“Is the nurse still here?” I inquired. Her image was also hazy to me, but I pictured a slim, sweet-faced black woman dressed in a white uniform. Something else came to me: every time she came in the room to check on Pat, she was singing. I never roused enough to open my eyes, but her singing comforted me.
Jason shook his head. “We didn’t see her leave, but she’s gone.”
“She’s gone,” Janis verified. “I saw her when I got here at dawn. She told me that Mr. Conroy was at the end of his journey, then she went out the door.”
“Tim, Jessica, and I were up with her most of the night,” Jason said. “We think her name was Sarah.”
“Really?” Jessica said. “I never heard her say her name. But she sang hymns to us. And she came in here and sang to Dad, too.”
My mind began to clear enough to wonder why they were telling me this, and I asked hesitantly, “So she was good, right? Y’all liked having her here?”
The three of them exchanged glances, then Jason said rather sheepishly, “Okay, Mom, you’re going to think we’re crazy. But we think she was an angel.”
“She sang like one,” I said, then nodded, pleased. “Well, good. Then no one will object to having her come back tonight. Y’all have to get some rest.”
Again Jason shook his head. “No, Mom, you don’t understand. I mean, we think she was an angel. For real.”
When Janis voiced her agreement, I looked at Tim. He grinned his impish, Conroy grin and said, “Don’t look at me like that, sistah. I swear to God, that was not a real woman here last night. None of us saw her arrive. She just appeared, and then she was gone. We didn’t get a good look at her because we kept the lights out. But whenever one of us got up to sit with her, she sang hymns and talked to us about God.”
“Have y’all been smoking pot?” I asked suspiciously.
“I wish,” Tim said. “Seriously, though, there was something weird about the whole thing. That’s why we were asking you where she came from.”
“I’ll find out today,” I assured him.
“You won’t, wait and see,” Jason said emphatically. “Nobody will be able to tell you. She was sent by God.”
Although Jay was the most spiritually minded of my sons, that was unusual even for him. I didn’t argue because it was obvious that the nurse Sarah, whoever she turned out to be, had brought them comfort. “Then hopefully the Big Guy will send her back tonight,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Tim said. “She told us that Pat’s time was here, and we wouldn’t be needing her again.”
My face must’ve revealed my fear because Jason patted my hand and said, “Tell Mom about the bridge, Tim. She’ll like that.”
Tim looked out the window at the early morning sunbeams dancing on the rippling waters of Battery Creek. “The nurse said that when Pat’s time came, we’d know. A bridge would come down from heaven to take him.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “A bridge, Tim? Not a heavenly host of angels, or a flaming chariot of fire? Either one would suit Pat more than a mundane old bridge. You know he’d want to go out in a blaze of glory.”
“Oh, this bridge is different,” Jason said. “Sarah said it’s made of gold. All of us have to cross it one day.”
That was too much, even for me. “To escort us to the streets of gold? C’mon, Jay. You know I’m a firm believer in that sort of stuff, but that’s a bit too hokey, don’t you think?”
Their expressions told me that they didn’t agree, so I let it go. If the nurse brought them that much comfort, I’d get her back that night. But to my surprise, the hospice workers didn’t know who’d called her, nor did anyone else I asked. As the day wore on, Pat’s breathing became more labored, and hospice sent for Dr. Laffitte. All thoughts of night nurses left my mind as I settled in by Pat’s side and took hold of his hand for the last time.
Early that evening Pat left this world for the next, taking his last breath right after darkness fell. He would have appreciated the metaphor. The sunset that day had been a benediction, more spectacular than ever. And a strange thing happened before the sun, in a blaze of fiery pink, sank into the gently flowing creek. For a brief moment of gold, the sun appeared through an opening in a cloud, then a beam of light began to form a bridge directly over the creek, one that led up to our dock. Those of us in the sickroom froze in place and watched in awestruck silence. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before or since. It’s not unusual for a bright ribbon of gold to shimmer on the water during a sunset, but I’d never seen one come directly down from the clouds like that. Finally Tim spoke. “Holy Mother of God. It’s turning into a bridge? Are you frigging kidding me?”
He turned to stare at me wide-eyed, and I knew we were thinking the same thing: we might never know who sent Sarah, but she had brought us an undeniable message of truth.
Had I not later seen the photos that Jason had the presence of mind to take, I’d always wonder if we had imagined the bridge—if it were some kind of wistful mirage formed by our shared exhaustion and grief. Or maybe the image painted by Sarah lodged in our overwrought minds and caused us to hallucinate. The photos confirm what those of us gathered that evening witnessed, no matter how unlikely it seems. A few minutes before Pat died, a bridge appeared over his beloved creek as if to offer him a passage from this world to the next.
* * *
After a death, it’s not uncommon for those in the grieving process to block out some memories while others remain etched in our consciousness. No doubt someone smarter than I am can explain the significance of the memories that are lost and the ones that can’t be shaken. All I know is, it’s happened to me many times. I can close my eyes and relive my sister’s memorial service scene by scene, from the mournful sound of the bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace” as we entered the lovely stone church to the hushed silence when we filed out. My father’s funeral I recall in minute detail, but I don’t remember a thing about my mother’s, not one. I’m pretty sure I wore sunglasses the whole time, even though it was an overcast, dismal day in November. My way of blocking it out, I suppose.
The days that followed Pat’s death are the same. Some things are painfully burned into my brain and others a jumble of hazy images at best. I’ll never forget taking Pat’s burial clothes to the funeral home, and the discreet way the funeral home director returned the tote bag I’d brought them in. She didn’t meet my eyes when she said gently, “Mrs. Conroy? We won’t need his shoes.”
What I recall most clearly about the day of the funeral are the times my knees buckled and I had to force myself to go on. One of those times was outside St. Peter’s Church, where the family stood in carefully arranged order waiting for the hearse. An honor guard of young Citadel cadets, in full-dress uniforms, lined the walkway to the church for a military salute. It was a crisp, sparkling day in March, mockingly sunny and bright. When the casket was moved to the dais, I heard the sobs of grandchildren behind me but dared not look their way. Had I done so, I would’ve fallen apart. The whole time, I kept my eyes straight ahead.
Inside the church I followed the coffin alone, the widow’s walk, with the family behind me. We were about halfway down the aisle when the organist began playing “The Water Is Wide,” and I almost fell to my knees. It was an unexpected, and unexplained, gift. For whatever reason, Pat had wanted a full funeral mass, and of course I complied with the directions he’d dictated. But when I met with the powers that be of the Catholic church, I’d been dismayed by the strict protocol of the Mass. Despite Pat’s wishes, I couldn’t choose his favorite scripture, hymns, or other deviations to the service. So I’ll never know why Pat’s entrance into the church was heralded by a song so uniquely associated with him, nor how I managed to stay upright on hearing it.
The burial at St. Helena Memorial Garden is also a merciful blur. In what was a meaningful gesture for him, Pat had selected an isolated cemetery belonging to Brick Baptist Church as his final resting place. The church was built by slaves in 1855 then turned
over to them during Reconstruction. It had a close association with Penn Center, one of the first schools for freed slaves, and Pat’d been thrilled to be honored by the historic center a few years back, inducted as an honorary member. Even so, it took some doing for the church brothers and sisters to allow a nonmember, not to mention a renegade Catholic, to be buried among them. I don’t know for sure how that came about either. When I heard that it caused a lot of controversy in the congregation, I couldn’t help but smile. It was just like Pat to be as controversial in death as he’d been in life. He’s the only non–African American buried there, but that wasn’t the issue. St. Helena Memorial Garden is a Baptist burial ground. But Pat had gotten it into his head that’s where he wanted to be, his final homage to the rich history of his beloved Lowcountry.
I was questioned quite a bit about Pat’s choice of burial sites, but as with so many other things about the man, I could never give an explanation that sounded reasonable, even to me. My standard response became, oh, that was just Pat—unpredictable to the very end.
* * *
The memory that haunts me most of all is the first time I went to the cemetery alone, a few weeks after the burial. I had to sneak away because there’d been a kindhearted conspiracy among friends and family not to leave me by myself. I’d been too touched by their thoughtfulness to remind them that I was alone now—and would be from then on. At some point everyone had to return to their lives, as I had to return to what was left of mine.
That day I had felt a desperate need to go to the cemetery unaccompanied, though I couldn’t explain why. I knew Pat wasn’t there, of course, but it felt as though his spirit still lingered somewhere among the lonely graves. The last time I’d been there was fraught with drama, as so many Conroy memories are. Bernie had gone with me and brought a bottle of Irish whiskey to pour around the grave. He’d wanted to leave the bottle for Pat to carry with him in the afterlife, but I convinced him that the brethren would disapprove.
I watched as Bernie sprinkled the whiskey around the grave, hoping some of it would make its way to Pat in the afterlife. Then he stood up, put his hands on his hips, and said in a voice that could’ve been heard halfway to Beaufort, “Goddammit, Pat. You’re such a dumbass. What’re you doing out here with all these good Christian people?” I grabbed his arm and pulled him to the car, beating a hasty retreat before his big mouth got us into even bigger trouble with the church.
This time, I was finally alone as I made my way to Pat’s whiskey-damp plot. Now that the funeral wreaths were gone, visitors had decorated the packed-down mound of dirt with seashells, pinecones, rocks, and a scattering of flowers.
As eager as I’d been to get there, it surprised me that I couldn’t do it. My eyes fell on the forlorn grave, and a dagger of pain seared my heart. Instinctively I turned my head away. The family had been right. I had no business coming by myself. I’d thought to sit quietly by the grave and converse with Pat like a properly grieving widow should do. I could tell him about the family’s well-meaning conspiracy, and how I hadn’t been able to visit him on my own. We’d chuckle together about Bernie’s antics, then I’d tell him about the headstone I’d designed, and how I was having the first two lines from The Prince of Tides engraved on it.
Instead I turned away so quickly that I stumbled over a nearby tombstone. It occurred to me that I hadn’t looked around at the headstones, which was unusual for me. A weird habit of mine, I’ve been known to pull into a completely unknown cemetery and poke around if the graves looked interesting enough. I could wander for hours, studying the headstones and imagining the stories they held.
That day I found the Memorial Garden as intriguing as any of the older, more historic places I’d visited in the past, even though it’s new, an overflow from the cemetery next to the church. It’s so wonderfully unpretentious, with no fancy tombstones, benches, or landscaped gardens. The plots are simple but proud and well tended. I noted that many of the stones have photos of the occupants. I studied them and wondered what their lives had been like. The mementos told me a lot: birthday cards and balloons, flags or medals, stuffed animals, a fishing pole. Then I spotted a name I knew, Arabelle Watson. Surely she was the same person Pat had told me about, a woman who’d worked for his mother when they first moved to Beaufort, and had later babysat for his children? Pat adored Mrs. Watson and paid tribute to her by basing a character on her in The Great Santini. In the book he called her Arabella Smalls and made her the mother of another memorable character, Toomer. I hurried back to Pat’s gravesite to tell him that Mrs. Watson was one of his neighbors now, and she’d keep him company.
Sitting on the dirt by the grave, I hugged my knees close and talked to Pat about Mrs. Watson and some of his other neighbors, figuring he’d want to know who he was keeping company with. Then it hit me how foolish such a notion was. Since Pat never met a stranger, I knew that he’d already introduced himself. And he’d most likely pried their stories out too. He would know everything about his new neighbors by now. I bade him goodbye and left with a lighter heart than when I’d arrived.
As soon as I got home, I went straight to my computer and began to write the introduction to A Lowcountry Heart, the posthumous book Random House was bringing out in tribute to Pat, a collection of his unpublished essays. His publisher, Nan Talese, had asked me if I felt up to doing an introduction. Although I’d promised to make the deadline for a fall release, I hadn’t written a single word. Whenever I tried, I’d dissolve into tears and turn away.
That afternoon I sat down dry-eyed and wrote until the introduction was finished. I wanted Pat’s readers to see him among them again, chatting and stealing their stories at his notoriously lengthy book signings. I told about my trip to the cemetery, and how I imagined Pat acquainting himself with his new neighbors. I could picture him striding jovially among them as though he were running for mayor. He’d greet them like old friends, and before long, they’d be telling him about their lives, things they’d never told anyone else. He would make each of them know that they had a story to tell, just as he’d done with me and so many others. Tell me your story, he’d say to them.
I didn’t know, nor did I particularly care at that moment, if what I wrote was an appropriate introduction for the book, or if it’d be tossed out as too fanciful. I only knew that writing it brought Pat back to me and gave me solace.
Without reading it over, I saved the document and hit send. Darkness had fallen while I worked, and I got up to turn on a lamp. Drained, emotionally exhausted, I shut down my computer, knowing I was done for the day. Before leaving the room, I stood in the doorway and looked around. Don’t put me here, he’d said. You won’t be able to come back in without seeing me. Bird paintings line the walls: Carolina wrens, the great blue heron, even a couple of guinea hens like my father raised. On the far side of the room hang framed posters of my book jackets, six of them now. Bookcases bulge with the books Pat gave me over the years, each of them cherished. My very own writing room, the best gift anyone’s ever given me. Turns out he was right after all. Every time I come in, he’s here.
Afterword
The first week of October 2016, just seven months after Pat’s death, Hurricane Matthew took dead aim at the South Carolina coastline, the first category 5 Atlantic hurricane in almost a decade. I hadn’t turned on the TV since Pat died; after seeing the warnings in the paper, though, I kept the Weather Channel on, until a power outage plunged all of Beaufort County into darkness. Various tales circulated about how the power outage happened, with folks saying that the county cut off the power and water before we got hit to avoid live wires and contaminated water, but who knows? The outcome was the same, regardless. No power, no water. In early October, it was still miserably hot in the Lowcountry. It quickly got a whole lot hotter.
In the middle of touring for A Lowcountry Heart, I’d returned home between gigs for a few days of rest. The tour had started Labor Day weekend with a tribute to Pat at the Decatur Book Festival; since then I’d
driven all around the Southeast visiting the bookstores he frequented. His readers waited in long lines. Many of them, weeping, told me that it wasn’t possible—Pat was too big a personality to be gone. Numb, I inscribed their books “In memory of Pat Conroy.”
Back home and desperate for a few days to recuperate, I had no intention of evacuating. In the past Pat and I had left whenever it was recommended, though Beaufort hadn’t been hit in decades (something about the Atlantic currents and the lay of the land, we heard). The law had changed; when I first moved to South Carolina, evacuation was mandatory. Pat had a scary story he told. After his divorce, he was living alone on Fripp Island when a hurricane threatened, and the governor ordered everyone on the coast out. Pat shrugged it off. After the residents of Fripp had departed, a security officer saw a light on in Pat’s house and banged on the door. “You’ve got to leave, Mr. Conroy,” the officer said when Pat stuck his head out. “Mandatory evacuation.”
“I ain’t going anywhere, pal,” Pat said and started to close the door.
The officer stopped him. “Then hang on a minute.” He went back to his car to retrieve something, and Pat expected him to return with either a hefty fine or handcuffs. Instead the officer handed him a small object, which Pat looked at, puzzled. On a rectangular piece of plastic fixed with a sturdy string, the officer had written Pat’s name and address.
Tell Me a Story Page 33
