It’s been five hard fought hours.
“You can do this, Cat,” Jude says. “Piece of cake, baby sister. You got this.”
Paper spools from the bedside monitor. Dr. Ann reads it, nods her head.
“This is it, Cat,” she says confidently. Tiny beads of perspiration cover her round face, her expression steely and sure. “One more time. I need you to bear down and give me one last good push.” Dr. Ann situates herself at the foot of the bed between my wife’s legs. “Ready? One. Two. Three. Push!”
Catherine grips her sister’s hand and grunts. Her face contorts from the effort, teeth bared, body shaking.
And when I think it’s too much for her, when it seems the effort is greater than what she can endure, she emits a loud yell.
A messy, screaming, amazing human being appears in Dr. Ann’s arms.
“It’s a boy!”
“It’s a boy, Cat! A boy!” Jude cries. “Celeste has a baby brother.” Tears streak down her face like tributaries.
The nurse cleans out the baby’s airway and hands the beautifully dirty bundle to Catherine.
“I know,” Catherine breaths. She doesn’t say it condescendingly. She says it as if she’s known all this time. She’s glowing, absolutely radiant. Despite the pain and exhaustion, she beams with pride as she holds her new son, our new son, against her chest. “I’ve known for a long time.”
Jude kisses Catherine’s slick brow. “He’s a little angel, Cat. You’re such an angel,” she coos to the newest addition of the Franchitti clan, “aren’t you, little—”
“Ricky,” Catherine says. “His name is Ricky Junior.”
~~~
At six-seventeen in the morning on June nineteenth, Richard Franchitti Junior came screaming into the world … all nine pounds, fourteen ounces of him. Now that’s a big boy.
The hours after my son’s birth were like a scene from a familiar memory. The recovery room became a revolving door of family and friends. Mary Jo and Pat were once again happier than pigs dipped in shit. The Colonel’s moustache tilted at such a steep angle I questioned its recovery.
Jude, Rob, and the twins were permanent fixtures until Catherine was released to go home. And yes, Rob adjusted his glasses no less than a thousand times. If he’ll ever get a pair that fits remains one of the universe’s great mysteries.
Bill and his fiancé Angela paid a visit. That’s right. I said fiancé. It turned out that their tumultuous on again-off again relationship had gotten stuck in the on position during my wife’s pregnancy. Only took most of a decade. Better late than never, right? Not to sound self-centered, but I wonder if my death hadn’t had something to do with it. I like to think so. Something had passed between the couple during Bill’s eulogy at my funeral. He faltered and she was there to pick him up from the ashes and brush him off despite their rocky past. I don’t know what the Urban Dictionary says, but that’s what I call love. Regardless of how they got there, I couldn’t be happier for them both … even if it meant losing another over/under pool.
And what would a family event be without my mother and Glen?
“Glen? Glen!”
“Yes, dear.”
“Isn’t he the spitting image of Ricky?”
“He sure is, Beth,” Glen said, tickling Ricky Jr.’s chin.
Mom dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I wish Ricky could see this.”
Catherine raised her brilliant hazel eyes to the ceiling. “Somehow I think he can, Beth,” she said with a palm pressed firmly over her heart.
Her reaction didn’t surprise me, nor did the baby’s name. You see, I had a bit of a hand in it myself. All it took was a foggy mirror and enough concentration and determination to write the words ‘Ricky Jr.’ on it. Like my daughter said, adults can’t help being a little slow at times, but I knew right then and there that Catherine had it all figured out.
Really really.
CHAPTER 77
Ricky’s in his crib, holding a chubby fistful of mommy finger.
Tomorrow they both go home. Correction: they all three go home.
Celeste is staying the night with her mother and her brand new brother.
She’s standing on her tippy toes with her nose hovering over the crib, studying the baby’s face intently.
“Are you happy with your little brother, Celeste?” Catherine asks.
“Yeah, I think so, Mom.” No more lisp, no more ‘Mommy’. When you’re seven going on eight some things just aren’t cool anymore I suppose.
Catherine laughs. “You think so?”
“He’s okay I guess. Kinda wrinkly. Really tiny, too.”
“You were even smaller.”
“No way. Really?”
“Really really.” Catherine picks up Ricky Jr. He’s not sleeping, no way, no how. He’s too curious for that. Awful newborn eyesight or not, he looks as if he’s drinking in his new world with vigor.
She pulls him close to her chest and sits in the chair.
Cold isn’t good for the newborn, but this is too precious to miss. A quick peek won’t hurt. I hover in closer. Catherine and Celeste shudder. My wife smiles.
“Mom?” Celeste asks tentatively.
“What’s up, Pumpkin?” She’s rocking the swaddled boy now.
“Did you really mean what you said to Gramma Beth? That Dad was watching over you?” She’s very serious.
“I did,” Cat says without a hint of doubt.
Celeste smiles in a way that tells me she’s proud of her mother.
Just then, little Ricky looks directly at me. He reaches out a tiny hand and tries to grab my nose. Celeste stifles a shudder and her eyes find me.
“I think he was, too, Mom.”
“Hey, buddy.” I imagine my lips placing a kiss on my new son’s button nose. He blinks and coos. They say children this young can’t smile. I call bullshit. “Love you, Baby Boy. I love all of you.”
A tear builds in my wife’s eye and trickles down her cheek. She can’t see me, but I know she senses me. Why Celeste is more attuned to me than her mother I’ll never know. That’s not important. What’s important is that I was successful in my attempt to share with Cat my knowledge of Richard Franchitti, Junior.
My son.
Our son.
A tug pulls at my being. It’s growing stronger as my world turns fuzzy around the edges, a sensation not dissimilar to when I’d try to move too far away from my body in the funeral parlor. It no longer scares or confuses me. It simply is.
The last thing I see before it all fades away are my wife and daughter, smiling and misty-eyed, and Ricky Jr., his hand seemingly holding onto nothing…
… the nothing where I was only a moment ago.
EPITAPH
Here Lies Richard Franchitti: Best Damn Looking Spirit In The Whole Cemetery.
Wouldn’t that make a great line on my headstone? I’m kidding, of course. Carved into my marble grave marker are my name, dates of birth and death, and a line beneath that says, “Loving Son, Father, And Husband. Gone But Never Forgotten.” Cherubic angels atop billowing clouds hover on either side of the inscription.
It’s simple.
I like simple.
I like simple because simple things are often the most impactful.
I am gone, but if I’ve learned one thing during all of this, it’s that I will never, ever be forgotten. I’ll live on in the hearts of my family, my children, my friends. I’ll live on in the tiny form of Ricky Jr., my legacy and the reason I’ve been stuck between here and wherever I’m going.
A lot of time has passed since that overcast October evening when the love of my life called to tell me she was pregnant with my child. Tragic? Yes. Still, I’ve accomplished something in life, in death. My life wasn’t perfect, but I made of it what I could. I loved, forgave, even hated for a time, but I realize now that I was all in for what little time I had. That’s all anyone can ask for.
I don’t know what’s next for me. You may be wondering if I can reveal to you a
ll the secrets of The Great Beyond, The Ever After, Heaven, Valhalla … whatever you want to call it. Have I seen anybody? Is there a God?
You’re probably wondering a lot of things.
So am I.
If I knew the answers to the questions you seek (and I’m not saying I do) I couldn’t give them to you. They’re not mine to share. Chances are I’ve said too much already. Death is life’s greatest mystery. It’s something you have to experience for yourself.
But …
There is one thing. I don’t see the harm in it.
I know it to be true that I’ll see my family again. Whether it be on earth or wherever it is I’m heading now, the fact remains that I do know it. I harbor no doubts. It’s as factual as birth, living, and death. The vast expanse of everything and nothing before me should be frightening, but it isn’t, thanks to that knowledge. Even if I wander it by myself for all eternity, I am not afraid. I’ll never be alone as long as I keep my family and friends in my heart and soul, and that douses my fear.
It’s okay.
Everything is going to be okay.
A-okay.
Off the charts okay.
Wait a second. Is that … ? I swear I hear a voice that hasn’t touched my ears since I was ten.
I know this must seem horribly rude of me after we’ve spent so much time together going through my life and death, but I really have to go now. I hope you don’t take it personally. If you do, I apologize. Maybe you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me one day for leaving so abruptly. Just make sure you mean it.
Until then, thank you. Thank you for coming to my funeral and listening to my story. I won’t forget you either. And remember, this is all between us, right?
I won’t tell if you don’t.
Really really.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Now that you’ve read (and hopefully enjoyed) Funeral with a View, why not take a gander at the people who lent a hand? Books do not write themselves, and no writer is an island … whatever that means. This novel is what it is because of the valuable input, eyes, and experience of the following:
Angela Pratt (who read this thing three times), Jude “Joood: Mistress of the Platypires” Frazee (you must certainly be tired of sassing people to read Ghosts of Demons Past by now), Venture Cecena (don’t you ever get sick of yelling at me?), Lisa Woods (find your glasses so you can read the final version!), Marie Wathen (I’m glad Angela sent the first draft your way!), Gretchen Schmutz (no, I do not chew my fingernails … well, maybe a little), Katy Plaisance, (your updates and final reaction were aces! Oh, and can you believe that US Open final?).
As always, I have to give a shout out to Roy Mauritsen, who takes my vague cover requests and turns them into winners every single time. Thanks, Roy.
Special thanks to Diane Raetz for not only starting me on this whole publishing endeavor, but for all the great insight on Funeral during the course of both reads, as well as giving me a virtual kick in the butt when I needed it.
And finally, the biggest, most super duper, uber thanks to my pal and book buddy Belinda Frisch, another member of the ‘I Read Funeral with a View More Than Once and Survived’ Club. Belinda put two of her own projects on hold to read the book for the second time, catching all those niggling bugaboos I’d overlooked and offering fantastic advice on some of the major story elements along the way. Between that and listening to my daily drama, you deserve hazard pay. Unfortunately that’s not in the budget, so you’ll have to settle for the biggest, most super duper, uber thanks I can muster. Onward and upward in ’15, B!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Matt Schiariti is an Engineeer by profession, guitar legend in his own mind, and would-be author, time permitting. When he’s not writing, he’s reading. When he’s not reading, he’s enjoying a beer sporting a fancy name on the label. When he’s not enjoying a fancy-named beer, he’s most likely reading some more. Sometimes he does all three at once, to disastrous effect.
Matt lives in southern New Jersey with his wife, two children, and insane dog. Funeral with a View is his second published novel, but not his last.
You have been warned.
Here are some links should you want to find out more about what he’s up to or just say hi.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Matt_Schiariti
Official blog, ‘Overly Verbose’: http://mattschiariti.blogspot.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Matt-Schiariti-Writer/360351077411605
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6873499.Matt_Schiariti
Funeral with a View Page 33
