Chapter Thirty-Six

Michaela

January 2^nd

 

Preparing myself for the service was like prepping for battle. Twisting my curls into something chic. Waterproof eye everything. Teeth, perfectly clean. Hosiery, no runs or snags.

I slept okay, so the face looking back at me in the mirror appeared perfectly refined.

My mother would find no fault.

Abby had offered to make breakfast, but all I wanted was toast. I wouldn’t be able to eat much until this was over. Peanut-butter toast was so I could take my anti-anxiety pill.

While I was proud of not needing daily medication anymore, I kept a small prescription to deal with days that threatened to make me spiral. Seeing my family fit the bill.

I double-checked the shoebox of envelopes for them—photos of Harry and my mother and cousins—then nothing was left but to get dressed and go down to the limo. Today would be in the fifties and overcast, so I slipped my best coat over my dress.

Carried a black clutch full of tissues.

The house was quiet and empty this morning after the days with the Adams, like it knew we would say goodbye to Harry today and it mourned, too.

I locked up, then turned to Thomas.

He opened the passenger door. “Ready, Miss Michaela?”

“Yes.”

Down a few steps, across a few feet, and to the black leather seat, minding my head and skirt. Taking my phone out of my pocket, I texted Lincoln on our way.

“You look lovely, Miss Michaela. Mr. Blackwell would be so proud of how you’ve grown up.”

“Thank you, Thomas. Now let’s not be late.”

Winter fit for Harry leaving us, with all the plants and trees dormant and bare.

The mortuary was farther away for me than those in town. Abby handled the guest list, so I had no clue where everyone might be coming from.

Mother could’ve left California in the past ten years.

Out of tourist season, Williamsburg was quiet, so we hit no traffic.

10:45AM.

Thomas stopped in front of the chapel and let me out. “I’ll park and join you, Miss Michaela.”

“Thanks.” I headed inside while he drove off to find the lot.

“Miss Simon,” the funeral director warmly greeted me. “We’re ready to begin whenever all your guests have arrived. Please, come review everything and let us know if it meets Mr. Blackwell’s specifications.”

I followed the middle-aged woman out of the lobby and into the space. At the far end, the floor rose a step to provide a view of the speakers and the coffin—or urn in Harry’s case. Should’ve known his ashes would be in a beautiful wooden box, simple, yet perfectly crafted. Oak, maybe. Though his final resting place would be the creek behind his home.

A black posterboard had In Memoriam written on it, with his name and dates of birth and death. Harry didn’t want a lot of pomp, so there were only two vases of white lilies, one for each front corner of the stage, the podium in the middle, and the stand with his box beside the poster. Standing candelabras with lit white candles stood at the back of the stage.

“It’s perfect. He didn’t want a big fuss.” I caressed the lid of his box, inhaled a fortifying breath, and turned to the director.

“I’m glad. We pride ourselves on making this part of the grieving process as easy as possible. These chairs in front are reserved for you and your guests. You may sit and wait, or greet people in the lobby—whichever you’re more comfortable with.”

I nodded. “Since it is customary to receive condolences at the end, I’ll sit here.”

We shook hands, then I removed my coat and draped it over the first chair of the row. Funny, isn’t it, how no one wants to be first to a funeral? We always want the best seat for weddings, concerts, sports games…but no one’s crowding in to say goodbye to the dead.

Maybe it’s different in other cultures.

I was alone for a minute where I took a photograph of the stage, then heard voices. The Adams family, of course. Abby, Lincoln, and Professor Adams walked in with Thomas. Lincoln’s brows moved with a silent question and I smiled in return. I’m okay.

So far.

On my feet, I received Abby’s hug.

“Martin, this is Michaela Simon. Michaela, Professor Martin Adams.”

We shook hands. He gave me a glimpse of what Lincoln would look like in twenty or so years, and I was correct in my guess about the admiration of his young students.

“Miss Simon, a pleasure, though not under these circumstances. I’m sorry for your loss. Harry was a good man.”

“The best.”

Martin Adams was a little shorter than his son, but shared the same coloring except his eyes were blue or gray and his hair was going salt and pepper. He wore a suit comfortably and carried himself like he was used to being respected and listened to.

“You’ve met our son Lincoln?”

“Yes.” Intimately. “Thank you for coming.”

“We all love Harry,” he said.

We were saved from more pretending by other arrivals, including Mr. Howell.

“Professor and Mrs. Adams. Miss Simon.”

“William,” Abby greeted.

The Adams and Thomas walked around us to take their seats.

“Miss Simon, they’ve arranged a smaller room for the reading after the service.”

“Oh, you want me to see it? Right. Excuse us.” I followed Mr. Howell into the lobby and through a side door that revealed a hallway.

Then he opened a door that said Viewing Room on the sign. Chairs were set up facing a TV on a cart. “They use this for private viewings of open caskets, but since it’s small and private, it’ll do for letting your relatives know Harry’s wishes.”

“We need a television?”

Mr. Howell nodded. “He recorded a short video in the event of his death after he retired and updated the will. It’s the best way for them to know the decisions come from him.”

“Ah.” Protecting me once again. “Thank you. We should return.”

It was five to eleven.

I reentered the lobby and my name was cried out.

Wailed, practically.

Oh, no.

“Michaela, darling, thank goodness you’re here for Harry,” Mother said loudly.

Dramatically.

All eyes were upon us. She wore black Chanel and a hat. With a veil. Right out of Central Casting for a soap opera. She stopped short of hugging me, grasping my hands, instead.

“Mother.” Polite. Measured.

“How could he leave us so young? Have you been to the house?” she carried on.

“Yes.”

Then she spotted someone else to fawn over and dropped her attention on me like a hot potato. I sighed and continued into the chapel.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” The words came from a senior gentleman in an old Navy dress uniform.

“Mr. Torrance!” I hugged my uncle’s best friend. They met and served together and lived in the same town since. “How are you holding up?”

He mustered a crooked smile. “Okay. This starts happening at our age.” He leaned back a little to look at me. “My, you grew up. Been at least ten years, hasn’t it?”

“Fourteen, unfortunately. Have you claimed a seat, yet?”

A shake of his bald head. “I just walked in right before you did.”

“Then you’re sitting with me.” Tugging him by the hand, I brought him to the chair next to mine, surprised and pleased Lincoln had left it empty.

“Thank you, Michaela.” He shook hands with the Adams and Thomas, then sat.

Mother came striding up the aisle followed by the Cousin Dysfunction Squad and sat in the row opposite mine. She turned her gaze to Harry’s box and dabbed her eye under the veil with a tissue.

“Who does that harpy think she’s kidding?” Donald Torrance muttered.

I sniggered.

Chairs filled and chatter in the room got louder, until the chaplain approached the podium at 11:03.

“Thank you. Thank you.” They hushed. “We gather here today to honor the life of Harrison Blackwell. The death of someone we dearly love can sometimes seem like too much to bear, the pain of grief and sense of loss immense and often overwhelming, but today is a very special day to reflect on our memories of Harry and here, this morning, we will pay our last respects and bid a sad but fond farewell.

“To honor Mr. Blackwell’s service to our country, a trumpeter will now play Taps.”

The bugler came from a service that provided live music at funerals the military would never have enough active duty trumpeters to do. A young man stepped on the stage with his brass instrument and blew the first mournful note.

This was the one request of Harry’s I dreaded.

I was thrust back to Jonny’s funeral. The solemn pomp and ceremony of a military internment. Wearing a black dress I had worn for chamber choir because I couldn’t afford anything new. Surrounded by his family, yet feeling utterly alone.

Receiving the folded flag.

Moira and I watched patriotic specials on holidays at times and any reference to this song on TV or in a movie killed me, but I couldn’t press mute here.

Every note broke my heart. I tried to breathe through the trigger, taking air in through my mouth, but tears streamed down my cheeks to drip on my dress.

My hand was squeezed firmly. I held onto Donald tight, needing his grounding.

With my other hand, I opened my clutch for Kleenex. My cheeks dried, I lifted my chin. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother watching me.

Fifty-nine seconds of emotional torture, then the chaplain returned to the podium.

“I will now read from Ecclesiastes 3:

“To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven:

“A time to be born, And a time to die;

“A time to plant, And a time to harvest;

“A time to kill, And a time to heal;

“A time to break down, And a time to build up;

“A time to weep, And a time to laugh;

“A time to mourn, And a time to dance;

“It goes on from there, but you get the gist. One season for Harry is over and he has passed onto the next. Our season for sharing his life has ended and we enter a new one of remembering, and cherish what we had. Harry Blackwell was a humble man, so he requested that the assembly not heap their praises of him on this podium as it would be embarrassing to all of you to hear how you couldn’t measure up.”

We laughed. It sounded like Harry’s teasing.

“In all seriousness, thank you for coming. You are welcome to stay and reflect, and if you brought a card for the family, there’s a basket on the table in the lobby in case you missed it.”

Music piped in from somewhere, playing an instrumental version of Robbie Williams’ Angels. It would transition to Let It Be by The Beatles, then Somewhere Over the Rainbow.

But that was it. Harry just wanted his friends to gather in one room and comfort each other. The family showing up or not wasn’t his problem anymore.

“Thank you,” I murmured to Donald.

“It’s alright. You never get used to that song.”

I shook my head.

He kissed my cheek, then stood. “I’ll be around.” A wink, then he moved away.

Right—our private ceremony at the creek. No one knew what would be done with Harry’s ashes but me, Abby, Thomas, and Donald.

Lincoln took his chair. “You okay?”

“Much as I can be.”

He squeezed my hand. “That your mom?” he asked quietly, indicating with his head.

“Yep.”

“That’s a look.”

I chuckled. “Oh, yeah.” Then stood. “I need to mingle.”

Squeezed his hand, then let go.

It was the responsibility of the bereaved to accept condolences no matter how hard it drove the point of death home. Moira kept me standing the first time. Today, I steeled my own spine—but I also knew Lincoln would be next to me in a heartbeat if needed.

Was I different because of his presence this week? I’d said it was easier to have his distraction here, but had it become more? Would I be as composed today if he never came back to Williamsburg? Abby and Thomas would’ve still helped all they could, but…

Despite my damage, I liked to think I wasn’t fragile anymore.

“Michaela,” Mrs. Thompson said as I walked down the aisle.

I clasped her hand, then her husband’s. “Thank you for coming.”

Mr. Howell gathered Mother and the cousins to leave the chapel and I internally relaxed.

I said thank you many more times to the rest of the guests, nodding along at their sympathy and anecdotes. Harry was loved by friends and employees alike. Donald and Abby and Thomas got just as much attention, if not more, as part of the community.

And then, all the visitors were gone.

“Time for the reading of the will,” I said.

“Do you need backup?” Abby asked.

“Actually, you and Thomas and Mr. Torrance should come, too.”

Eyebrows rose and I had five followers for the walk to the Viewing Room.

The door was closed, but I heard the voices of my relatives nonetheless.

I turned the knob.

“Excellent,” Mr. Howell said. “Now, we can begin.”