SUNDAY, MAY 2, 1999
Dad Haberl phones to say that Jim’s body has arrived at Kearney’s funeral home and that the director will arrange a viewing for me at 3 p.m. I sigh and hold my breath almost in the same instant.
I choke out my plans to Terri, and she says, “Oh, Susie, I understand why you would want to see him. You need closure. But … I don’t feel the same need. My last memory of Jim is the two of you walking hand in hand in the setting sun at English Bay, you remember, when we all met for dinner the night before he left? You looked so happy. That’s the memory I want to keep.”
Yes, I remember that evening with our friends. I hear the laughter. I smell the charbroiled hamburgers, the french fries. I feel Jim’s hand resting on my thigh, the lightness in my chest.
But even if no one else wants to see Jim, I do. I need proof. I need to know that he isn’t waiting for me somewhere. Injured. Dying. Waiting for me to save him. Jim would understand. He was plagued by nightmares that Dan waited for him on K2. He never had the option of seeing Dan’s body.
Dad and my older sister Sharron drive me to Kearney’s.
Sunrays splinter through the lace curtains, creating a strobe effect on the people half filling the reception room. I want to open a window to let the heavy air escape. A faint smell of cleaner lingers, but the scent of death cannot be completely scrubbed out.
I pause.
Dad Haberl hurries toward me, “The family decided to come and see Jim, too.”
“Oh,” I answer numbly. It doesn’t matter who is here, but I need to have time alone with Jim with no distractions. I don’t want to miss any clue that he is still alive. And I want to feel that magic of being alone with him.
The funeral home director steers me to a chair and motions to a book on the table. “We have many beautiful urns to choose from.” The prices glare back at me.
“The plain box is fine.” My hand shakes as I write my name beside “widow” on the form and give the authorization to have Jim’s body burned.
The material of the director’s suit stretches across his back as he slides open the doors to an adjoining room and invites us inside with a gesture of his arms. I scan the pews, the podium and the rectangular cardboard coffin at the front of the room. The cardboard does not surprise me. The family chose the most practical option, given that Jim is to be cremated. It makes no difference to me.
Dad and Sharron sit on either side of me in one of the pews near the back. Kevin and his wife Vicki lead their children, Jaslyn and Connor, down the aisle. Connor holds on to Vicki’s arm with both of his hands and casts his big blue eyes her way several times. His eyes open wider as they reach the long box.
Connor’s little hands grip the side as he peers over. With a very still face, he gazes up at his mom and whispers. Vicki nods gently and Connor’s little arm reaches out tentatively and disappears into the coffin. He pulls it back sharply and turns to his mom with a sheepish grin, holding the offending finger.
When the family has viewed Jim’s body and has left the room, I tell Sharron and Dad that I am ready. Stiffly, step by step, closer we creep, arms linked until I can just see Jim’s hand resting on his stomach. I stop abruptly, “Okay. I’m good now.”
Dad and Sharron leave me.
Dad Haberl nods to me, “They were kind to us by covering part of Jim’s face.” He lowers his gaze and slides the doors closed. I am alone with Jim. No heart beating save my own. The fear in my body surges, and my breath rushes in and out like boiling surf. Focus on breathing. I let out a slow breath through trembling lips. I take a step, breathe, then another step. I reach forward to grip the edge of the cardboard box and drag my feet forward.
My muscles relax when I see Jim’s face. He looks peaceful. Not in pain. There is his familiar square jaw, his thin-lipped mouth with the tiny scar from a needle of ice, his symmetrical nose and then a white cloth that covers the upper half of his face. No eyes. His steel-blue eyes.
I picture the purple and blue discoloration and swelling under the bandage. How bad would it be? Would he be so hurt that I wouldn’t recognize him? Would I have nightmares of his injured face?
My fingers play with the edge of the white bandage. I think of pulling it up. But I don’t. I try to visualize the face I love, but I cannot rid my mind of images of bruises and blood, and I panic. I can’t see him … Oh God, I forget already. The room feels cold and cavernous. I don’t know what else to do. I want Jim to say something. It is as if I am a child opening a much-anticipated gift, only to find that the box contains every monster in my closet.
Suddenly, I feel him somewhere in the room. The warmth of his relaxed, wide-open smile.
I look down at Jim again. At the request of the funeral home director, I had sent one of Jim’s favourite outfits: T-shirt and jeans. The T-shirt is placed on top of his upper body. I guess they couldn’t get it over his head wound. I brush his cold finger, venture up his muscled forearm, then trace a familiar line up his chest, lightly, so as not to hurt him. I search for bruises and broken bones. I exhale deeply. Perhaps he hit his head right away and went limp.
I lean over, kiss his dry lips, rest my wet cheek against his and whisper my goodbyes. My Jim. My sweet Jim.
But Jim is not there.