After Stan, the chief of police makes her way to the front of the church. “Our souls ache,” she begins, “for the loss of a fair and kind man; a man who lived and breathed police work; who showed determination and commitment; tenacity and bravery; professionalism and confidence.”
I listen carefully, trying to absorb every word.
“The loss will always be with us but the life that Sam led will become a bright and sustaining light.”
I can’t stop crying, nor can Sam’s parents, sister and brother beside me.
“It has been said there are givers and takers in this world,” the chief says. “Police officers are true givers. They give of themselves on the job and off and sometimes they give their lives to protect the lives and property of others.”
My hand flies up to my face. She’s cut to the heart of what’s been bothering me: that people won’t appreciate the ultimate sacrifice Sam made. He gave his life protecting the peace we take for granted.
After she finishes, several officers wearing pointed helmets march up and remove the Canadian flag from Sam’s casket then carefully fold it up. The officer holding the flag then marches around to the opposite side of the casket, where the other officers remove the hat and badge then place them on top of the folded flag. Oh shit. This is the part the chief warned me about.
The first officer marches over to the chief and gives her the flag, Sam’s hat and badge. When she presents them to me, I respond by throwing my arms around her—wailing like a banshee—and then slump back into the pew, empty.
I close my eyes, looking for Sam on Santa Monica Beach. But what I hear is “Amazing Grace” being played on the bagpipes. Why don’t they just rip my heart right out? It would be a lot less painful. I open my eyes to see the top part of Sam’s casket being lifted up so that we can see his head and chest. Instead of rage, however, I feel a sort of peace…almost as if something has just joined me. Whatever’s happening, it gives me the strength to handle viewing Sam’s body one last time because frankly, I’ve seen this stuffed version quite enough.
Many of the same people I saw pass in front of me last night begin lining up again. Some of them even stop in front of our pew to offer us their condolences. But I’m not falling for that again. I fold my arms across my chest and avoid eye contact: this widow is closed for business. Instead, I watch carefully how each mourner interacts with Sam.
“Wouldn’t it be cool to see what went on at your own funeral?” Sam had once asked me. “I’d be curious to see who’d be there and how they are reacting.”
When the church has cleared out and we’re down to close friends and family, I notice Ed lean in and whisper in Sam’s ear. When my turn comes to say goodbye, I go to kiss Sam on the lips, but the stench of formaldehyde is overpowering. His complexion seems grayer than last night, his face puffier. We’ve put my lover on display too long. Exactly two weeks ago today, we made love for the very last time in our Vegas hotel room. Katrina was right: my memories will have to sustain me from here on in. The time has come to let Sam’s body go.
I tuck a letter I wrote him—a contract of sorts—into the drawer inside his casket. Although Sam won’t be reading it, I still had to write it.
“Let’s go big or go home,” I say to him, “just like Vegas.”
Then I stand up straight, give Sam one last wave and walk away. But out of the corner of my eye, I see the chief of police, now wearing a long black cape, lean over and whisper something in Sam’s ear. Only then is his casket closed for the last time.
Walking down the aisle to the foyer, I see the front doors of the church are open. I quicken my pace toward the light. Outside, the scene has changed: the sun is shining, and the snow is melting away.
I WALK down the church steps and into the waiting limousine.
After Sam’s casket is loaded into the hearse, the procession begins. As our limo moves along, I look out the window at police officers, RCMP, firefighters, EMS personnel, corrections and peace officers from all over North America standing side by side, saluting Sam—and me, by default—as we pass by.
I have been here before: only it was the opposite end of the emotional spectrum.
“Look at them all,” says Sam’s mom. “I can’t…”
She’s interrupted by a loud chopping sound overhead; the police helicopter is doing the fly-over. And it hits me: three times on our vacation, Sam had turned down the chance to go up in a helicopter. Is today his turn?
When the helicopter has passed, I turn to his mom. “What did that other priest say about Sam during the funeral—the one who spoke entirely in Greek?”
She looks surprised at my question or perhaps the timing of it. “He talked about Sam as a child who’d been concerned at a very young age about poor people.”
“He knew Sam as a kid?” I ask.
She nods. “He’s the priest we took Sam to when he was so upset after seeing the homeless man on a park bench.”
AT THE cemetery, we wade through the slush to plot number 130. I somehow get separated from Sam’s family but luckily, Harry appears beside me and slips his arm through mine. Then the priest begins waving the goddamn incense again and chanting in Greek while Sam’s mom rocks back and forth, loudly crying out his name. Bagpipes play “Amazing Grace” and I just wish the earth would open up and swallow me. Sam’s sister hands me a white rose to place on the casket, which I do but then some moron throws dirt on top of my rose and then someone else does the same and it hits me: oh my God, they’re burying my Sammy. Then his casket starts to move ever so slowly into the ground and Sam’s mom breaks free of the hands holding her back and stumbles to his grave then tries to throw herself on top of his coffin. Thank God the media aren’t present. But I know how she feels for, I, too, want to go where Sam is going.
Recognizing the pending disaster, someone pushes a button and Sam’s casket stops moving. But then the police helicopter is overhead again, and I start shivering uncontrollably. My teeth are chattering so loud I figure everyone must hear. The sense of wholeness I experienced in the church earlier dissipates and the hollow emptiness returns. I whip around, push my way past the crowd and half-run, half-stumble back through the slush toward the limousine.
I’m almost there when Harry catches up with me. “Are you OK?”
“What do you think?” I snap. “It’s time to get the fuck off the property.”
Inside the limo, we sit in silence. Just one more little party to attend, I tell myself, and then I can go home and…what? Stare at Sam’s picture? Drink a case of beer? Build a funeral pyre to throw myself on?
A few minutes later, the door opens and Sam’s family pours in. Nick takes one look at my face and taps the limo driver on the shoulder. “Could we please leave now?”
As the vehicle pulls away, I look out the window and see that dozens of people are still standing around Sam’s grave.
“Thank you,” I say to Nick.
AH, THE funeral reception: let’s all eat, drink and share stories in memory of the dead guy who unfortunately can’t attend his own party because he’s six feet under. I’m grateful for the police service’s generosity in hosting the event, but how am I to feel about celebrating Sam’s life with him no longer around?
Since skipping this soiree isn’t an option, my first stop is the bathroom to salvage what I can of my appearance. I splash water on my face, put on some lipstick, readjust my hat and head out into the world to try again. Inside the banquet hall, I’m directed to sit at a raised head table. I really am a bride without a groom. I sit beside Sam’s dad and he asks me if I’m going to get something to eat. At family dinners, he’s always concerned that I get enough food—like that’s ever an issue.
“Um…maybe in a bit,” I say, looking out into the crowd of faces.
Here I am in a room full of family and friends and I have never felt so alone in my entire life. In every uniform, I see Sam. After five minutes, a lone police officer comes over to the head table and reaches his white-gloved hand up t
o shake mine.
This, I realize, is bullshit. I excuse myself from the table and head out into the crowd to talk, listen, laugh, cry…and get hugs from some very good-looking cops.
There’s an open mic for people to share stories. One of Sam’s friends has put together a special tribute and begins reading it out to the crowd. “What I’ll miss the most about Sam is his laugh. It was more like a giggle, which sounded so funny coming from such a big guy.”
“I’ll remember his conviction,” he continues, “not to bring children into this world but rather make it a better place for ours.”
And there’s the truth, announced casually in front of a thousand people. I was married to the man, yet hadn’t fully grasped this concept until his funeral reception.
“I’ll also remember the deer I hit on a country road at the same time of his accident,” his friend says. “As I sat in the ditch waiting for the deer to die, I had no idea that I was comforting an angel for Sam…someone to ride up the elevator with him.”
Next up to the mic is Tom. He tells the story of how he and Sam flooded the bookshelf in my office last year while renovating the bathroom above it.
Then there’s a break in speakers and I happen to be standing at the buffet when I feel a sort of push from behind. I turn around, but the nearest person is two feet away. The next thing I know I’m standing at the podium without a clue as to what I’m going to say. Boy, does the room go quiet quickly.
“I’d like to thank everybody for all the love and support given to us these past few days,” I begin. “I uh…I also want to say that I loved Sam very much and I’m determined to find some good in his death.”
I just verbalized the contract I’d placed in his casket.
Then I step down from the podium and an officer I don’t know comes up and hugs me. Then another one does, and then another. Soon there’s a little lineup. But it’s different from the receiving line at the prayer service last night. Or maybe I’m different.
“Adri?”
I recognize that purr. I turn around and look straight into the eyes of the officer Sam had dreamed I’d cheated on him with, five days before his death.
“You might not remember me,” the officer says. “But you went on a ride-along with me years ago.”
I smile politely and adjust my hat. “I remember.”
“I’m very sorry about Sam,” he says. “But you take care, OK?”
I nod dumbly as he walks away.
AFTER THE reception, we return home to find a birthday card for Sasha on the kitchen table. It’s from the neighbours. Inside the fridge is a homemade hamburger with cream cheese frosting and three candles sticking out the top. I laugh. Two years ago, Sam and I had thrown Sasha a legendary first birthday party. Sam had flipped bone-shaped burgers on the barbeque—and a boxer guest had beaten up a beagle.
So, instead of a funeral pyre, I light Sasha’s birthday cake and we all sing happy birthday, then watch as she devours it.
After dinner, several of Sam’s buddies drop by for a visit. We’re reminiscing when one guy suggests we make the Christmas movie tradition happen this year. During his twenties, Sam and his buddies always went to a movie on Christmas night. It’d only been in the last few years they’d stop doing this because everyone was busy with their own families now.
“And remember the pub-crawl sprawl?” Wayne, another friend, teases me.
I groan. “Oh man…”
“I haven’t heard that one,” someone says.
“Adri came home from a pub crawl one night,” Wayne explains, “but she’d had a few too many drinks, so when Sam and I came home later, we found her face down in the hallway with her pajamas wrapped around her head.”
“And the worst part,” I admit, “was that I wasn’t wearing any underwear. Sam was mortified!”
“The paramedics came and had to put her on oxygen for a bit,” says Wayne.
We’re all still laughing when the phone rings. I feel pretty good, so I answer it.
“Is Sam there?” a man’s voice asks.
My stomach drops. “Pardon me?”
“Is Sam there?” he repeats, sounding irritated.
If the guy used Sam’s last name, I could chalk it up to a telemarketer with lousy timing. But I can’t fathom who else would be calling Sam by his first name and yet not know he’d passed away. I hand the phone to the nearest person and leave the room as the tears begin again. Sam’s buddies leave shortly after.
Tonight, I take Sam’s badge to bed with me and fall asleep clutching it against my chest. Maybe I can cuddle up with virtues.
I WAKE up Thursday morning with the familiar sickening sensation in my stomach and the lump of Sam’s badge under my back. There won’t be a knock on my door from Katrina, ready to put back together what the night has shattered. She’s gone back to work. Life, as I’ve been told dozens of times over the past week, goes on. Well, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it to me.
In the kitchen, Ed hands me the newspaper. I see a close-up of a woman’s face I scarcely recognize but the hat, coat and falling snow are familiar.
After breakfast, I get a call from Nick, asking me if I’d like to go with him to Sam’s work today. It’s Sam’s team’s first shift back and Nick, Angela and I have been invited to join parade—the meeting at the beginning of a shift. I figure I may as well go to Sam’s work; I’m certainly not going to mine. Typing up break and enter reports doesn’t seem overly conducive to my mental health.
Just after lunch, Nick picks me up. During the drive, I tell him about the phone call for Sam the night before.
“Are these weird things just coincidences?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “But I still think the letter in the clouds was a sign.”
I think about this. “It was backward, right?”
“Yeah.”
“When Sam wrote his name upside down at the airport restaurant before we left for LA, he’d gotten the first letter backward, too.”
Nick doesn’t say anything.
What am I implying? That Sam is capable of writing his name in the clouds, from the other side of the sky—the heaven side—and he’d got the damn letter backward again? Or maybe we’re in a movie like The Truman Show and Sam, remembering how I complained that Universal Studios didn’t show any real behind the scenes action, found the director’s workstation and thought he’d have some fun with the sky-set.
“How are your mom and dad?” I ask.
“Awful. The only thing giving them comfort is knowing Sam is in a better place.”
I shift in my seat. “Do you believe that?”
He nods. “I have to, Adri.”
Angela meets us at the police station and we’re directed to the parade room. When Sam’s team is all seated, Tom goes around the room and introduces each officer. Then he requests that each person share a story about Sam. This surprises me—I expected business as usual.
“He always liked the car so damn hot,” jokes one guy. “It was like a sauna inside.”
“His favorite phrase,” says another, “was: let’s go catch some bad guys!”
Whoops—false alarm! No bad guy here; sorry for the mix-up.
“I called him the energizer bunny,” Amanda says, breaking the tense silence, “because he always had so much damn energy.”
I lean forward. I’ve never heard Sam described as energetic before. But I also notice, for the first time, that Amanda looks and sounds kinda like me.
“We were partners that night,” she continues from across the table. “He had all the equipment signed out and the car ready to roll by the time I got here.”
Sam had always been an hour early for his shift.
“He told me all about your vacation, Adri. He said you guys had a riot.”
Since Sam couldn’t be with me on the last night of his life, maybe he spent it with the nearest approximation: a female friend similar to me in age, personality, character and appearance? I share the contents of my thought ba
lloon with the group. Sam’s teammates shift uncomfortably in their seats. Some stare at the table. One person coughs. You’d think I’d have learned to keep my obscure observations to myself.
Tom then informs his team that the detective in charge of investigating Sam’s death will now give another debriefing.
“And you’re welcome to stay for that,” he tells Nick, Angela and me.
“Sure,” I reply, before thinking the decision through.
As the detective begins to explain the sequence of events, I am aware of my body posture. I’m leaning back in my chair, with my left arm folded across my ribs. With my right hand, I’m resting my chin on my thumb, my forefinger on my cheek and my middle finger beneath my nose. I listen carefully to a replay of the last few minutes of Sam’s life, complete with diagrams on a flipchart.
It started with a funny sounding alarm when the first employee of the day entered the building. The employee got suspicious and called police. The K-9 officer and Sam went into the warehouse together. There was a ladder the police dog could not climb so Sam did. It was dark. Sam stepped over some wiring and through a false ceiling: one fatal step from a solid surface to an unsafe one because there was no railing in place to mark the difference. The nine-foot fall. The dent in the drywall caused by Sam’s flashlight. The black marks left behind on the wall from his boots. Sam’s legs hit the back of a chair, projecting his upper body toward the lunchroom floor. The force and angle at which the back of his head struck the concrete caused a massive brain injury. The K-9 officer found Sam and immediately began CPR. Chaos ensued.
“Any questions?” asks the detective.
Sitting around listening to anecdotes about Sam is one matter; hearing the factual details of his death is quite another. It takes every ounce of strength I have to not disintegrate.
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