The Feathered Bone

by Julie Cantrell

  “Here,” I say.

  Beth reacts with open-eyed surprise.

  The man nods, and we set the wake for tomorrow, five to nine, despite my concerns about trick-or-treat. Other parents will be ringing doorbells, collecting candy with their costumed children. I’ll be burying my daughter.

  “That’s fine.” I feel nothing. “I guess we’ll bury her here too.”

  “Not at the church?” Beth questions. “Next to your mother?”

  The whispers come back to me now. As I sat in my home last night, surrounded by loved ones, one woman, a neighbor I never knew very well, asked Brother Johnson if Ellie would be allowed to be buried in the church cemetery. “Suicide,” the lady said, questioning his rules. I can’t tell Beth. The lady doesn’t even go to our church, but if she was thinking it, others will be too. I can’t deal with that kind of hate. Not now.

  “Here is fine,” I say, and the man follows us out to view the vacant plots.

  I choose a shady spot at Evergreen Memorial Park. Then Beth drives me over to Edrie’s, where the florist asks me what kind of flowers Ellie liked. “She likes wildflowers,” I say, unable to talk about my child in the past tense.

  The lady isn’t sure how to respond. So Beth points to a photo and suggests, “How about all white?”

  “That’s always lovely.” The florist appreciates Beth’s guidance. Then, not knowing the details of Ellie’s death, she gives us two price quotes—one for an open casket, one much more costly if closed.

  “Closed,” I say, handing her a credit card. I’ve never done anything more difficult in my entire life. Paying for my daughter’s funeral expenses on credit. If I didn’t feel dead inside, I could be consumed with hate for Carl right now. Why didn’t he take his gun?

  Leaving the florist, Beth sits with me in the parked car. “Amanda, you know it’s a lot less expensive if you have the services at the church. We even have men to dig the grave. You don’t have to pay all that money.”

  How can I tell her? How can I explain how I feel? I shake my head and say, “This is fine.”

  Tuesday, October 31, 2006

  I have spent all morning staring at Ellie’s bedroom, trying to ignore the smells—a putrid mix of cleaning supplies, blood, gunpowder, and candles. Now I sit in the family room of Seale Funeral Home and confess to Jay, “I don’t know what happened. Did someone call Clean Scene? I’m sorry, it’s all a blur for me. I don’t know who to thank.”

  “I called them, but I had to cancel the order,” he says. “Raelynn’s brother took care of it before the cleaners could arrive. And Gator. He helped too.”

  This leaves me speechless. I’ve seen this happen when we’ve gone out on call, especially in more rural locations, out in the country where people are used to taking care of their own, but it’s usually relatives. Kinfolk who stick together. I have no family here, and yet Jay says these men cleaned my daughter’s room for me, going so far as to haul the mattress out to Gator’s woods and burn it all to ash. There is no way to measure that kind of love.

  Jay sits beside me on the sofa. He wears the pin indicating he is family. No one here is related to me. But these are the people who love Ellie. The people who love me. Carl is nowhere to be seen.

  “Ms. Salassi?” the funeral director whispers respectfully.

  I look down at my hand. I still wear my wedding ring.

  “Mrs.,” I correct him.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” He clears his throat. “Would you like to see your daughter one final time?”

  Jay helps me stand. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No,” I tell him. “Just me.” I don’t mean to sound sharp, but I feel a fierce protective urge to guard my time with Ellie.

  We enter the room. The funeral director closes the doors behind us. Now here we are, with the open casket. The space between my daughter and me feels eternal, and yet it’s nothing I can’t bridge. In a few minutes this man will lower the lid and Ellie will be gone forever.

  I don’t know how I manage it, but somehow I leave the director at the door and make my way to the casket. My child’s casket. Ellie.

  I feel only loss. Absence.

  Her face is wrapped completely. There is nothing for me to touch but bandages. No sweet brown curls. No smooth, soft olive cheeks. Stand up, Amanda. Do this. I am determined not to lose this time with my baby. My girl.

  I touch her arm, a stiffened, painted version of the daughter I love.

  I fix her dress, straighten the folds, feel the pull of the cotton around each turquoise blue button. Her first-day-of-school dress. The last special occasion outfit we bought together. Laughing as she came out of the dressing room with a twirl.

  Behind me, the director clears his voice and speaks softly. “Excuse me, Mrs. Salassi. It’s time.”

  I stand looking down at my child, trying not to blink as he closes the lid, wanting every last second with Ellie, resisting the letting go.

  The director places the white floral arrangement into position, but no part of me can accept what is happening.

  As I follow him back out of the room, the family is asked to gather for prayer before they open the main doors for the wake. Carl is still not here.

  “Have you heard from him?” Beth asks, a tenderness in her tone that only Beth can offer.

  “Not a word,” I whisper.

  Jay stands beside me. “I’ve been trying to call him. No answer.”

  “Should we start without him?” The funeral director seems unsure. It’s obviously an uncommon situation.

  I give one last quick glance around the building, hoping to see Carl. “I guess so.”

  Brother Johnson leads us in prayer. Then we make our way to the now-closed casket, covered in beautiful white blooms, exactly as Beth requested. In fact, the entire room is filled with sprays of fresh flowers, every color and kind imaginable. Why didn’t Ellie know she was loved?

  When they open the doors, people are lined up waiting. Throughout the evening, the line continues to extend, out the doors, into the parking lot, and around the corner of the funeral home. The wake lasts longer than planned. Beth, Preacher, Jay, Raelynn, and even Vivienne stay by my side through it all, shaking hands and greeting the hundreds of visitors who have shown up to offer sympathy and support.

  “I can’t imagine having to stand here alone,” I say. Again and again I thank my friends, but no words will ever suffice. People are kind and compassionate.

  “It could be us,” several say. Another couple admits, “Our son is on antidepressants. We worry every day.” A choir member confesses, “I tried to take my life once. Don’t think for a second that she didn’t love you.” Another community friend says, “My father was in treatment for six months. We’re sorry for your loss.”

  Hundreds of my clients have come too. They offer hugs and condolences, telling me again and again that I saved their lives or the life of someone they love. Brooke arrives, along with her sister, and she clasps my hands in hers. “Mrs. Amanda, I was going to do it. I’m here only because you got me through it.”

  Mrs. Hosh and countless survivors hold me close, assuring me I am not alone. “We know,” they say. Or “I’m here.” Their comments touch me in ways I am not yet ready to process, but I hear them. Every one of them.

  It takes hours for the line to wind down, and even then the pews are filled with friends and loved ones. Teenagers have gathered in clusters, sharing stories about Ellie. Trying to let me know her life mattered, that she was loved.

  Nate leads the pack, talking about Sarah and Ellie. “Remember when they dressed as identical twins for Crazy Day at school? They wore wigs!”

  Another chimes in. “Or when they set off the church fire alarms trying to roast marshmallows on the stove?”

  “What about when Ellie raked up a giant leaf pile and jumped off Mrs. Beth’s barn?” The room fills with laughter.

  “Remember when she wrecked that four-wheeler? Trying to race Nate?”

  Nate is crying. The stories flow,
and the laughter does too. With each memory, I cling to the life of my daughter, hoping all of these people will never forget the light she brought to our world.

  Wednesday, November 1, 2006

  Brother Johnson begins the service, thanking the overflowing room of loved ones for showing up in support of the Salassi family. Carl is finally present, but only because Jay drove out to his apartment and convinced him to attend the funeral. While I’m glad he’s come, he’s brought Ashleigh with him. I can’t bear to look their way. They sit at one end of the row, while I sit at the other. Beth, Preacher, Raelynn, and Jay bridge the gap, with Raelynn’s brother and sons on the row behind us. Vivienne sits at their side with her handsome firefighter boyfriend.

  A church member sings Ellie’s favorite hymn a cappella. The lyrics say, “I surrender all.” Then Brother Johnson delivers one of the most beautiful sermons I have ever heard. At one point he looks to the teens in the back of the room and says, “Young people, I want you to know this was not your fault.” Then he looks at me and offers me the same release. “This was no one’s fault. Ellie was loved. By so many people. And what I want you to know is this. The way a person dies does not have anything to do with where they spend eternity. It matters more how a person lives. And Ellie, well, she was a girl who lived with love.”

  Chapter 23

  Sunday, November 5, 2006

  “PEOPLE HAVE BEEN SO KIND AND COMPASSIONATE,” I TELL BETH and Preacher. They are here at the house, helping me sort through the paperwork. I’ve ignored it as long as I can. As we read through the names of all who attended the services, trying to write my way through thank-you notes, the doorbell rings. It’s the lady from down the road. The one who whispered the night of Ellie’s death, questioning Brother Johnson’s stance on allowing my child to be buried in the church cemetery.

  Before I can protest, Beth welcomes her. She is carrying a fresh batch of banana pudding, and I try to give her the benefit of the doubt. She offers Preacher the bowl. On the front, her name is marked in thin black Sharpie across a strip of dough-colored masking tape. Preacher peeks beneath the wrapper, eager to dig in.

  “I don’t know how you stand it, Amanda.” She gives me a hug as I greet her. “Knowing your daughter is in hell.”

  Stay strong, Amanda. No one can be this cruel. Surely she didn’t say what you think she said. Maybe you’re being too sensitive again, as Carl always claims.

  The woman doesn’t flinch. She shakes her head and delivers an extra dose of shame. “I always thought you were the perfect mother. What happened?”

  I don’t reply. Instead, I move back to the kitchen table and Beth joins me, lifting my hand into hers. We sit quietly, letting Preacher lead.

  He opens the dessert, serves himself a heaping scoop onto a paper plate, and takes a bite. “Best banana pudding I ever had.” He smiles at the woman, offering servings to the rest of us. We decline. “This reminds me of the time I stole a pie from my mother’s kitchen.”

  “You stole it?” The lady’s eyes open wide.

  “Aww, I was just a kid. And trust me. If you ever tasted Mother’s pecan pie, you would have stolen it too.”

  Beth says, “Don’t worry. She forgave him.” Then she smiles at her husband and adds, “Just like I forgive you for all those little white lies you tell me.”

  “Me? Lie?” He laughs. “Never.”

  “Ha. Just this morning you told me I looked good in that dress. I almost left the house in it. Good thing I looked in the mirror. You had lied.” Beth is working hard to keep spirits up. It’s one of her gifts. A trick that’s kept her going since Sarah vanished. I’m too sad to smile, but I don’t mind her trying.

  “Have you ever told a lie?” Preacher asks our guest.

  The woman blushes. “Only when I don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings.”

  “That’s all right,” Preacher says, taking a bite and yumming with delight. “God forgives us for those little white lies. Just as he forgives us when we eat too much banana pudding.” He takes another bite and winks.

  The woman is charmed. “Ask and ye shall be forgiven,” she jokes. Then she gets serious again. “That’s why you can’t go to heaven if you kill yourself, right? You can’t repent. That’s what the Bible says.”

  “Hmm . . .” Preacher pauses. “Is that what it says? I’ve never read that part.” The woman has no way of defending herself. He lets her off the hook. “Ma’am, forgive me, but I’m going to get a little preachy. That okay?”

  She shrugs.

  “All right then. Your faith seems to be important to you.”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “So you believe Jesus taught us about God’s grace?”

  “Of course that’s what I believe. I’m a Christian.” She stands stiff-shouldered and pious.

  “And wasn’t he hardest on the Pharisees? The group of people who judged everyone else as being unworthy of that grace?”

  She seems unsure of his point, so he continues.

  “What about the woman at the well? She had been accused of terrible sin. Do you remember that crowd? The ones who felt so confident and virtuous? They actually believed God loved them more than he loved that woman.” Preacher simplifies. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that, well, sometimes we tend to get God mixed up with Santa Claus.”

  The woman laughs a bit, uneasy. “Santa?”

  “Keeping a list and checking it twice.”

  Beth gives my hand a gentle squeeze, but my stomach remains tight.

  Preacher continues. “I’d like to think he’s not up there keeping score, calculating rights and wrongs. We mess up, we learn, we grow. That’s the point.”

  The woman crosses her arms, indignant. “It’s a good thing I don’t go to your church. Are you saying it doesn’t matter what we do?”

  Preacher finishes another bite of pudding. “No, ma’am, that’s not what I’m saying. Every choice we make matters. Every single one of them. I’m simply saying God knew and loved Ellie. He understood her struggle. And he would never turn his back on her. Or on any of us.”

  “But she killed herself, Preacher. That’s murder. It’s one of the Ten Commandments.”

  “That’s right. And there are nine others. Have you ever broken any of those? Stolen a pen from someone’s desk? Done a little work on Sunday? Said false things about your neighbor?” He looks at me now, and her anger increases.

  “Don’t you believe there’s a right and a wrong?” She stays indignant.

  “Ma’am, with all due respect, my daughter is missing. Do you think I haven’t held a gun to my head? But I’m an adult. I’m halfway in my right mind, and I can understand the impact of my choices. I can talk myself through the consequences and weigh my decisions on a different level than Ellie was able to do. She was just a kid. We can’t forget that. And even if she was old like me, I think God could handle that too.”

  Now I am crying. Beth pulls me into a hug, and Preacher gives me a gentle, supportive look from across the room. The woman sighs. Surely she’s beginning to see through a different lens.

  Preacher doesn’t quit. “Do you really believe God would want to punish Ellie, after all she’s been through? After she fought for two years to stay strong for all of us? Ellie had more faith than I do. Because I’ll tell you, I’ve blamed God at times. Yes, ma’am, you’d better believe I’ve questioned him. But Ellie never stopped loving God, and God never stopped loving her either.”

  Tuesday, November 7, 2006

  “Wake up, Gloopy. Please?” Jay stands at the foot of my bed, insisting I come back to life.

  “I’m tired, Jay. It’s been a long week. I’m sorry. I can’t do it today.” My eyes are swollen and dry. My head is pounding. I’m still wearing my clothes from last night.

  He sits at my side, and then he looks at Beth. She’s standing above me, holding a cup of hot tea. “You’ve got an appointment,” she says. “To choose Ellie’s marker.”

  I sit up. “I know.”

  “Come
on. We’ll go with you,” Jay says.

  “It’s after eleven, Amanda. You haven’t gotten out of bed in two days. You know this isn’t healthy.” Beth again.

  My friends have stayed with me round the clock since Ellie died, too afraid to leave me. And they’re right to fear it.

  Get up, Amanda. It’s pathetic to lie here with everyone feeling sorry for you. I pull the covers down and force myself to rise. Be strong.

  “Take a shower,” Jay says, with not a hint of anything but kindness in his voice. “You’ll feel better once you get dressed.”

  “I’ll make you a sandwich.” Beth heads to the kitchen and Jay follows.

  I do as they ask and take a shower. Then I dress and join them at the counter. “Now what?” I ask, unable to think for myself.

  “Eat,” Jay says. He places a grilled cheese sandwich on a plate for me, along with some grapes. Beth fixes me a cold glass of water. Then they each grab a plate for themselves and join me.

  “Remember when Preacher and I served in Ghana?” Beth asks.

  I nod.

  “We met a lady who lived in a tiny home all by herself.”

  I nod again, trying hard to stay focused.

  “Lost her entire family to the rebellion. She was the only survivor. She always fixed her famous stew, using all kinds of vegetables we couldn’t name. And she’d invite us to eat with her. She used to say, ‘No matter what happens, never eat alone.’ ”

  “I like that idea,” Jay says, enjoying his sandwich and trying to lighten the mood.

  Together they keep up the chitchat while taking their time through the meal. But it’s all I can do to take a bite of my sandwich. The rest of my food sits untouched.

  Afterward Beth and I tackle the dishes. I go through the motions, trying not to be a burden. When we’re done, Jay grabs his keys. “Okay, Gloopy. Ready?”

  “No.” I’m not ready.

  Beth gives Jay a look of surrender, and he takes charge. “Well, that’s all right. There’s really no reason you have to do it today. But there is something we want to show you.”