The doctor took out a form and placed it on the kitchen table then asked about Henry’s mother’s name and other vital statistics.
“Well, that will be all for now, Mr. Pederson, you are free to call an ambulance or funeral home to come and get your mother.”
Dr. Freedman extended his hand to Henry with a look of sympathy on his face and nodded. The police officer who had stood in the doorway the entire time now also approached Henry and extended his hand. They shook hands, just a brief glance; no exchange of words. The bang of the screen door announced their final departure.
Henry walked over to the kitchen table and looked up Speer’s Funeral Home in the phone book. They informed him they would be over immediately.
He returned to his mother’s side, knelt down, and put his hand over hers. It was very cold and seemed bluer than when he first saw her. All the warmth was gone from her skin, but not from the memories Henry steadfastly now held onto. He needed the support of memories and the strength they would give him to do what he had to do. Yet, at the same time, Henry shut down the feelings associated with those memories, at least for now to prevent him from completely breaking down.
He stood up and tried to visualize what the attendants would do when they came in and how they would remove the body. Henry pushed the kitchen table even further away to give the attendants as much room as possible.
He recalled the time he had witnessed the removal of Anna’s body. How the attendants had entered the bedroom, unzipped a green vinyl bag, and laid Anna in it. It was a very cold scene and one which he still recalled from time to time.
A vehicle pulled up out front and two men got out. The attendants did pretty much what he’d seen the attendants who had taken Anna had done: they pulled out a stretcher and a vinyl green bag from the back of the ambulance.
As the two men climbed up the stairs, Henry held the door open for them.
“She is in the kitchen,” Henry directed from the rear then followed them. The attendants laid the stretcher beside his mother and unrolled the green bag on top of it. It was already unzipped. Henry recalled how the attendants placed Anna’s body into the bag and decided he didn’t want to carry the memory of his mother being placed in it.
“I’m just going to step out back while you get Mom ready. Thanks for coming so quickly”
The attendant at the head of the stretcher looked up and nodded. They were just getting ready to lift her onto the open bag on the stretcher when Henry turned and walked out to the back door landing.
He looked up at the bag of clothes pins in a white cotton bag hanging from a clothes line. He remembered his mother hanging out the clothes and how she loved the fresh smell of clothes drying this way rather than in the electric dryer in the basement. He smiled as he thought about how stiff the clothes hanging outside would get late in the fall when the weather cooled and how clothes such as long underwear or nightgowns would keep their shape when removed from the line then collapse as they warmed inside the house. He loved to watch this happen and just loved the fresh, clean smell of the clothes.
His eyes wandered down to the garden. She loved her garden and spent so much of her life out there. He visualized her working in the garden as he’d seen her do so many times growing up. The very first row of her garden was always a row of annuals; she loved the beauty they gave off and was a reflection of the love she had for her garden. She always said that this row of flowers was meant to offer a bouquet to the garden for the food and nutrients it gave to them every summer.
What a beautiful offering. So typical of Mom’s sensitivity to everything around her.
All the rows were devoid of weeds and very neat and straight. The tomatoes and peas were near the fence and each plant had a stick for the vegetable to climb up on, a practice she had learned from Mrs. Goronic next door. Henry looked over into her yard.
Mrs. Goronic had died many years ago and the house was purchased by a young couple. Half of her yard was now lawn and the other half garden, but not at all the way Mrs. Goronic had it. There were so many weeds it was hard to discern what vegetables were there. Oh, how she would weed her garden. He remembered only too well carrying out the weeds she pulled to the back lane for her and the nickel she’d paid him for doing so.
He smiled. Those were the days, so many memories. And that’s all they were. Just memories.
“Mr. Pederson.”
Henry turned to see one of the ambulance attendants standing at the back door.
“We have your mother in the van and will take her to Speer’s Funeral Home now.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Is there anything else we can do?”
“No, that will be fine.”
The man turned and walked back into the kitchen. Henry followed.
Henry looked down at the floor where his mom had lain. He pictured her lying there. So many times he’d wanted to visit more, call more, but he was always to busy with matters he considered more important and he had never made the time. Now it was too late, time had run its course. There would be no more of those precious moments to visit and chat and just sit with each other.
He had taken for granted a treasure he foolishly assumed would be with him, forever.
He met the attendant’s gaze, as he looked up. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, thank you.” Henry nodded.
He extended his hand to Henry. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Thank you,” Henry said, fighting to control the tears working their way to the surface.
Henry felt a little uncomfortable with the considerate thoughts of a person who’d never known either him or his mom. Like the exchange with the police officer before, Henry and the attendant shared a brief glance before he turned and left, the screen door banging shut behind him.
Henry stood in the kitchen momentarily then walked to the front door and watched the ambulance pull away, carrying his mom. She would never come back to her home again. Henry would never have thought that when he arose this morning he would be confronted with such a scene as this. He never realized death was so near.
But, as the Lord sayeth; man knowest neither the time nor the hour when He will call.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rather than return to the gallery, Henry decided to drive straight home. He needed to be alone for awhile. He didn’t want to be around people and put up a cheerful front when his heart felt so heavy. Neither did he want to put others in the uncomfortable position of trying to cheer him up or of deciding what to say.
It was a beautiful hot, sunny afternoon, he’d sooner let nature do its healing work. He turned off the highway onto the shortcut back road. Heat waves shimmered over the country lane blurring a cluster of three granaries in the distance.
Henry loosened his shirt collar button and opened the roof hatch to his SUV. He pushed a button on the side of his door and the window next to him slid down. The warm air gushed through the vehicle as he sped down the soft, dirt road. It reminded him of riding his bike when he was young. Just like then, the breeze felt good against his face, it soothed him, cleared his mind, and dried the dampness clinging to his body, the harvest-time air filling his lungs. The golden tips of the tall wheat swayed and rippled like a sea of waves under the vast prairie sky. It felt as though he were in a boat, travelling in the middle of the ocean.
Almost without thinking, he slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. He needed to just stop racing, stop time, even for just a moment. He wanted to see and feel and smell the sight before him; to let it comfort him, his life on the farm, his roots, his heritage, his parents who were no more.
He turned off the SUV and opened all the other windows, the noise of traffic barely reaching him from the highway. Bees droned around the wildflowers on the edge of the road. The meadowlark resting on the telephone lines overhead warbled to the steady hum from the cables. But i
t was the sound of the combine working in the field, that he wanted to hear. He bent towards the open window and strained to listen. The wind faintly carried its soothing sound towards him.
As he watched the combine cut precisely into the field of waving wheat, his mind cut deeply into the past recalling memory after memory.
The hot sun beat down on his elbow resting on the ledge of the open window. There was not a cloud in the sky, but he knew that could quickly change. Clouds and storms could rush in with very little warning on the prairies. Henry had been on the prairies long enough to know that there was always a race to get the crop off. Farmers waged a constant battle against the elements. Too much rain or too little. Hail could cut down a bumper crop just days before the harvest quicker than a hundred combines combined. Drought, early snow, late snow, low prices, high prices – there was always something.
The combine turned and approached Henry. The farmer inside the cab waved to him. Its churning sound became more audible, somehow more melodious than the trills of the meadowlark it was drowning out. He loved to watch the hungry machine gobble up the wheat. Reap what the farmers had toiled and worked for all spring and summer long.
The smell of freshly cut wheat grew stronger. The wind whispered through the ripened wheat which intermingled with the chaff swirling out from the fan behind the huge machine. He took a long breath of air, trying to drink in the harvest aroma of dust and cut straw. For him it possessed the essence of the good earth, the making of bread for all mankind.
It made him think of the homemade bread his mom baked every week. What an appetizingly powerful aroma. The smell had greeted him before he opened the door when he arrived home from school. The sight of his mother bringing out another loaf of baked bread from the oven in his mind’s eye, caused his eyes to widen in anticipation. He could hardly wait to get inside and devour it with melting butter filling its air pockets while it was still hot and steaming. He wondered if the farmer in the combine thought about the utter joy his harvest eventually brought to families?
A sudden breeze rushed through the windows carrying away the delicious aroma that clung to his memories. It hit him that he would never again smell baked bread in their home.
He pushed his mind back to the harvest scene before him, but it agitated him as well. The yearly passing of another harvest; a steady reminder of the passage of time and his own impending harvest. That one day, he, too, would be cut down and judged for what he had reaped. The dust stirring into the air from mother earth was more than a prairie harvest, but a clear reminder that it was from dust he had come and to dust he would return. And that he, just like his mother and dad and their parents before them, would become a part of the ever growing prairie wind.
It suddenly dawned on him that the scene before him was not just a combine reaping wheat, but contained within itself the roots which bound them to the past, the toil of those who’d gone before, that their memory was here, ever present, that they were a part of what made this land. Like soldiers in a war they fought against the elements. The sweat, the toil, the pulling together…the good times and hard ones. Each year, more virgin land was broken, each year brought a new crop and a new hope that that year’s crop would be bigger and better. Each year the battle waged and each year the victory over the land and perils coming from the sky was won.
“Ah,” Henry muttered, “This truly is what the spirit of a prairie harvest is all about. Thank you Mom and Dad,” he whispered. “Thank you Grandma and Grandpa and to you…my great-grandparents, thank you, too.”
Henry knew his children would never fully appreciate or understand what the pioneers had done for them. His mother’s passing was the end of an era for him and, yet, he felt compelled to keep this legacy alive.
“Oh, Lord, paint words so vividly and strong in my mind that I can pass along to my children what I am feeling and thinking now. Make my paintings always capture the spirit of the prairies.” Yes, this was the passing of another era in the fleeting passage of time…yet these were their roots; planted much deeper than the seeds of the wheat still swaying before him. “And, our roots should sway and dance in the wheat, the grass, the wind, the land and the sky, forever. They should never be forgotten; for we are all one, under the prairie sun,” he almost sang as his spirits lifted.
Tears welled up in Henry’s eyes as one visual memory after another of his parents and ancestors projected on the screen of his mind. He felt their presence; the spirit of the prairies was in his bones, his heart, and in his soul. He knew he was not alone; he felt encouraged and supported and refreshed by this spirit. Somehow it gave him the courage and strength to go on.
The combine had turned again and was now heading away from him towards the descending sun in the west. The dust and straw spewing out from behind almost hid the entire burning silhouette of the combine. Its sound was receding, no longer audible; just like the memories disappearing in his mind.
He wiped the spilled tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He listened once more for the soothing trill of the meadowlark, but it was gone. He revved up the SUV and headed down the dusty road towards home, much slower than usual, savouring the lingering memories which were already fading as quickly as another day on the prairies.
After a late light dinner, most of which he left on the plate, Henry phoned Jeremy who had been shocked to learn of the news from Justin earlier. Henry was glad that Justin and Lauren were spending the night with Camilla and Jeremy. Henry hesitated to call Allison, and as he had expected she seemed to take it hardest of all. She and Grandma were very close.
Henry also called Ivania who was shocked by the news. They canceled the movie and dinner date they had planned on going to Friday. Ivania said she would be at the Speer’s funeral service and asked if there was anything she could do. Henry simply said that it would be good of her to come to the prayers.
Then he called Father Engelmann to make funeral arrangements for next Monday morning. Father said he would also do Mass for Mary the following morning at eight.
Henry wanted to talk further, but feelings of mourning were settling in. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes. He wanted to say to Father that they would not be meeting at Mom’s this Sunday evening for dinner like they usually did and that they wouldn’t have her special borscht soup this fall; but he just couldn’t talk anymore.
After Henry promised he would be at the mass, he hung up and headed to bed.
A few minutes past nine, he turned out the bedside light. The soft light of the setting sun cast a glow in the room yet it could not calm his racing mind. He tossed and turned as he thought of all the funeral arrangements he had to make in the morning; put a death notice in the paper, lunch after the funeral at the hall. He didn’t have to concern himself with the cemetery plot or casket as that was already looked after.
And then it came to him, he was so overtaken by his mom’s death he had forgotten about what she wanted to tell and show him. He thought back to the time he entered the house until he left and he didn’t notice anything there for him. The table was empty, no plates or cutlery…nothing!
Where would Mom have put what she wanted to show me?
His eyes were heavy. He felt so lonely with Julean gone and now his mom. Every breath, every moment a person lives brings them closer to their inevitable death. One by one people part ways and as each one leaves a void is created in the hearts of those left behind that no one else can fill.
Finally, as Henry began to drift off he faintly smelled the lilacs coming from his mother’s body that morning. He didn’t feel his eyelids push out warm tears as they closed and he began to dream.
He saw Jenny, her golden hair glistening in the light as she stood at the screen door at their house. She was calling on him to take her to Balfour Collegiate to register for grade nine. Henry’s mom and Jenny were chatting as he came down the hallway. She had commented on the smell of fried onions and potatoes in the a
ir. How they were her favourites, too. Somehow the dream comforted him and he settled into a deeper sleep.
In the morning, just before he woke, his dream of Jenny continued. Jenny was leaving…she was going away; it was storming, there was lightning and thunder. He felt as if he were being torn apart, losing all control and then…he felt the touch of an angel behind him. His mother put her arm over his shoulder soothing his troubled heart. She was always there.
But who would be there now?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Camilla tossed and turned and finally decided to get up. Not only was she filled with such sorrow over the death of Grandma Pederson, but the dreams she was having were so troublesome to her spirit. Besides her usual dream of a stork flying in the sky delivering a baby to a lady sitting in a gazebo surrounded by wildflowers, ever since she saw that man staring at her at Father Engelmann’s anniversary party, he was in her dreams as well.
In the dream, the man is gazing into the sky with his arms outstretched upwards as if waiting to receive something from the heavens. Although the stork does not appear in that dream, it almost seems as if he is waiting for the stork to deliver the baby to him as well.
Oh, what does it all mean? And why is it about that man that draws me to him?
Camilla quietly got out of bed, made her way into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle to make a cup of tea. Her journal was on the shelf above a small desk at the end of the kitchen counter. She retrieved it and sat down at the kitchen table.
She opened the journal to her last entry. It was dated Sunday, 9, 1987, the day of Father’s anniversary. She remembered writing the following entry that same evening after she and Jeremy got home:
I saw a man at the party for Father Engelmann today. I felt him staring at me. When our gazes met, I felt so strange, as if I knew the man from another place and time. Neither he nor I could look away for several moments. For the first time in my life I saw features in the man that reminded me of myself. His eyes and the shape of his mouth had such a familiarity. And when I look in the mirror I see those same features in myself. I know that this is just a coincidence and yet for as long as I can remember I never had that same feeling of familiarity when I looked at my own mom and dad!
The Angelic Occurrence Page 36
