Because I’m worried about Sydney, I make her muffins before I go to her house the next morning and take her a Starbucks coffee. She’s dressed when she answers the door, but I can see that she’s already been grieving this morning. “Thought you might be hungry,” I say.
Smiling weakly, she steps back from the door and invites me in. “I hadn’t even thought about food.”
She takes the plate of muffins, lifts the tin foil cover, and smells. She sets them on her table and takes one out, bites into it. I wait for a reaction. “I just talked to the funeral home,” she says, taking another bite. “They told me to come as soon as I’m ready. My meeting is with a guy named Conrad. Can you believe that? A funeral director named Conrad? I don’t know, something about that seems creepy to me.” She finishes off the muffin and reaches for another one. That’s the response I’d hoped for.
“I’m sure Conrad is a very nice man,” I say. “Maybe he goes by the name Con.”
“Oh, that’s better,” she says. “I want a guy selling me coffins who goes by the name Con.”
“Okay, maybe he goes by Rad. Radley?”
“As in Boo?” She grins. “You’re not making me feel better, Finn.”
“You know, he probably won’t have anything to do with preparing your grandmother. He’s just a director, right?”
Her smile fades. “I don’t want to do this,” she says. “I don’t know if I can. I’m too young. Isn’t there some rule that you have to be in your sixties to plan a funeral?”
“There should be.”
“How did you do it?”
I’m actually embarrassed. I grab a muffin myself and bite into it, hiding behind it. “How did I do what?”
“How did you plan your mother’s funeral?”
I consider lying and making up something about how I stepped up to the plate and bit the bullet, or any of a dozen clichés that would make me look good. But I have to tell the truth. “Honestly, I didn’t. I had relatives who did that.”
“So you just had to show up?”
I don’t say anything, and she just assumes that’s true. What would she think if she knew I didn’t even do that?
She bites into another muffin. Not hungry, huh? This is her third. “I’m seriously shaking like a leaf.”
“Of course you are. It’s a terrible thing to have to do. I’ll be with you.”
When she finishes off the rest of the muffins, she wipes her mouth. “Those were good. Did you realize I was eating the whole batch? Did you even get any?”
“I got what I wanted. If I’d known you were that hungry, I would have made two dozen.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she says. “I wasn’t hungry at all. They were just so good.”
“You needed comfort food.”
“I guess I did.”
When she’s ready and has worked up her resolve to go do this, she drives us to the funeral parlor. I’m uneasy because I’m so rarely in the passenger seat. But I try not to show it.
She gets us there in one piece, though some of her stops at intersections were iffy.
We step up to the door and it’s mysteriously opened for us. The man called Conrad stands before us in a black suit with a gray pinstriped tie. There’s not a single wrinkle anywhere. Has he been standing at the door since getting dressed? Or is there some special kind of funeral starch that prevents normal human creasing?
“How are you?” he says in a midhappy to sorrowful voice. That’s a neat trick to pull off, I think. To straddle the line between happy and sad all day long, when he probably just feels indifference. After all, he does this all day, every day. It’s not like he’s mourning for each of his clients. But if he laughs or grins or cracks a joke—or wears color, God forbid— families could be deeply offended. I feel kind of sorry for the guy.
He takes us into a richly paneled room and sits behind his mahogany desk. It’s exactly the way I pictured. “First, let me say how sorry I am to hear about your grandmother,” he says in an oh-so-somber tone. “I know it was quite a shock. And on Christmas Day.”
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about the timing,” Sydney says. “I know you’d rather be spending time with your family.”
“No, I assure you, your grandmother was not the only one. We have a lot of bookings over the holidays.”
I look at Sydney and see how stricken she looks. “You mean lots of people die on Christmas? What is it about the holidays? The CDC needs to put a bulletin out. They need to warn people.”
“It’s always been this way,” Conrad says. “My point in telling you that was to let you know that we’re happy to help. Now, can you tell me what your budget is?”
Sydney looks distressed again. “What does it cost?”
“Well, that depends on several things. For instance, the cost of the casket you choose. We have various models. It also depends on where you have the service—here or at a church she attended. Sometimes churches offer use of their sanctuaries for free to their members. And of course there are flowers, photography, and various other choices.”
“I don’t know the budget,” Sydney says. “I don’t have any cash lying around, and I sure wasn’t expecting this. I don’t know what Grammy had.”
He takes notes, then looks back at her, and I get the feeling he’s a disapproving teacher in a math class, hoping his student gets at least one problem right.
“So do you know who you would like to officiate at the funeral?”
Sydney frowns deeply and looks down at her lap. “Officiate?” she mumbles. “No, I don’t have a—”
“I know who,” I cut in. “Miss Callie’s preacher. I’ve met him. She took me to visit him.”
Sydney perks up. “Yes. We could ask him. That’s right. It would make sense for her own preacher to officiate.”
“Do you know his name?” Conrad asks.
I deflate again. “No, I don’t remember his name. But I know the church. I can go back there and talk to him. We can go right after we leave here.”
Conrad is trying to hide his frustration. “Do you know the name of the church?”
I squint up at the ceiling. “It was something-something Baptist. Big River, maybe. Is that a church?”
“Greater Rivers,” he says, smiling broadly now as if he’s forgotten he’s supposed to be funereal. “Greater Rivers Baptist Church. The senior pastor there is Dr. Randall Seagrove.”
“Huh,” I say. “He didn’t look like a doctor anybody. He was young . . . and single.”
“They allow single men to get their doctorates.” It’s a joke, but no one laughs. Funny guy, that Conrad.
“So would you like to ask him yourself? He may not be aware that Mrs. Beecher has died. We’re certainly willing to contact him, but sometimes the family prefers to talk to the pastor themselves. He can provide comfort in a time like this.”
Sydney looks up at me, a question in her eyes.
“I’ll go with you,” I say quickly. “Since I’ve already met him and everything.”
“Yes, okay. We’ll go see him ourselves.”
“Have him call me after you speak to him,” Conrad says, “and we’ll set a time for the service. Now, do you happen to know if Mrs. Beecher had a will?”
Sydney shakes her head. “No, I don’t. She never told me.”
“You might look through her things. See if you can find it. That might help you with planning, and possibly the budget. If you learn that you’re the beneficiary, then perhaps you could use her money to pay for the funeral.”
Sydney looks wan, and I pat her back and stroke it, trying to remind her that she’s not alone. “Okay, I’ll do that after we see the pastor.”
“And we would like to have some photos. If you have any at all of her, we can blow them up and frame them to have at the funeral. We can even play a PowerPoint slideshow.”
“Wow. There’s no rest for the grieving, is there? I didn’t know there was so much to do. Pictures, huh?”
I know her mind is drifting to where Callie might have pictures. Polaroids in a drawer somewhere?
“Also, we’ll need clothes.”
She sucks in a breath. “Of course. I should have brought them. I didn’t think about that. I don’t know why. I made a list last night of people to call and a million other things, but no clothes, which is ludicrous since she’s been wearing the same thing since yesterday and it’s probably not her favorite. Should I buy her something new? Do I need to go shopping?”
I want to rescue her from her rambling, so I squeeze her trembling hand again. “I bet everybody forgets clothes, huh?”
“Yes. Practically everyone. You have plenty of time to get that to us. It doesn’t have to be new.” Conrad rises to his feet. “Now, if you’d like to join me in the next room, we can look at the various choices of caskets.”
Sydney doesn’t move. “Do I . . . have to do it now?”
“It would be helpful,” Conrad says. “At the very least I can give you several options, and you can go home and think about it and let me know sometime today.”
Her hand is sweating, but it’s ice cold. We finally get up and follow him into the room next door. It’s a warehouse room full of every model of caskets, from bronze to gold to deep rich mahogany, to the basic boxes with hinges that look like they could be plastic. I stay very quiet, not sure what would make Sydney feel better. She’s wavering now, as if she’s going to pass out.
“Conrad,” I ask, “do you happen to have any brochures with all the choices?”
“Yes, of course we do.” He goes and pulls one out of a rack and hands it to Sydney. “Why don’t you make a choice and call us back? We can take your payment over the phone if it’s on a credit card. Otherwise you can come by and pay with a check.”
“Are the prices on here?” I ask, because I know she’ll want to know.
“Yes, they’re in a chart at the back.”
“Okay, we’ll be in touch.” I take her elbow, but she’s just staring in front of her. “Want to go now?”
She nods, distracted, and lets me escort her down the hall and back to the car, and it isn’t until I pull out of the parking lot that she takes a deep breath. “I think I’m gonna faint.”
“Then you should breathe,” I say, taking her hand. “Just take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”
She does as I say . . . breathes in . . . then out. “I don’t want to say good-bye to my grandmother. I’m not ready. I haven’t known her long enough.”
“I know,” I say. “It always seems too soon.” My mind wanders back to my mother, when I finally went to her grave about two weeks too late. I sat on the grass and wept like a baby, hating myself for letting her down.
“Where are we going?” Sydney asks.
“To the church,” I remind her. “To talk to the hot Dr. Seagrove. He was one of Callie’s picks for you.”
She smirks. “I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
“But he seemed to like her a lot, so it shouldn’t be a terrible experience. You might even get a date out of it.”
Laughter pushes through her mood. “Stop, okay? I don’t want you to make me laugh.”
“Sorry. I just want you to feel better, and to know that this isn’t going to be as hard as you think.”
“I guess I can’t put it off.” Tears rush to her eyes, and I pull out a Kleenex and hand it to her. She dabs at her eyes.
We get to the church, and I park. Sydney doesn’t move to get out. “Do you think we should have made an appointment? Maybe I should’ve called first.”
“I’m sure it’s okay. When I took Callie, she walked right in. He was happy to see her.”
“But it’s the day after Christmas.”
“People work the day after Christmas.”
I get out and walk around to her door. She gets out but just stands there for a moment, looking toward the building. “You can lean on me for support,” I say. “No one expects you to be strong today.”
“But I want to be strong,” she says. “I don’t want to be a wilting rose. I’m not like that. I don’t want you to think—”
I put my arm around her. “Sydney, your being upset over your grandmother’s death is not weak. Trust me, I know weak.”
We go in, and I lead her to the office. The secretary smiles, and it seems genuine. “Is Dr. Seagrove in?”
“Yes, he is. Can I tell him who’s here?”
“Callie Beecher’s granddaughter,” Sydney says.
“Oh, sure. We love Miss Callie. She is such a sweetie. Always makes us laugh.”
The secretary gets to the door of the pastor’s office, but before opening it she looks back at Sydney. “I hope you haven’t come to give us bad news about her.”
Sydney’s eyes glisten. “Grammy passed away yesterday. In her sleep.”
The secretary’s hand goes to her heart. “On Christmas Day? Oh, honey!” She comes back and hugs Sydney. “Oh, darlin’, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” Sydney says.
The secretary looks shaken as she knocks on the pastor’s door and steps inside to whisper to him. When she comes back and opens the door wider, Dr. Seagrove is coming around the desk, a serious look on his face. “You’re Callie’s granddaughter? I’ve heard lots about you.”
“I bet you have,” she says. “I’m sorry about that, Dr. . . .”
“Please, call me Randy,” he says. “And what’s your name?”
“Sydney. And this is Finn.”
“Yes, I remember you, Finn. So she passed away yesterday?”
The words passed away have always baffled me. I don’t understand why people find it so hard to use the word died about their loved ones. I use passed away myself when I talk about my mother’s death.
We make small talk for a few minutes, then Sydney asks if he will officiate at the funeral. “Of course I will. And I’ll let her church family know. A lot of our members will want to come pay Callie their respects. She was a very cherished member of our congregation until she was homebound. But now that we’re talking about her funeral, there’s some stuff I need to tell you.” He goes to open a cabinet drawer, digs to the back of it, and pulls out a shoebox.
“You know, it’s funny. Miss Callie always had strange requests, and she sometimes had us jump through hoops. She gave us all a lot of chuckles. But one day a few weeks ago, she came in here with a tape recorder and insisted on recording something in front of me. She said that when she died she wanted me to get this to you. She even left a cassette player in this box because she felt sure you wouldn’t have one to play it on.”
“A tape?” Sydney asks. “For me?”
“It’s not very long,” Seagrove says. “At the time I thought she was being a little melodramatic. But she insisted you hear this from her.”
He plugs in the tape recorder and puts the cassette in. He presses Play and sits back. We hear Callie’s cheerful voice, as if she’s right here with us. “Pastor, I’ve told you about my lovely granddaughter, Sydney,” she says. “You know, she isn’t married. I would love for you to meet her. You can’t stay single forever.”
Sydney covers her face, horrified. I laugh with the pastor, picturing Callie shaking her finger at him.
“I guess you’re right,” he tells Callie with a chuckle.
“So when you’re ready, I would like to introduce you. But if you don’t meet her before I die . . .”
“You’re going to live forever, Miss Callie,” he says. “We all know that.”
“I’ll live somewhere forever,” she says. “I’ll be with Jesus. And that’s why I really don’t care about this . . . this body of mine.”
“What do you mean, Miss Callie?” His voice has lost its humorous edge.
There’s a short pause, then she says, “This part is for Sydney.” Her tone changes then and gets slightly louder, as if she’s leaning toward the microphone. “Honey, I know you won’t want this, but I want my body donated to science.”
Sydney sucks in a breath. “No!”
“Science?” the pastor asks on the tape. “Why?”
“Because I’ve never been a modest woman,” she says. “I’m not self-conscious like that. I don’t care if after I die people are staring at my . . . Oh, what do they call it? Cadaver? Or if they’re using a microscope to see things. They have to do research on somebody, don’t they?”
“Well, yes, I guess they do.”
“My daughter, Sydney’s mother, she died when Sydney was so small. Gloria had her whole life before her. They just didn’t know enough about the cancer she had. If someone had donated their body, maybe my girl could have been cured. Now I might have some things inside me that people might want to see and study.” She gives a slight giggle. “People have always told me I’m one of a kind.”
The pastor chuckles, but Sydney is still in shock. I follow her lead.
“I want to be useful for as long as I can,” Callie says.
“Grammy!” Sydney whispers.
The pastor’s voice on the tape is full of empathy. “That makes perfect sense, Miss Callie. So do you have any particular place you want your body donated?”
“I’m thinking the medical college is as good as any. But honestly, I’m not particular. Just wherever my Sydney thinks is the best place. Wherever I can be most useful.”
Sydney leans across the desk and stops the tape. “Wait. So . . . she didn’t want a casket? Or any funeral at all?”
“You can still have a funeral,” Pastor Seagrove says. “In fact, try and stop us. We have to celebrate Miss Callie.”
Sydney looks faint again. “I don’t know if I can donate her body.”
“Of course you can. It’s what she wanted. We can do the funeral up big.”
“But they could already be embalming her.”
“I doubt it. Not until they’ve gotten signatures. I can call the funeral parlor as soon as we’re done here and let them know.”
Swallowing, Sydney presses Play again.
Miss Callie’s voice starts back up. “You know, Sydney, that it won’t really be me in that body. Just a shell. I know people say that all the time, but I want you to know it’s true. I’ll be tickled to be with Jesus. We’ll be catching up. Well, I will. He knows all about me already, but I want to know every little thing that he’s done since he left this earth. I’m going to ask lots of questions.”
Seagrove laughs as if he can see it. “Oh, I know you are.”
“It’ll be so glorious. When I was a girl I went to camp, and we had a mountaintop experience every day. And then I came home and things got a little dull.” She chuckles again, and her voice lowers so that I picture the pastor leaning in. “I can just imagine heaven being a mountaintop experience every day . . . every hour, just as much as you can stand, till your heart just can’t hold anymore.”
“I’m sure that’s how it is,” her pastor assures her.
My eyes are full, and I look at Sydney. She’s not even trying to hide her tears now. And neither am I.