IN OUR living room, my family takes their seats while the chaplain sits beside me on the couch. I pull my knees up to my chest, tightly wrapping my arms around them.

“I’m very sorry about Sam,” he begins.

“Thanks. I still don’t know much about what happened.”

“That’s why Tom was here. He was going bring you up to speed about the investigation.”

Plan C.

I stare at the chaplain. “You knew Sam, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“He told me once you were a good guy.”

The chaplain smiles. I unlock my arms and sit cross-legged.

“We’re going to have to talk about Sam’s funeral,” he says.

“Oh?” Just like the basket of flowers, this first mention of Sam’s funeral surprises me. I don’t know why else the chaplain would be sitting in my living room and yet it strikes me as odd that he’s here to talk about funeral arrangements.

“Since Sam died in the line of duty, the police service is going to cover all costs for his funeral.”

Again, I’m surprised. “That’s good.”

I have no idea how much a funeral costs. I don’t know much at all about funerals.

“Adri, do you have a copy of Sam’s will? We just want to make sure we’re in accordance with his wishes.”

“Yeah.”

Thanks to Ed—the financial guru in the family—harping to Sam and me about the importance of financial and estate planning for the past decade, we have wills. I go downstairs to my office and retrieve Sam’s from the file. But before heading back up, I quickly flip to the part about organ donation and read (much to my relief considering Sam’s heart is already beating in another man) that he had wanted to donate his organs for transplant.

Upstairs again, I read out loud: “If Sam passed away on duty, he wanted a police funeral. If it was off duty, he wanted the service to be Greek Orthodox.”

That’s odd. Why would we have put the latter clause in Sam’s will when we knew it couldn’t happen?

“With your permission,” says the chaplain, “we’re hoping to give Sam a full police funeral.”

“Absolutely.”

“And Sam’s priest has spoken to me as well.”

My eyes narrow. “Oh really?”

“Yes. And they’re prepared to also have a Greek Orthodox Service.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because when Sam and I made the decision to get married in the Anglican Church, he was specifically told that he wouldn’t be allowed to be buried by the Greek Orthodox Church.”

“That doesn’t seem to be an issue now.”

“Well, it sure as hell was an issue four years ago!” I snap. “Between his goddamn church and my mother, planning our wedding nearly tore us and our families apart.”

The living room is very quiet. I point my finger at the chaplain. “You wouldn’t believe the shit his church put us through.”

The room goes a notch quieter.

“Sam was devastated at losing the right to a funeral in his own church,” I continue. “Do you know how hard that was on him?”

“I can only imagine.”

I stand up. “This is bullshit. We were told in no uncertain terms that when he died, his church would not bury him. What’s changed now?”

The chaplain waits a moment before replying. “Perhaps what’s more important right now is that we focus on what Sam would want for his funeral.”

I sit back down.

He nods toward the will in my hands. “Would he want a police funeral and a Greek Orthodox service?”

“Want isn’t the word Sam would be using at the moment.”

“Fair enough.” The chaplain tries a different approach. “I can’t fathom what you’re going through right now, but you and Sam are both Christians, correct?”

I shrug. “That’s a loaded question.”

Although my faith is a meandering stream, Sam had been very black and white about his Christian beliefs: you either believed in something or you didn’t.

“In light of what’s gone on,” the chaplain says, “you may have to consider forgiveness. You’ve got enough on your plate without having to deal with anger, resentment and bitterness about things in the past.”

“That’s not easy.”

“No, it’s not,” he says. “But it is possible.”

“It’s also why nothing changes.”

He nods slowly. “And yet perhaps there is a time and place for affecting change.”

And this, I gather, isn’t it. I let out a sigh and a quasi-sense of calm comes over me. Is this what forgiveness feels like? Regardless, I agree to the dual service.

The chaplain then asks me if I’d like to talk further about Sam’s death.

It takes me a moment to realize what he might be referring to. “What? Like the God-stuff, you mean?”

He smiles. “That’s right.”

“Nah.” I give him the wave. “Maybe next week.”

“No,” Harry says, breaking the family silence. “She’ll talk to you today.”

My family is usually keen to speak their mind, especially on Adri-related matters, but this has not been the case over the past twenty-four hours. However, I now watch as each person stands up and walks into the kitchen. I hear the back door open and close.

With my herd gone, I feel rather like I did in the doctor’s office yesterday, prior to receiving the news about the stellar state of Sam’s organs—and that since he was done with them, perhaps I should share.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” the chaplain begins.

“Uh huh.”

“What are you thinking about Sam right now?”

Hmmm…let’s see. Well, wherever he is at the moment, he’s one pissed off Greek. And I’m pretty sure he was in the hospital bathroom with me yesterday because if there’s one place on the planet where Sam’s soul would be sorting things out, it would be a toilet. I know he felt me kiss him in the ICU and managed to hold my hand, brain-dead and all. He’s very concerned that I’ll let my mother control my life now that he’s not here to be the buffer. I suspect the squirrel at the bird bell was some sort of sign. I think Tom falling and hitting his head the day after Sam fell and hit his head is significant, as is the fact that one of the happiest days of my life and the absolute worst happened exactly one week apart. And furthermore, what am I supposed to make of the fact that I saw a red light in my window at the exact same time Sam’s heart was being removed?

I shrug. “Stuff.”

“What does the word hope mean to you?”

“I dunno,” I say. “I guess just that one day things will get better.”

“Yes…”

“Yesterday morning,” I continue, figuring the chaplain is looking for a more God-related answer, “I had a fleeting hope for some sort of biblical style miracle—like Sam’s brain injury being reversed. But I knew that was impossible, so I let it go.”

He nods slowly.

“And since the transplant surgeries were a success, I guess there’s a kind of hope that Sam lives on in the donor recipients.”

“Sam will also live on in you,” says the chaplain, “and in many of us because of the good man he was. And for what it’s worth, Adri, I believe…”

Wait for it.

“Sam is in good hands because he’s with Jesus.”

I smile politely but this guy is used to skepticism. He doesn’t preach in a church to the converted; he deals with disillusioned cops all day, most often in times of crisis.

“I believe Sam is OK,” he says. “To me, the word hope has a capital ‘h’ because Jesus said we would all see each other again one day in heaven.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Uh huh.”

“Jesus died on the cross for our salvation. He died so that our souls and spirits would live forever.”

I rack my brain, trying to remember all this from Sunday school.

“Sam’s body is only the shell that housed his soul and spirit. Sam is waiting for you in heaven. I really believe that.”

“Too bad the women in my family live ’til they’re ninety-seven.”

I get the raised eyebrows.

“That means,” I explain, “I have sixty-five more years without him!”

“Oh,” he says. “But time is different in eternity than it is on earth. Even if you do live many more years, in heaven that’s like a handful of dust.” He puts his hand out, palm up, and blows imaginary particles into the air. “It’s gone in an instant.”

“For him, yeah.”

“Trust me, your time here will go by very quickly.”

I glance at Sam’s digital watch on my wrist. The blinking numbers mark the passing seconds.

“Maybe don’t think of this as goodbye,” he says. “Think of this as ‘see ya later.’”

I lean back against the couch. That does sound better.

“Adri, I know you have a strong faith…”

I do; I just don’t know what in. I believe one day, all this will make sense but since I don’t understand how I can know this, I begin to doubt my undefined faith.

“I believe God has a purpose for each of us,” the chaplain finishes. “He has one for Sam and He has one for you too.”

Well then, I’d best discover what these are. For what’s the point of there being a purpose if it remains unknown?