by Leigh Kramer
I hesitated about my place, whether to sit with Mom but I saw my brothers and their wives tethered to her. I tried to catch her eye but her head turned resolutely toward the front. She didn’t seek me out. She didn't need me. Reagan noticed my hesitation and drew me to the chairs closest to us.
I wanted this night to be over.
* * *
It had been years since I last set foot inside Geneva Baptist Church. The pews looked the same, as did the stained-glass windows. A few people milled around at the front, likely taking care of last-minute details. Without anyone to propel me forward, I hung back.
To others, this church was a place of comfort and refuge. They didn't notice the judgment radiating from parishioners until it was too late. I learned that lesson young.
Elaine had pestered me about a return visit to my childhood church. She insisted it was different once a new pastor took over several years ago. I always brushed off her attempts.
Well, Elaine, you won. I came back.
The sun streamed in through the open doors. Though early July, the morning was still relatively cool, a temporary state. I stood behind the last pew. I didn't know how or what to feel in that moment. The service would start in thirty minutes. Stewart had requested the family arrive early so we could be seated together but the open doors beckoned me to go back outside.
I half-turned toward my escape as Uncle Marcus walked in. My mouth pursed in sour reflex. There was my sign to go find a seat. My eyes dropped down. I pretended as if my intention had always been to walk around the pew and up the aisle. I didn't care whether he bought my act, only that he left me alone.
The family may have survived these last few days of togetherness but certain tensions lingered.
“Olivia,” Marcus greeted me. I nodded and kept going.
“Olivia,” he called after me. I stifled a groan and pivoted toward him. I cocked my head and waited for him to talk.
Marcus cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. If he wasn’t going to say anything, why hadn't he let me keep going?
“I wanted to be sure you'd sit with the family this morning.” My brow wrinkled in confusion. Like I’d sit anywhere else. “Your mother was hurt that you didn't sit by her during the prayer service last night.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath.
She was what? She hadn't so much as saved me a seat and seemed perfectly content to be surrounded by her sons and daughters-in-law. Old resentments filled me. This was not the time or the place, but they festered just the same.
“If my mom has any concerns,” I responded evenly, “she can speak with me directly. She doesn't need to use you to do her dirty work anymore.” I would not let him have the upper hand.
He began to sputter about respecting one's elders. All done in a low tone so no one at the front or currently walking past us would guess anything was wrong. His sanctimonious face bobbed and weaved. He might have physically resembled Dad but they couldn't have been more opposite.
My ire grew until I bit my tongue. I wanted to tell him to go to hell, to let out all the anger I’d suppressed for years. Screw the consequences. Screw the family reputation.
I quickly squeezed my eyes shut and reminded myself that I stood in a church. And he was my uncle. And it would not do well to hit him on the morning of Aunt Elaine's funeral.
I cut him off mid-sentence. “You seem to forget how very much a part of this family I am. Elaine was like a mother to me and I would not do anything to let her down, not even argue with you this morning. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my seat and remember why we're here in the first place.”
I spun around, breathing hard. My hands curled into fists. I wanted to scream or punch something, just to get it out of my system. More friends and family piled into the sanctuary by the moment, however. I schooled my face into something more serene. I smiled and nodded my way down the center aisle. I looked anywhere but at the closed coffin at the front.
Ben and Bethie stood to the side with the pastor, while their spouses tended to the kids traipsing about. Children weren’t allowed to run around the sanctuary when I was their age, unless we wanted to face the wrath of Pastor Wilbur. Elaine must have loved seeing the freedom of their personalities in such a place.
I looked for signs of Gram amongst the other gathered. Dan and Mimi were in charge of her arrival this morning. She hadn't allowed anyone else to stay over since the day after Elaine's death. Her pain was in better control, though she looked pale to me. No one argued with her, however. If she felt safe by herself, we had to abide by her wishes.
Hugs and murmurs of hello distributed, I slid into a pew on the left, a few rows from the front. I smoothed out the skirt of my jade dress. Not everyone would approve. An unusual color for a funeral but Elaine's memory begged for pizazz and brightness. When I'd lived in New York, I'd had difficulty adopting the all-black uniform. Once back in Chicago, black was relegated to one clothing item, if at all. Even on the saddest days, my eclectic clothes prevented me from sinking into a funk.
I craned my head toward the door, checking for Gram again. She'd sit with Stewart and his family but I wanted to see her for myself. An undefined restlessness plagued me. I'd attended other funerals since Dad died but his stood out the most, for obvious reasons. Dad and Elaine had been close, just as I'd been close to them both. Memories of Dad haunted me this morning.
I dreaded listening to the pastor's eulogy. Would anyone be able to do Elaine's life justice? Especially here, this church that elicited such warring emotions in me. If I could make it through the next couple of hours, I'd be fine. I could escape to my home. I dreamed of comfy pajamas, mac and cheese, and a glass of red. Then I could let myself fall apart for a while.
While I’d cried here and there, I mostly felt numb. The magnitude of this loss had not sunk in. My mind could not comprehend that the wrong person died, and that Gram's death still lay ahead for us. I went through the motions; my interactions had a hazy, removed quality to them. Gram's well-being stayed in the back of my mind at all times. I half-feared she would collapse in church this morning and that would be it. Even though Justin had visited again and reassured me her vitals were normal, everything felt like it was slipping through my fingers. I could not control Elaine's death or Gram's illness or Marcus' self-righteous nature. I could not even control my own life.
Reagan slid into the pew next to me and gave me a quick peck, interrupting my reverie. My hand reached for his of its own accord. I could scarcely believe Reagan hadn't been a part of my life for longer than a few months. Most men would have run once they witnessed my family turmoil and I would not have blamed them. So far Reagan had stayed. My spine relaxed now that he was by my side. It had been years since anyone had had that type of an effect on me.
Voices grew louder at the back of the church. I turned and saw Gram had arrived. I started to stand up but saw she had a crowd of hands and arms offering their assistance. She waved them off and slowly walked to the front of the church, her cane echoing with each step. She looked calm and dignified, though she kept sunglasses on. Gram exemplified what a Frasier woman should be like—capable, in charge, commanding. No matter the circumstance, the public and private worlds did not collide. Gram might have driven a motorcycle up the courthouse steps but she would never invite the community into the rawness of her grief. If anyone said I was a complicated woman, I simply pointed to Gram.
While I understood the dichotomy of Gram's behavior, I'd stopped caring about such concerns long ago. I didn't care what people thought of my green dress or whether my tears were off-putting. The old-school ways held no appeal.
Once Gram settled into the first pew, the rest of the family crawled out of the woodwork. My brothers and their wives, along with Mom, pushed Reagan and I further down the row instead of stepping over us. I no longer had a central view of the coffin but I did not mind.
Mom's profile was barely visible from my end of the pew. Had she purposely put my
brothers between us? Uncle Marcus' words rang in my ear and my hands balled up into fists again. She would never bring up the hurt herself. I resigned myself to sniping comments for the next twenty years.
This morning yawned giant and slow. Everywhere I looked I found someone or something that wore me out. The coffin. The church. Mom. The rest of the usual suspects.
Reagan talked baseball with Ian, occasionally bringing me into the conversation. I enjoyed seeing how knowledgeable Reagan, the non-baseball fan, had become about the White Sox. My right foot tapped staccato. I chimed in from time to time as I scanned the sanctuary.
I caught sight of Kristy and Zanne toward the back of the church. My body turned fully toward them, my hand finding its way to cover my heart. While several friends and employees attended last night's wake, I hadn't expected anyone to come to the funeral. A lump filled my throat. Love for them overwhelmed me. They noticed I'd seen them and waved. I waved back and mouthed thank you.
I nudged Reagan and pointed in the direction of my friends. They all waved at one another.
“Your friends love you, Liv,” he murmured in my ear.
Something settled within, though my foot wouldn't stop tapping. My back-up was here. I didn't know why I'd need back-up, but I felt equipped to make it through this service.
The pastor stepped in front of Elaine's coffin and welcomed everyone to the funeral. A stillness hung over the room, equal parts joy and sadness. She would want a celebration of her life, we knew this. But it would not be easy or fair to set aside our grief to honor her wishes.
The pastor led us through a prayer. A reminder of God's faithfulness during difficult times, his sovereignty even though we didn't understand our circumstances. He asked for God's peace and comfort over Stewart, Ben, Laura, Bethie, and their family. Tears welled with each name. They needed Elaine. We all did, but needing her would not bring her back.
I didn't know how to look for God or if I even wanted to. It didn't seem like he particularly cared for my family anymore. Aside from what certain members believed, we didn't deserve special treatment. However, a break from tragedy would have been appreciated.
The piano began pounding away, a hymn I didn't recognize. I hoped we could escape singing “On Eagles Wings.” There were few songs I hated more. Elaine hadn't liked it either.
A cousin read one of the Psalms and then Laura's eight-year old daughter read Elaine's favorite verse in Philippians.
Finally, the pastor spoke. I quieted my distrusting, cynical spirit. If Elaine thought highly of him, he would do her life justice. And he did. He expounded on the ideas presented in his prayer and gave examples of how Elaine lived out her faith, as well as her determination to live fully, thanks to her bucket list.
A few of the stories had the congregation reeling in laughter. The relief was palpable and carried us to the end of the service.
Elaine had had the foresight to tell Stewart she wanted to be cremated. There would be no parade of cars to the graveyard. No huddles of people as the coffin lowered into the ground. I accepted her choice, though part of me missed that last piece of closure.
Afterward, most people walked across Third Avenue to convene for lunch at The Owl Tree. We filled the back room, eating chicken Kiev and raising toasts. Laughter outweighed the tears. My friends were unable to stay for the luncheon but I didn't mind more mingling with family. I'd have a break after this. For now, I wanted to be with the people who knew and loved Elaine best.
I floated through the meal and then took my leave. I reassured everyone I'd be fine on my own. Reagan offered to come over.
“I appreciate the offer, I do, but I think I need to be alone for a little while. It's been nothing but nonstop activity these last few days. I want to sit in my PJs and not think for a while.”
“PJs, eh?” Reagan asked, with a rakish grin.
A zing shot through me as I remembered where our afternoon had been headed only a few days before. God, I wished we could pick up where we’d left off but it wouldn’t have been fair to Reagan. My mind was all over the place.
“Don't get any ideas,” I laughed, as I reached for him. “Give me that line tomorrow though and I’m sure you’ll like my answer. Until then, I need a night in by myself. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
This was true at first. I put on my pajamas and poured the wine. I started to catch up on Real Housewives but my attention soon strayed and the endless cycle of anxiety began.
Six hours and eleven minutes after we’d left each other, I called him in tears.
“I know I said I wanted to be alone, but I lied.”
Before I could say another word, Reagan replied, “I'm on my way.”
Chapter Seventeen
Tears streamed down my face as I opened the door. I'd tried to stop crying since hanging up the phone.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Reagan said and took me into his arms. I heaved and sighed, struggling to get the past few hours of damage out of my mind.
“What happened?” His voice reverberated through his chest.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Words and images swirled. I felt my failure in every bone of my body. The attempts to numb myself had not ended well. I surrendered to the strength of his arms around me and cried until I couldn't.
When Reagan ascertained he could release me from his embrace, he glanced into the kitchen. The empty wine bottle sat on the kitchen counter.
“Did you drink all that tonight?” he asked. I ignored the worry in his eyes.
“No, no, no,” I laughed. My head buzzed but I wasn’t drunk. At least, not much. Maybe a wee bit. Emotional hysteria mellowed to calm acceptance. “Two glasses.” Two very full glasses. Or maybe it was three? Had I started another bottle? I peered at the bottle and blinked. The wine went down so easily.
He looked at me skeptically. “Two glasses, huh? Did you eat anything tonight?” He opened the refrigerator door. It was endearing to see him act so familiar with my home.
I gestured toward the refrigerator’s contents. “I haven’t had time to go grocery shopping in a while. The luncheon ended late so I wasn’t hungry when I got home.” I shrugged, as if there wasn’t a connection between a light lunch and scads of wine.
“You barely ate lunch,” he noted and busied himself with eggs and half a pepper. He was going to cook for me. I barely suppressed a giggle, as I carefully settled into one of the bar stools behind the counter. I propped my chin on my hands and watched him work.
“I did so,” I retorted. “You’re just used to seeing me eat more. That was a healthy portion.”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “Fine. It will make me feel better if you eat something.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied with a jaunty salute, slightly swaying. I felt better having him around. My eyes were dry and I almost forgot what had led to my tremulous phone call in the first place. Reagan did not have the same alcohol-induced amnesia.
“How are you feeling right now?” He turned from the sauté pan sizzling on the stove to look at me. His eyes told me he wouldn’t accept anything other than an honest answer.
My gaze dropped. The phone call seemed like a good idea at the time, like all ideas after a few glasses of wine. The stripes on my pajama bottoms were more appealing than the ensuing heart-to-heart.
My mouth screwed into a grimace. An honest answer required delving into the past. I could not stay in this in-between place. Reagan might view me differently but he deserved the truth. He’d trusted me with his hurt and pain. The longer I held out, the more undeserving of his affection I felt. While I wished I could say all this to Elaine, she wasn’t here and he was. The conflict stirred a pit in my stomach, sloshing around with the wine.
I couldn’t live this way anymore. I couldn’t control the outcome but the promise of possibility tantalized me. Liquid courage prompted me to speak or forever hold my peace.
“I’m a fraud,” I croaked. I couldn’t look at him so I played with the handle of the steaming mug of tea that h
ad mysteriously appeared in front me.
Reagan plated the omelet and placed it before me. His silence bid me continue.
I took a bite of the omelet on auto-pilot and acknowledged its goodness before continuing.
“I’ve never told anyone this before. I hoped I would never have to. I thought I could come back from France and lock that part of my life away.” A hollow laugh escaped. “I was so stupid. So, so stupid.”
“About what?” Reagan settled into the bar stool across from me. Kind, patient, trustworthy Reagan. If only he were too good to be true, this would be easier. Tears welled up but I forced them back. He deserved to know how a careless decision had shaped the last thirteen years of my life.
“About everything. I don’t even know where to start.” I combed through my memory. The pieces I’d purposely forgotten in order to live my life. I wasn’t that person anymore and would never make the same choices given a chance to do it over again but that twenty-one-year old girl was irrevocably a part of me.
“Junior year at New York University, I entered a painting in the spring Art Fair.” I took another bite of omelet, then held up my index finger as I walked into the living room. I grabbed the canvas, still covered by a sheet, and carried it back into the kitchen. “This painting.”
I removed its shroud, then propped it against a counter. The images of my cousins as children stared back at us. I didn’t give him a chance to respond.
“It won first place. Because of that, I was eligible to go on a trip to France that summer. Placing at the show, in addition to the portfolio I'd put together paved the way for me. There were only a few spots available for a month-long painting intensive study abroad.” I remembered how excited I’d been when Professor Benoit told me the good news. At the time, it had been a dream come true.
“Who wouldn't want to go to Europe for part of the summer? I couldn’t wait to paint under the tutelage of artists I admired, especially to have a chance at debuting one of my paintings at the exhibit that closed out our time in Paris. I was a long shot but, then again, I’d placed at NYU and was just confident enough to believe I could do it. There were about thirty of us all together, several from NYU and the rest from other colleges. We’d paint like crazy all day, then stay up all night talking and drinking in smoky cafes. That was the life.”
