Hot Tea

by Sheila Horgan

  The next one was short and rather impersonal. The picture was of a very stern looking man. Hair cut in an old fashioned flat top, not the newer more hip kind. He pretty much scowled at the camera, pretty much daring you to say something. Basically the obituary said that he died. He had a wife and kids he left behind. There would be a viewing on Tuesday evening and funeral Wednesday morning.

  That one would be hard to write. I wonder if his people would even want anything written, or just let the preacher do his thing.

  Then a complete heartbreaker. A young woman. Early twenties. Didn’t say how she died, but it said she was preceded in death by her teenaged brother. Must be killing the parents. What would I say if I were hired for that one?

  The last one I read was a typical grandma. She was in her 80s. It listed off a passel of kids and grandkids and in-laws. She’d been a stay-at-home mom long before they used the term.

  I decided if I couldn’t write something fabulous about each of these people, I’d go beg for a job at McDonalds.

  The grandma first – assuming her oldest daughter was presenting her eulogy.

  When I was seventeen and thought I knew everything there was to know about life, a wise woman said to me, ‘Child, the measure of a person is not the challenges they face, but the way they choose to face those challenges. See to it that you face every challenge with integrity and respect and you’ll live a life you can be proud of.’

  Such old fashioned nonsense, I of course, let it in one ear and out the other.

  When I was young, I’d hear stories about how Mom and her brothers and sisters didn’t have much. A wooden car with the wheels borrowed from an old pair of roller skates. A treasured marble, that not only looked good, but rolled straight every time. I assumed the stories were to remind me that I had been very well provided for, by both Mom and Dad. Since that was not something I wanted to hear, I pretty much let it go in one ear and out the other.

  When I was a teen, Mom spent hours standing at the stove, with me standing in the doorway. We talked about everything and nothing. I was just avoiding doing my homework. If she had anything interesting to say, it pretty much went in one ear and out the other.

  It all started coming back to me as a young mother. All those lessons Mom so generously taught me.

  In frustration I pushed myself away from the desk. There’s something lacking due to today’s technology. There was a time when you could vent your spleen a bit by ripping the page out of your typewriter, then with great vehemence, ball it up and throw it across the room. Now, unless you want to dropkick a rather expensive piece of machinery, your only option is to delete a file. Somehow, it isn’t the same cathartic event. Not sure I would trade spell-check for the luxury of a spontaneous childish outburst, but you would think with our advanced abilities, we could think of a satisfactory solution.

  AJ walked in as I was stomping around the living room, trying for the physical release of an emotional constriction.

  The left side of his mouth pulled up and made a cute little dimple. “Was it something I said?”

  “Sorry, I’m having a moment.”

  “Is there something I can do?”

  “How well do you take a punch?”

  “Not well. I’m against all forms of physical violence, at least in regard to my physicality. Someone else wants to be violent, I’ll be happy to watch.”

  “You like to watch?” I blushed immediately and blurted, “Ok, that didn’t sound right.”

  We both burst out laughing breaking the tension.

  “So, what’s going on that causes you to want to punch something?”

  “I thought that I’d try to write a eulogy from the obituaries in the paper. I tried. I can’t get anything more than one-dimensional. Maybe this whole eulogy thing isn’t going to work.”

  “Maybe the reason you aren’t yet getting there is because you’re trying too hard. Or maybe it’s that you’re trying to write fiction. Fiction is harder than reality. Everyone assumes the opposite, but think about it. Which is more difficult? Describing a fruit, or making up a convincing new fruit?”

  “That’s right! You write!”

  “No, I’m a photographer that sometimes gets stuck writing the article that goes with my images. I take an image; I describe what I’ve taken an image of. That isn’t exactly writing. Besides, Suzi told me that you love to write.”

  “I really need to start paying her to be my agent.” I sat down at the kitchen table. He took a seat across from me.

  I tried to explain, “There’s a big difference between writing the occasional business letter for a friend, or reshaping a resume, or maybe creating a newsletter for my neighbor’s business so he can drum up some excitement in slow times, and being an actual writer. Suzi makes my writing abilities sound like a bigger deal than they are.”

  “She loves you.”

  “I love her too, but that doesn’t mean I can write.”

  “I’m sure you’re every bit as talented as I was told. Suzi is very realistic, even about the people she loves.”

  I had to smile, “Really? She thinks you walk on water.”

  He smiled the sexiest damn smile and said, “See, told ya! She’s completely objective.”

  I love to laugh. I love the fact that my roommate makes me laugh. He’s gonna be such a great brother-in-law. Teagan has all the luck.

  “Maybe the reason that you’re having problems writing the eulogy is that you aren’t writing it for a person that is real to you. In your new business, you’ll be writing eulogies for either people you’ve met, or people that were loved by people you’ve communicated with. I would think that makes a big difference.”

  “Maybe.”

  “As much as we, as a society, celebrate the disconnect we have created these days, preferring a text message over actual conversation or an email over a meeting, it is still a fact of life that we as a species need human contact. I think that maybe that is your issue. Maybe what you need is some human contact. Shall we give it a try?”

  For the love of Pete, I blushed. What is happening to me? I stuttered, “Us? Try human contact? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve lost some people important to me. You have never met them. Know nothing about them. You can interview me, write a eulogy for me, and I’ll let you know if I feel it’s up to snuff.”

  “Up to snuff?” I laughed.

  “My grandma’s favorite term. I went to visit her today.”

  “You went to visit your grandma? Be still my wee little heart. There isn’t a female on the planet that doesn’t hold a soft spot in her heart for a guy that is good to his grandma.”

  “Should I let it slip that I brought her flowers? That I call her once a week, no matter where in the world I find myself? Would you be impressed?”

  If this were a movie, or even a soap opera, this is where the music would swell and we’d fall into each other’s arms and kiss and start a blessed life.

  I reminded myself that this isn’t a soap opera. Dammit! I managed, “I’m impressed. I’m sure Teagan will be too.”

  Was that a flash of disappointment I saw run across his face, or was that wishful thinking on my part? Wishful thinking? I don’t steal boyfriends from my sister, even if I could, which, really, I doubt is the case, but still, there’s a sacred trust and all that stuff and even if I did have the ability, I don’t have the right. Right?

  With that thought I sent up a little SOS to the Good Lord in the form of a question. I’m not sure it constituted a prayer, but it’s my style of prayer. It went something like, ‘A little help here?’

  I caught the phone on the first ring, giving AJ a little shrug as I lunged for it, silently thanking God for the distraction.

  “Hello Love.” Mom sounded terrible.

  “What’s wrong? Is Teagan ok? Daddy?”

  “The family is fine Love.”

  “Mom, you sound terrible. Who died?” I was only half joking.

  “Bernie.”

  “Oh Mom, I’
m so sorry. I know she was such a good friend of Grandma’s and how close you guys got after Grandma passed. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes, there is. Can you come by for a cup of tea so that we can discuss it?”

  “Sure. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

  “Thank you, Love.”

  I begged understanding from AJ, who was generous enough to supply it. Ran in the bathroom, brushed my teeth, being a heavy tea drinker, I brush my teeth several times a day, and ran a brush through my hair. I was out the door in less than two minutes.

  When I got to Mom’s house, there were no cars parked out front. Not a good sign. Usually there is at least one person visiting.

  Mom was at the table, tea made, no cookies. Another bad sign. She didn’t even seem to notice me till I was at the table.

  “Mom? Are you ok?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “I’m just sad.”

  “What can I do?”

  “There’s nothing to be done at the minute. Daddy has gone over to the funeral home to make arrangements. Bernie doesn’t have any family left here. What family she does have is still in Ireland. We’ve made the calls. There won’t be anyone coming.”

  “Oh Mom, I’m sorry.”

  “It used to be that a funeral and wake were a sign of respect. Not only for the dead, but for the living as well. Seems those times are gone.”

  “Mom, to be fair, she’s been over here a long time. I’m not sure that any of the relatives over there have even met her. She outlived everyone. She never married. She doesn’t have any kids. Is it fair to think that some cousin twice removed would jump on an intercontinental flight for the funeral of someone they only know by name?”

  “True.”

  “Mom, we’re her family here. We’ll do right by her.”

  “I’m glad you said that Love, because I’ll be needing a favor.”

  “Anything.” I jumped up to get busy.

  Mom sat me back down with one of her patented mom looks. No words needed.

  She put her hand on mine and said “Not at the minute Love.”

  Why is it that Irish people sound so much more Irish when they’re upset? Even Irish people that have been here for multiple generations seem to sprout a brogue, or Irish accent, when they are in the throws of emotional trauma. Even I start to talk funny if I’ve been around family too much, and I’m as American as apple pie.

  Thoughts were coming at me from all directions when it suddenly dawned on me. Mom was going to have me write the eulogy. It was, after all, my new profession, and who else was there to put words to the feelings Mom felt so strongly? I decided to offer my services instead of making her ask. “Do you want me to write the eulogy?”

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that really. Billy will be doing the service. They were grand friends. I thought he would say a few words.”

  Perplexed, I tried again, “Then what’s the favor?”

  “When I talked to the girls in Ireland, they asked that I hire someone to go through Bernie’s things. See what is of value. Pack up what would be of use to them there, not too much, the shipping will be dear. See what needs to be attended to, and get it organized enough so that they can decide what it is they want to do with it all. Then, once they’ve made that decision, help them to get it done. I know it is silly, but I really don’t want a stranger going through Bernie’s things. There are very personal items in that house, and I want them treated with dignity and respect. I was hoping you and your sister could do that for me. I’ve called and left her a voicemail. I’m sure she’ll be on her way back tonight. I’m sorry Love. I just can’t do this myself. It was difficult when your grandmother died. This would bring it all back to me. Could you do this for me, please.”

  “Of course Mom. I’m not sure how to go about it, but between Teagan and me, we’ll figure it out. Is there anything else we can do?”

  “Could you check the meat and put on the potatoes? Your father should be home shortly. I’ll want to talk to him about the service. We have some decisions we need to make.” With that, she got up and walked out of the room.

  I’m great at supporting people. I’m comforting. I can cheer people up. I can nurture a rock; but when it comes to my mother, I’m always at a loss. That’s Maeve’s job. That’s one of the nice things about having lots of brothers and sisters. We each have a job. We spread the responsibilities around. Maeve needs to get her butt home and deal with Mom’s emotions, because I can’t do it, and it isn’t a skill I’m gonna pick up any time soon.

  Dinner was quiet. Daddy had gone to the family funeral home to make arrangements for Bernie. Our family always uses O’Gorman’s. Unfortunately, coming from a really big family, we have enough experience that we pretty much know what needs to be done.

  I wanted to know what had happened with Bernie. Truth be told, the woman was old. As my grandma would have said, ‘She was old when dirt was young.’

  My guess is her body just couldn’t keep up any more, but I’d seen her about three weeks ago and she seemed spry enough. Actually, she seemed damn healthy. The woman was still driving, she didn’t even need glasses, and she went for a walk every day. She kept her little house neat as a pin, and she didn’t require any medications. It seems a little odd that she would drop dead for no good reason, other than being about 123 years old.

  Mom seemed so upset I didn’t have the heart to ask for details. I figured it would all come out in time.

  A few of my brothers and sisters showed up for dinner or shortly after. The girls cleaned up while the guys went out in the back yard. I think the guys were trying to escape the emotion in the kitchen.

  Finally, my youngest sister Sinead asked, “Mom, just what happened to Bernie?”

  “We’re not sure Love. They have her down to the morgue. I’m sure we’ll know much more in a few weeks time. For now, all we know is that she didn’t show up to do her volunteer work at the kitchen down at the shelter. The director got worried, you know Bernie, down there to help morning, noon and night. The director sent a couple of the young men to check on her. They found her in the garage. She was sitting peacefully in her car.”

  Sinead asked quietly, “How did you find out?”

  Mom smiled, “For a woman of her years, Bernie is quite the technical one. She had a cell phone in her purse. The police checked the address book. Under ICE she had my number. Turns out that people in the know put ICE in their address book. It stands for In Case of Emergency. They called me. Your father volunteered and went down and identified her. He says she looks just fine.”

  I asked, “Do we have dates and times for the service?”

  “Billy says that Wednesday will be best for the Rosary. We’ll do a small graveside service on Thursday morning. There’s no need to do anything at the church. People just don’t go for that kind of thing anymore.”

  Completely confused I blurted, “Really? What about Mass?”

  Mom seemed so tired, like the life force had leaked right out of her. She was beginning to worry me.

  “I’ll talk to Billy. Whatever he decides is what we’ll do.”

  I smiled and said, “Works for me. If a priest doesn’t know the rules, we’re all in trouble.”