Six

Sunday morning – six days to my UWC scholarship interview – and I’m on my bed with my guitar, sifting through my Original Compositions. I’m trying to find the perfect song for the scholarship committee.

It’s Mr. Kaushal’s idea, actually, that I bring my guitar to the interview. I’ve played a few of my songs for him at school, and he loves them. He’s asked me to perform a few times for our social studies class, and for his other classes. For the annual Earth Day concert that he organizes each spring to promote environmental awareness. In the letter that he wrote to the scholarship committee, supporting my application, he spent three paragraphs describing how I use music to speak the universal language of love. Mr. Kaushal says that if I can find a way to sing for the committee, I’ll be a shoo-in.

When I told Sister Maria about Mr. Kaushal’s idea, she was a bit skeptical. Not that she doesn’t like my guitar playing or my singing. She just thinks that I’m a better pianist, and that I’d have a better chance of getting the scholarship if I showcased my abilities as a piano player. Sister Maria might be right about my playing, but I can’t exactly take a piano into the interview with me. Even if I could, I don’t see why the scholarship committee would be impressed by my playing. I’m not trying to get into a music school. As far as I can tell, the United World Colleges are schools for hippies. I should wear a tie-dyed t-shirt, and Jesus sandals, and John Lennon sunglasses.

Everyone, though, has a different idea about how I should prepare for the interview – not just Mr. Kaushal and Sister Maria. Wes tells me that I should work on coming across like I’m well-rounded, like I’m not just interested in music. He thinks I should talk about sports, maybe mention the Stanley Cup playoffs, or World Cup soccer. Sophie thinks that my number one priority should be my outfit. She comes home from university one weekend to take me shopping for new clothes. We go to a half-dozen dress shops in St. Paul before we find the perfect pants and the perfect shirt – not too dressy, not too casual; not too flashy, not too drab.

My parents were more excited about my application at the beginning, before I got an interview. We looked through the brochure together, and they were thrilled with the whole idea of me going away for a year to live with kids my age from around the world. The application itself wasn’t too hard. I had to fill out a few forms, then write a couple of essays about why I’d be a good uwc candidate, and what my future goals are. Mom and Dad read through drafts of my essays, and they thought they were excellent. They thought the whole UWC movement was a wonderful thing.

On one of the forms, though, I had to rank the six colleges from 1 to 6 – from the place I’d most like to go, to the place I’d least like to go. That’s where the trouble started. Mom and Dad assumed that I wanted to go to the college in Victoria. Victoria is in Canada. It’s one province away from St. Paul. They could drive there to visit me. I could fly home on long weekends. But I made Swaziland my first choice, the college in southern Africa.

Actually, I made Swaziland my only choice.

I didn’t even bother ranking the other colleges. If I’m going anywhere, I want it to be as far away as possible; a place that’s completely different from St. Paul. I want to put the whole world between me and Mr. Schultz, me and Mr. Maletski, me and my friends. I don’t have anything in common with Tanya and Kirsten anymore. I want to see a part of the world that’s strange and exotic and new, where I can be a new person, spread my wings. I’ve learned a lot about South Africa from Mr. Kaushal. I know all about apartheid and the suffering of the black people. This is my chance to make a difference – leave my mark in a positive, meaningful way. Victoria would never do. I might as well stay home. It’s Swaziland or nothing. Swaziland or bust.

After they saw my ranking of the colleges, Mom and Dad weren’t so keen anymore about the whole uwc idea. Mom, in particular. I don’t think she’s pleased at all that I’ve made it to the interview stage of the selection process. She doesn’t offer me any advice.

I almost think she’d like to see me fail.

Sometimes, I’m not sure myself if I really want to succeed. I’ve never been away from home before. I’ve always lived in the same town. I’d miss my family, Sister Maria, Mr. Kaushal. I can’t imagine living somewhere else – away from everyone – for a whole year.

But the chance to finish high school in another school, in another country – I just don’t see how I can pass it up. I have to try my best.

And anyway there’s no turning back now. I’m halfway there.

So I pore over the songs that I’ve been writing over the past few months. I go through all eight of them, trying to find the one that will help me win. While I’m sitting in my bedroom singing, I try to picture my new bedroom in Africa. I try to imagine what my new bed will feel like. I wonder who will be sitting next to me in that room someday, listening to me sing.

It’s not easy picking the right song.

I’ve been working on a song for Sister Maria called “Ashes and Dust” but it’s not finished yet. And, even if it were finished, it’s too personal. Too private to sing for strangers.

There’s “Song for Leonard Peltier” and “Daddy Went to Vietnam,” both of which I love. They’re my favourites. The melody of the Peltier song is haunting, and the chorus to the Vietnam song is absolutely brilliant. It’s inspired. I sing it at least a half-dozen times before I accept that it’s not the one.

Can a flag tell me about the man I never knew?

Can a flag hold my mother like her lover used to do?

Can this flag that flies for every war we’ve ever won

Tell me if my daddy was the winner in Vietnam?

The problem is that Vietnam has been overdone. So has Peltier, for that matter. They’re both sort of dated, too. I need a more current topic to sing about at the interview.

“Miss a Meal for Mozambique” might do the trick, except that it’s not particularly subtle. A good song shouldn’t whack you over the head with its message. When I get to the last four lines of the refrain, I’m almost embarrassed. It’s not very subtle at all.

Miss a meal for Mozambique

And stop a baby’s crying

Miss a meal for Mozambique

And stop humanity - humanity - from dying.

But then “Hear the Cries,” about the persecution of Buddhist monks by the Chinese in Tibet – it’s too subtle. Will the committee know what it’s about? I refer to the monks as butterflies getting caught in a net of hate. It could mean anything, really.

“Holding Hands,” I think, is probably safest. Because it’s vague, and it’s meant to be vague. It’s just a song about general world peace.

Holding hands

Reaching out for others in other lands

Caring for your brothers

And holding their hands!

Brothers. The women on the committee could be offended. I have to scrap “Holding Hands.” In fact, it might be a good idea to write a whole new song for the interview.

Before I go back to the drawing board, I leave my bedroom to make a cup of herbal tea. The stuff tastes like boiled grass and it looks like pee but I drink it because Mr. Kaushal says that it’s cleansing for the body and mind. I need some cleansing to get a fresh perspective on my songwriting.

When I walk into the kitchen, I’m surprised to see Yolande Yuzko sitting with Mom at the kitchen table. I didn’t hear Yolande come in. They’re drinking coffee, eating poppyseed cake – my favourite. They’re talking, too, though they stop abruptly when I appear.

“Hi Yolande,” I say, leaning over her shoulder to grab a piece of cake.

Yolande gives me a funny look. A sympathetic sort of puppy-dog look.

“It’s all right. If I get a scholarship, I’m fully prepared to give up my mother’s poppyseed cake. It’s only one year. Sister Maria says that we’ll all blink twice and I’ll be home again.”

Yolande knows all about the colleges, the interview, the scholarship. Mom has been phoning her every second night to talk about it. Neither Yolande nor Mom laughs at my joke.

“Colleen,” says Mom, “sit down. Join us for a cup of coffee.”

“So that you can brainwash me into staying home? For-get it. Uh-uh. Plus Mr. Kaushal says that coffee kills brain cells and I’ve got songwriting to do.”

Yolande runs her finger up and down the side of her coffee cup.

“Just five minutes,” Mom says. “Yolande’s brought us some news. Something you need to hear.”

Wes barges in through the kitchen door, slamming it shut behind him. He’s all decked out in Real Tree camo, his face smudged with black and green paint. He drops his rifle onto the linoleum.

Mom frowns. “Is that thing loaded?”

Wes ignores her. “Hey!” he says to Yolande, grinning. “You still here?”

“Tell me that gun isn’t loaded,” says Mom, raising her voice.

“Number one,” says Wes, “it’s not a gun, it’s a rifle. And number two, no, it isn’t loaded. It’s empty. I emptied it into a rabbit about ten minutes ago.” Wes lets out his war cry, “Yee-hoooooo.”

“Killer,” I hiss under my breath.

“Oh C’lleen,” he says as he pours himself a glass of milk. “Sorry to hear about your piano teacher. That’s a real bummer, eh?” He gulps down the milk.

“What about my piano teacher?” I ask him. Then I turn to Mom. “Sister Maria isn’t teaching me anymore?”

Mom looks at Yolande.

“What?”

Is she moving? Getting transferred to another convent? Can they do that?

“Didn’t you tell her?” says Wes, stuffing two pieces of poppyseed cake into his mouth at once.

“Tell me what?” I say, getting distraught. What is there to tell me?

“She died,” says Wes, his mouth full. “Sorry,” he shrugs. “I thought you knew.” He picks up his rifle, then goes back outside.

“How do you know?” I spit the words at Yolande. “Who told you?”

“I was working last night.”

Yolande is an X-ray technician; she picks up all kinds of gossip working at the hospital.

“They brought her in around eight o’clock,” Yolande continues, softly.

“Who? Who brought her in?”

“The other sisters. Two of them, Sister Josephine and Sister Marie-Claire. But it was too late. The doctor on call said that she had a massive heart attack. Even if they’d brought her in sooner, it wouldn’t have made a difference. It was her time.”

“That’s not true,” I say, my throat tightening. “That can’t be true. I just had a lesson with her a few days ago. Tuesday. Not even a week ago. She was fine on Tuesday, she was perfectly fine. It couldn’t be her – there must be a mistake – someone else – it couldn’t be her. She was fine.”

“Colleen,” says Yolande, “I saw her. I saw her after she went, and she looked beautiful. Very peaceful. She looked like she was at peace.”

The phone rings and I seize the opportunity to get out of the kitchen, get out of the house. At peace. That’s what they say about everybody who dies. Sister Maria was peaceful? Full of peace? Yolande doesn’t know that. Nobody knows that. Nobody has any idea how Sister Maria felt – if she was in pain, afraid, alone. Angry. I run across the yard toward the bushes behind the house and down the trail that leads from the machine shed to the clearing at the top of the hill.

Here it’s peaceful.

Dad keeps his three old granaries in the clearing, plus an enormous stack of firewood cut from deadfall, an old rusted-out threshing machine that he can’t seem to part with, a broken-down John Deere tractor, and eleven snowmobiles. The snowmobiles aren’t any good. I stretch out across them and look up at the sky, my eyes wide open. They’re Merc snowmobiles – all of them – and the newest is twenty-three years old. Really, they’re antiques. Merc doesn’t even make snowmobiles anymore. Dad loves his Mercs because his dad had one. He says that they’re big, solid, working machines; good for overnight ice-fishing trips, not like the new fiberglass racing Ski-Doos. In the machine shed, he keeps two of his Mercs in working condition – more or less. They’re always breaking down, and he’s always trying to fix them. If you ask me, Dad doesn’t really want to keep the snowmobiles going. He wants to keep the memory of his dad alive; the memory of the times they spent together on late fall hunting trips, and ice-fishing trips in the winter. These snowmobiles – the ones that are nestled between the pines and the poplars, the wild hazelnut and cranberry and raspberry bushes – these Mercs will never run again.

Can Sister Maria see me in this snowmobile cemetery, crying? I can’t believe that she’s gone. I can’t believe it. Tears trickle from my eyes, down my temples and into my hair. I need her. I need her to talk to me, to tell me things. To take my hands off the keys when I’m playing poorly, and waltz around her music room when I’m playing well. To ruffle my hair when I make a joke. To squeeze my hand when I’m feeling down. We were supposed to learn “Malaguena” for two pianos, four hands. We were supposed to go to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons at the Jubilee Auditorium in Edmonton. I was going to write her long letters from the college in Africa. I promised to tell her everything about it once I got there. When we talked about my scholarship interview, Sister Maria didn’t say if – she never said if. She said when.

What’s going to happen to her other piano students?

What’s going to happen to her work?

Because I am sobbing, I don’t hear them approaching – our dog, Ralph, first, and behind him, Dad.

“Beautiful day,” says Dad, scratching Ralphie behind the ears. “No mosquitoes yet.”

I nod, wiping the tears from my face. Afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll start sobbing again.

“I guess you’ve heard,” he says.

I don’t say anything.

“Father Levasseur just called the house.” Ralph curls up at Dad’s feet. “He asked to talk to you, Colleen. I know this is all happening pretty fast but he’d like you to sing for Sister Maria’s funeral. He needs to know if you’ll do it.”

I shake my head, sniffling. “Someone else can do it.” Not me.

“He asked for you, Colleen, not somebody else. You.”

Ralph gets up suddenly, and starts pacing at the base of a spruce. There must be a squirrel on the upper branches of the tree.

“That’s crazy,” I say. “Lots of Sister Mari – lots of her students sing. Claire Boisvert, Angèle Thibault. I’m not Catholic, I’ve never been to a Catholic funeral. I’ve never even been to Mass. Why me?”

“The sisters asked for you,” says Dad. “Specifically. They asked for you to sing ‘Ave Maria.’ Mom told Father Levasseur that you know the song and he said that he’d arrange for one of Maria’s other students to accompany you.”

Ralph starts scratching around the tree.

“Mom talked to him?” I ask.

Dad nods.

“Then she already told him I’d do it, didn’t she?”

Dad watches Ralph scratching in the dirt.

“Didn’t she?”

Dad doesn’t answer.

“Well, she can phone him right back and tell him I’m not doing it. I’m not.”

I’m sick of being asked to sing – every wedding, every birthday, every concert. And now funerals. Why me? Why am I the one who always has to practise and get nervous and puke? I won’t do it anymore. I’m sick of it.

“I know that it’s hard for you,” says Dad.

“No you don’t. You don’t know the first thing about it.”

“You think I want to be mc at every wedding?” he asks, softly. “At every graduation and every twenty-fifth wedding anniversary? I don’t. You think I want to give the eulogy at every prayer service, every toast to the bride, every keynote address? I don’t want to do it. I never want to do it. I know what it’s like.”

“So why do you keep saying yes?”

Dad shrugs. “Because they ask, I suppose. Because I’m good at it. Because I wouldn’t be any happier sitting in the crowd. You and I, we’re performers. That’s our calling. And when we’re called to do it, we have no choice.”

Ralph starts barking wildly now, howling and jumping at the lower branches of the spruce. Dad calls for him to stop but he keeps woofing and yowling.

“I’d sing ‘Ave Maria’?”

“‘Ave Maria,’” says Dad. “That’s what the sisters want, and Father Levasseur. He said that Sister Maria would want it, too.”

Dad grabs the dog by the collar. “Come on, Ralphie. Let’s go back before you bark yourself to death.”

I cringe at the mention of death, and the tears return. Dad notices that I’m crying.

“If I were giving the eulogy,” he says, “I’d probably say something like ‘for everything there is a season.’”

He puts his arms around me.

“Doesn’t make it any easier, does it?” he asks.

Ralph appears at my side, sniffing at something in the grass.

“There’s one more thing,” says Dad. “Some of the nuns, they’ve been sorting through Sister Maria’s things, packing up her belongings.”

I’ve never liked the other nuns at the convent. The thought of them poking around Sister Maria’s music room makes me sick. Scavengers. They have no right. She hasn’t even been buried yet and already they’re clearing out her room, taking away all that she left behind.

“Her affairs were all in order. She was a very orderly woman, you know. She made her wishes very clear.”

Ralph rubs his nose against my leg.

“She’s left you her music,” says Dad. “All of it. I thought you might like to hear that. It’s yours, if you want it. Father Levasseur said that we could pick it up from the convent whenever you’re ready.”

As Dad walks back to the house, I lie down again on the snowmobile, turning my face toward the bush. I try to focus on the trees, the sound of the phoebes singing. The feel of the plastic snowmobile seat against my cheek. But all I see is Sister Maria sitting at her desk, writing notes in my dictation book. I hear her music all around me, echoing in the woods. I feel my hand on her arm while she plays, holding on tight. And I don’t want to let go.

•••

For the funeral, Dad wears a black suit and a black and red polka-dotted tie; Mom wears a plain black dress, long, with white appliqué daisies around the neckline. I wear the new outfit that Sophie and I picked out for my scholarship interview. Mom thinks that the outfit is inappropriate. “Slacks to a funeral,” she says. “It shows disrespect.” But she’s letting it go. I don’t own a skirt or a dress.

In the car, on the way to town, Mom says, “Just this once. Next time you’re wearing a dress.”

But there will be no next time. Sister Maria will be buried only once.

Dad has the air conditioning in the car turned up full blast. It’s twenty-seven degrees outside today so it feels more like the middle of July than the beginning of May. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. It doesn’t seem right, all of this brightness, this sunshine. I think that it should be raining – pouring rain. The whole world should be crying for Sister Maria.

Mom makes idle conversation about her garden and her bedding plants.

“I want to get the cucumbers planted this afternoon, and maybe my petunias if there’s time.”

Nobody responds but she continues.

“I wonder if there’ll be frost. Middle of May, we usually get frost. Maybe I should wait with the cucumbers.”

Dad looks at me through the rear-view mirror.

“You okay back there?” he says.

I clench my fist around the Kleenexes scrunched up in the palm of my hand.

“Fine.”

“Just don’t look at the casket while you sing,” Mom says, matter-of-factly. “Or the congregation. Don’t look at them, either. They’ll all be crying, you know.”

I don’t know who will be in the cathedral for the funeral. Sister Maria has almost no family – just one brother from Montreal and his son. I wonder if they’ll make it to the funeral. All of the nuns will be there, of course, and the priests, however many of them there are in town, and the bishop. Sister Maria’s piano students, their parents. The odd friend she may have had from outside the convent. I can’t imagine that there will be more than thirty or forty people. The church, I think, will be nearly empty.

I’m shocked, then, as we approach the cathedral. Cars line the street in front of the church, across from the church, beside the convent and the rectory. There are Saskatchewan and British Columbia license plates on some of the cars. Sister Maria’s ex-students, maybe. Dad pulls the car around to the parking lot at the back of the church; it’s full, too.

“So many people!” says Mom. “Where did they all come from?”

We end up parking in a residential area, three blocks from main street. Two cars follow us, and both park behind our car. I feel nauseous and nervous. What if I cry in front of all these people? What if I can’t stop? While we walk up the stairs of the cathedral, a hearse parks at the side of the church. I press my fistful of Kleenex against my eyes.

“Dad,” I whisper, as we enter the church.

He doesn’t hear me.

“Dad!”

He puts his arm around me, leaning down so that I can whisper in his ear. My voice cracks.

“I can’t do this, Dad. I can’t. I can’t do it.”

Organ music fills the cathedral, “The Twenty-third Psalm.” Mom hugs me and gives me a quick peck on the cheek before she joins Yolande in a pew near the front of the church. Dad pulls me aside at the back of the church. He takes the red handkerchief out of his breast pocket and gently wipes my eyes with it.

“Of course you can do it. It’s not going to be easy but you’re going to do it, and do it beautifully.”

“No, I’m not, Dad. I’m not!”

I’m starting to panic now.

“Go tell the priest. Please, Dad. Please. Tell him I’ve changed my mind.”

Dad puts his hands on my shoulders. “What would Sister Maria tell you right now? If she were here, what would she say to you? Would she let you quit?”

I don’t know. I shrug. I have no idea what she’d say.

“Come on, think!” says Dad. “Before a recital, before a festival. What would she say?”

I blow my nose into the red hanky. “Concentrate. She’d say concentrate and focus.”

“All right, then.” Dad grabs my hand as he makes his way toward the organ. There are special pews behind the organ for the organist, choir singers, and soloists. “I’m going to sit right here next to you. I’m going to be with you the whole time. And I’m going to concentrate with you. We’re going to concentrate together.”

But I can’t concentrate on Father Levasseur’s words, the prayers or the hymns. I stare out into the crowd, into the sea of faces I’ve never seen before. The women dab their eyes with tissue, the men sit up straight and stoic. When they stand, I stand; when they kneel, I kneel. At the front of the church, up near the priest, lies Sister Maria. Her casket is open – half of it, anyway; flowers cover the rest of the casket. Bright pink and white orchids, pink roses, and deep green tendrils of ivy. There are bouquets of carnations and daisies on either side of the casket, too, and, beside the organ, an enormous basket of stargazer lilies. I’m close enough to the lilies that I can taste them. Not close enough to see Sister Maria’s face. Not close enough to touch her.

From time to time while Father Levasseur talks, I watch the organist, Monique Delongchamps. I watch her for signs of nerves – shaky hands, missed chords, tempo problems – to see if she’s as scared as I am. She doesn’t make any mistakes. It’s amazing. Not a single mistake. I look closely at her legs working the pedals of the organ. Her knees don’t tremble. I look at her hands between songs; she doesn’t wipe them on her lap, so they must not be sweating. She has flawless control – a true performer, a real professional. Sister Maria would be proud of Monique, playing her way through the service without so much as a wrong note. Years ago, Sister Maria was her teacher. I have to say that now, too. In the past tense. Sister Maria was my teacher, I was her student.

While I watch Monique, I try to go through “Ave Maria” in my head. The first time through, I mess up the words. “Dominus tecum, gratia plena” instead of “gratia plena, dominus tecum.” On my second try, I think “Santa Maria,” then remember that it’s “Sancta Maria,” then forget what comes after “Sancta Maria.” It’s the word “Maria.” I can’t get past it. And the smell of the lilies on the casket – such a thick, sweet smell, like incense – it makes me want to throw up. Sister Maria wouldn’t have liked them; she would have liked smaller flowers, odourless flowers. Wildflowers, maybe. They hardly smell. Or bright red poppies.

It seems clear to me, after my third failed attempt to recite “Ave Maria” in my head, that I need the words written out in front of me. Usually I don’t sing with words in front of me. In fact, I don’t think that I’ve ever sung with words in front of me. There’s something unpolished, Mom says, about a singer who can’t even memorize her words. Now, as I sit waiting to sing, I don’t care if I look at words. I don’t care if I look unpolished. A wave of panic ripples through me. Having the words in front of me is the only thing that will get me through this, I’m sure of it. If only I’d thought of it sooner. If only I’d brought a copy of “Ave Maria” with me.

“Monique. Pssst. Monique!” I give Monique a poke. “Do you have an extra copy of ‘Ave Maria’ with you?”

Monique shakes her head.

“Is it okay if I look off your copy then? I need the words and I forgot mine at home.”

“My copy doesn’t have words,” says Monique.

She shows me the music she uses for “Ave Maria.” It’s the original Bach Prelude, photocopied from The Well-Tempered Clavier. And she’s right – no words.

“Here,” she says, handing me a pencil and a funeral program. “Quick! Write the words out on the back of this.”

For a moment, I’m relieved. I’ll write the words out, I’ll be fine. I’ll have something in front of me to focus on instead of the casket and the flowers and the pews filled with sniffling women. Then I try to write. I try to write but – besides “Ave” and “Maria” – I can’t remember a single word of the song. It’s crazy. I’ve known “Ave Maria” for years. I’ve practised it at least a hundred times, I know it inside and out. Backwards and forwards.

“Dad!” I tug on the sleeve of Dad’s suit jacket. “Dad! I can’t remember the words. What am I going to do?”

“Shhh,” says Dad. “Try to relax, take a deep breath. When you get up there to sing, the words will be there. Don’t worry. It’s just nerves.”

He puts his arm around me, pulling me close to his side.

“You’ll be fine.”

But when it’s time for me to sing – when I’m standing up, behind the microphone, beside the organ – I’m not fine. The lily smell makes me dizzy and I sway while Monique plays the introduction. She plays it just like we practised – two bars of arpeggios – and then she gives me the bass-note cue, just like we practised. I sway in silence, listening to my cue come and go. Monique plays the two-bar introduction again, this time looking at me while she plays, her eyebrows raised. After her third time through the introduction, I open my mouth, get the first words out – “Aaaaa-veeee Mariiiiiii-aaaa” – then nothing. I can’t remember the rest. Not one word of the rest of the song. While I stand, twisting the Kleenex in my hands, Monique keeps playing.

Finally, after ten or twelve bars, I motion for her to stop.

The organ music stops.

“I’m sorry,” I say into the microphone.

My voice fills the cathedral.

“I’m sorry. I can’t remember the words.”

Two hundred, three hundred faces turn to stare at me. There is whispering and the rustling of funeral programs. The nuns fidget in their pews. Father Levasseur, frowning, starts to get up from his chair at the very front of the church – to take over, I suppose. But I go on. I have to. I owe it to Sister Maria.

“I hope you understand.” This is really hard. I clear my throat. “I think that Sister Maria would understand.”

With the mention of Sister Maria’s name, the church falls still and silent. Everyone stops whispering, the nuns quietly clasp their hands together across their laps. Though Father Levasseur looks positively mortified, he sits down again. He glares at me as he returns to his seat.

“I’m going to try this one more time,” I say.

My voice trembles a little and my nose starts to drip. I stop to blow my nose into the red hanky, get a hold of myself. Pull myself together.

As I return to the microphone, an idea comes to me – why didn’t I think of it before? – and, with the idea, a feeling of calm. Utter calm. As though the crowd and the casket and the flowers have receded far into the distance, as though Father Levasseur has melted into the stained glass windows. I can almost feel Sister Maria behind me, nodding her encouragement; I can almost hear her voice. As if this is just another piano lesson, just another hour with her.

I say nothing by way of an introduction. The song needs no introduction, really. It’s sad and slow and solemn – the traditional Ukrainian funeral song, “Vichnaia Pam’iat.” Maybe the idea comes from her, maybe it’s what she wants – to have it sung for her. Though I’ve heard it a few times, I’ve never actually sung it myself. This is my first time. Monique can’t play along, of course, because she doesn’t know how.

It doesn’t sound right, one voice singing “Vichnaia Pam’iat.” Everyone should be singing – men and women, little kids – everyone. One voice. I go on but it just doesn’t sound right.

Dad must think the same thing – that it doesn’t sound right with one voice – because before long I hear him join in. I hear his voice, an octave lower than mine, strong and deep. I glance over my shoulder. He is standing up with his hands clasped in front of him and his mouth open wide.

Then I see my mother rise and I see her lips moving, too. She sings softly at first, in perfect unison with Dad and me, then louder. We are the only three people in the cathedral who are standing and who are singing.

Together, we sing the words to the song – “vichnaia pam’iat” – the same words, over and over again. “Vichnaia pam’iat.” And because I’m not singing alone, it’s all right if I cry. When my voice falters and breaks, their voices fill the cathedral. “Vichnaia pam’iat, Vichnaia pam’iat.” In everlasting memory of Sister Maria.

In everlasting memory

In everlasting memory

In everlasting memory