  “I can’t take care of anyone right now.”

  “What if he wants to take care of you?”

 
Jeanne sat on the swing, her face wrenched with anguish. “Do you know people can die?”