We gathered back at the house and built a fire on the beach. Beers were passed and comforts exchanged. The sun soon broke and there was much to be done. I being the oldest had to stuff down my own screams and tears to accompany my mother on the, “funeral 101”, day of preparations. First stop, Sullivan’s Funeral Home. We sat with the Sullivan brothers two who kindly explained the difference between coffins, plots and emotions yet to come. They assured us of my father’s safe transport, as they would join him for the ride to Mass General Hospital and back for the “sudden death” autopsy tomorrow. Next, it was time for the flowers. It’s amazing how agonizing it can be to decide what shape, which combination, and how many are needed could be. Is there a flower too feminine? Amount too many or few? What do we do with them after? Now, the phone calls began. The news had spread quickly over night and my mother refused to take her cell phone out of the glove compartment, so I was the chosen point of contact. She always kept her phone, off of course, safely in her car for emergencies only. She is a brilliant woman, but not the most embracing to technology. A fact both ironic and amusing, considering my father had been a professor of technology at Curry College for the past twenty-three years. Coworkers of hers and dads began calling to express their shock and condolences. Dad was training daily for his third Boston Marathon. He never smoked, rarely drank and was the model member of our family. Losing him at fifty-four could never have been imagined. “Mom, it’s noon already, you really should try and eat something.” She hadn’t touched a thing in more than twenty-four hours. I grabbed a couple of sandwiches, bottles of water, chips and found a picnic table for us to sit at in front of the diner. She looked so tired and worn. The usual sparkle in her crystal, blue eyes has dimmed completely. Her sun kissed cheeks were now pale enough to match her snow, white hair. I look down at the untouched food sitting in front of her. “Mom, why don’t we just go back to the house so you can nap? I can make some phone calls from there while you rest.” “What, Hon?” she said as her distant gaze broke and a forced smile appeared. “Did you know that your father used to bring me here when we first met? We were just kids then. We’d sit on the beach, eat French fries with too much salt and watch the tide go out?” I can see that she is not present. She seems to be doing all that she can to just keep from completely falling down. Trapped in limbo between the sweet life long past and bitter truth of reality. “Let’s go back to the house.” I plead again. My voice noticeably stressed, while forced smile worn. I cross the table to help her up when I feel a vibration in my front pocket. “Hello?” “Yes, I am trying to reach Katherine Walden.” I do not recognize the voice or number on my phone. “This is her daughter, Brianna, can I help you?” The unfamiliar voice responses, “I am calling from the Mass General Hospital morgue and I need to verify some information for your father’s autopsy.” My heart sank. The harsh reality that he is now merely a body, which will be cut to bits, strikes me cold. “I would be happy to give you any information that you need.” I reply in a monotone voice. I am standing stiff and feeling numb. “I’m sorry, but I need to speak with the spouse.” The spouse? Screw you! Do you mean his wife, his high school sweetheart, the mother of his children, his Kitty?!!! I breathe deep, hand the phone to my mother and explain that they just need to verify some information. I do this with a canned smile whose fakeness almost hurts. “Yes, this is Katherine Walden…. Yes, he is being driven there tomorrow by Sullivan’s Funeral Home…. Ok, yes, I understand, ok, what, ok…” I watch my mother lean on the weeping willow beside her as the conversation progresses. Then suddenly, I quickly reach to catch her as the phone drops to the ground. My fragile mother begins sopping uncontrollably and holds on to me like a wounded child with a fierce grip. I move her safely to the ground and hold her as she cries. I have never seen this vulnerable side to my mother. After some time passes, she asks that we go back to the house. She never speaks a word for the entire drive. What did they do to her? What did they say? What information, that needed verifying, could have destroyed her so quickly and violently?
We arrive at the summerhouse to every woman, of every age, chopping and dicing, boiling and cooking what seemed to be enough food for all of the Cape and islands. My sister, Christina, approaches me with a barrage of questions. “How did it go? Did everything get done? Is there anything else left to do?” “I think we handled all we need to for now. We just need to get on phones and make calls for the wake and funeral. The wake will be on Friday evening at Sullivan’s at 7:00. We will have an hour with dad alone first.” I reply, while somewhat distracted by the vision of my mother’s pale face flashing in my mind. “Ok. Everyone from Curry has been calling. Did his boss get you on your phone? I figured Mom wouldn’t answer, so I gave him your number.” “Yes, I spoke with Tom and a bunch of other people that called. I don’t even remember half of who I talked to. Mass General called and really upset Mom. I don’t know what they said to her, but she collapsed from it. She’s a mess.” My heart hurts every time I think of what she must be feeling. “What do you mean she collapsed?” Christina has never been one to contain her voice when emotional. I remember when Jeffrey Richards broke up with her when she was in the tenth grade and I in the twelfth. The whole school could hear her saying words that nice girls don’t say before and after she punched him in his left eye. Her three-day suspension was nothing compared to the two weeks of humiliation he wore along with a serious shiner. “Who collapsed?” My youngest sister, Sarah rushed over. Soon the gaggle of hens surrounded me clucking. I have to raise my voice slightly to battle the chatter of women. “Mom did, she collapsed after talking to the morgue at Mass General. She didn’t want to talk about it and went upstairs to lie down. I think we need to give her some space.” I hope this will quell the inquiry. “Oh, Kitty. She always tries so hard to hold it all together and sooner or later it always catches up.” My grandmother always favored my mother of all of her daughter-in-laws. “She’ll be ok. Everyone just leave her be for a little while. She’ll come down when she’s ready.” Gram was the matriarch and no one ever questioned her orders. The women cooked, the men grilled and we all stayed busy.
When dusk was setting in I went to check on my mother. I knocked softly on the door. She didn’t respond. I opened the door slightly to see her sitting at the window, lined with shells faded from the washing of tides and years of sun. “Hey, how are you feeling? Do you want to come down for dinner? You know the family, there is enough food prepared to last us through the next winter down there.” She didn’t break her gaze and finally responded, “They had to tell me everything that they would do in the autopsy. I had to listen to how they would open him up and cut him into pieces.” I wrapped my arms around her not knowing what to say. “They will remove all of his organs and eyes for donation. He wanted that, but I can’t think of them chopping him up like an old car to sell parts off of.” Her face was stained with salty tears. There was a redness to her complexion again, not from the sun, but flush from raw emotion. “I’m sorry you had to listen to all of that Mom. You know it’s not him there any more. He’s in a better place than us now.” I said what I thought would ease her pain, but the very same feelings were racing through me.
….continued next Wednesday at noon! Sign up to follow!
72 Hours 