Where Yesterday Lives

  “Honey,” his voice was gentle. “I’ll be pulling for you.”

  Megan was pacing her apartment, frantic about what she had written for the funeral. She had not expected to have any trouble with the eulogy, but all week none of the words had fallen into place. She had memories of her father from when she was a little girl and memories from the past two years. But she had been gone so much of the time in between that she hadn’t found a way to bridge the gap on paper. She had something else planned, something no one knew about. But she still hadn’t pieced together the eulogy.

  She stopped suddenly and remembered something she had forgotten until that instant. Years ago she had been in counseling after breaking up with Mohammed, and she had successfully survived a month without calling him or returning his phone calls. To celebrate the victory her father had taken her to a fancy steak house for dinner. He told the waitress they were celebrating his daughter’s special anniversary, but the woman misunderstood and thought it was Megan’s birthday. When the meal was over a dozen food servers brought her a piece of cake with a candle. They sang her a birthday song and their waitress snapped a picture of her father with his arm around her.

  For a long time she had kept that Polaroid snapshot on her dresser as a reminder of her father’s unending support, an encouragement for the days when she felt like calling Mohammed. Later, when Mohammed was no longer a temptation and the picture began to collect dust, she tucked it away in a scrapbook. In the past week she had been too busy worrying about her sisters to remember the photo until now.

  She disappeared into her closet, rummaging through a box of belongings until she came across the scrapbook. Flipping through the pages she searched frantically until she found it. There she was, side by side with her dad, silly expressions on their faces as they celebrated her independence.

  That picture said more about her relationship with her father than anything she could have put on paper. She tucked it in her purse, grabbed her keys and an envelope that contained a single cassette tape. She was at her mother’s house in five minutes.

  Diane breathed a sigh of relief. All the kids were there now, and all but Aaron were ready to go. He was showered and dressed but he remained in his room, and Diane looked nervous. It was nine-fifteen and the service started at ten. They needed to leave in ten minutes according to her schedule.

  “Aaron.” She knocked gently on his bedroom door.

  “What?” he barked.

  “Are you almost ready? We need to leave in a few minutes.”

  “You go ahead. Go without me. I’ll be there later.”

  Diane sighed softly. “Son, I want us all to arrive at the same time. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Silence.

  “Aaron?”

  “I said go!”

  “Can you open the door a minute so I can talk with you, please?”

  There was a brief pause and then she heard the click of a lock turning as he opened the door.

  “What?”

  He had his dark glasses off, and she could see he’d been crying. “What’s taking so long, son?” She kept her voice tender and calm. “I’d be happy to help you.”

  “Here—” He thrust a wrinkled piece of paper into her hand. “That’s the problem.”

  Diane stared at the paper and read over the first few handwritten lines. “Is this what you’re going to read at the funeral?”

  “It’s all I have, but I can’t read it. It stinks. I’ve worked on it every day this week, and it just doesn’t sound right.”

  She took a moment and read the opening lines of what he had written. It was jerky and not quite beautiful, but it came from his heart. She handed it slowly back to him.

  “Son, this is what you remember, the way you remember him. It’ll be perfect.”

  “You don’t understand…” He began crying, and Diane watched him, deeply moved. This was the first time since he was a little boy that he had let her see his tears. “Dad deserved more than what I’ve written there. It’s not enough.”

  Suddenly her tall, strong, strapping son was reduced to an oversized little boy crying for his daddy, and Diane’s heart broke at the sight of him. She took his large, callused hand in hers and squeezed it tenderly. “You, all by yourself, are enough, Aaron.”

  He looked up at her, questioning, clearly wanting to believe her. “What if I mess it up?”

  She shook her head. “Your heart will speak for you, son. Believe me.”

  He sniffed loudly and wiped his face with the back of his hand. Then he reached for his dark glasses on his bedside table and put them firmly in place.

  “All right, then,” he said, his voice shaking. “I’ll do this one last thing for Dad, even if it isn’t perfect.” He took his mother’s arm in his. “Let’s get going.”

  Thirty

  St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church stood tall and proud amidst the rows of gift shops and ice-cream parlors, novelty booths, and boutiques that filled Petoskey’s Gaslight District. Jane’s family drove in caravan toward the towering gray steeple that marked the church. The building was one of the oldest in Petoskey, and its brick-and-stone exterior made it appear stately and strong.

  The hearse was there, across the street near the side doors. Jane and her siblings piled out of their cars and moved separately toward the black vehicle. They kept their distance from each other, aware of the tension that remained. The rear doors of the hearse were open, and two attendants prepared to place the casket on a rolling gurney.

  An elderly woman appeared at the church’s side entrance. “You’re the family, is that right?” She wore a badge that identified her as the funeral coordinator. “And you must be Mrs. Barrett.” She extended her hand. “I’d like you all to come in and have a seat about ten minutes before the guests begin to arrive.”

  “My son is a pallbearer,” Mom said. “Can he sit with his sisters or does he need to sit with the other pallbearers?”

  “Oh, no, dear,” she said quickly. “He can sit wherever he’d like.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  The woman nodded and disappeared back inside the church. The organist arrived and began practicing with the soloist, filling the air with dark, somber music.

  Jane and Troy held hands and kept the children from running around. When Ellen and Mike approached and continued past them, Troy raised an eye at his wife.

  “When, Jane?” he whispered.

  “Later.” She looked away. “I’ll talk to her after the funeral.”

  Megan was standing next to their mother, and Jane saw her sister was shivering despite the fact that the sun was breaking through the clouds. Several feet away Aaron stood closest to the hearse, arms crossed, feet spread apart as he stared at the casket through his dark glasses.

  Nearby, Frank put his arm around Amy as she leaned on him for support. She looked nervous and Jane wondered whether her youngest sister would hold up.

  “Okay, everyone. Why don’t you come in and take a seat,” the coordinator said as she appeared momentarily at the door of the church and then vanished again.

  Their mother motioned for the others to follow her. When they were huddled together inside the front of the church, she looked intently at their faces.

  “I’d like you five to sit together in the front row with me.” She pointed to a wooden pew that was easily long enough for ten people.

  Jane started to roll her eyes, then caught herself. She stared at the ground instead.

  “You mean I can’t sit with Frank?” Amy sounded frightened.

  “The men can sit in the row behind us with the children.”

  Amy looked at Frank, and he nodded slightly. She turned to her mother. “All right. That’s fine.”

  “Is everyone okay with that?” Their mother glanced at each of them.

  Jane and the others nodded and began moving stiffly into the front pew. Their mother sat on the far right with Aaron at the opposite side near the center aisle. Megan, Jane, Amy, and Ellen sat i
n the middle, spread out along the pew so that several feet separated them.

  Let this day be over quickly, Jane prayed. Please.

  Diane leaned slightly forward and studied her children, taking in the uncomfortable looks on their faces. They were sitting together, but they were still worlds apart. She bowed her head and whispered a silent prayer.

  People were arriving and Ellen sat at an angle so she could watch for Jake. She had told Mike that she and Jake had spoken and that he might be at the funeral. Details beyond that could wait until they were back in Miami.

  It was nearly ten and the church was more than half full when Ellen saw him. He was by himself and he entered the building through the back doors. Ellen watched him and saw him hesitate, searching the church for her. She stood up and moved toward the back of the church.

  Jake had seen her stand up, and he remained in the back of the church, waiting for her. He was wearing a tie and Ellen thought it didn’t quite look right on him. She would always see him in swim shorts and a tank top, the way he had been when they were dating…the way he had been that past week.

  She motioned for him to follow her into the foyer.

  “You okay?” he whispered when they could talk. He took her hand in his and squeezed it quickly.

  “I’m nervous,” she said. “I think my stomach’s been in knots since last night.”

  “The viewing?”

  She nodded. “Hardest thing I’ve ever done.” She paused. “Thanks for coming, Jake.”

  “I cared about him, Ellen. And you.”

  “Jake, there’s something you should know.”

  He waited, studying her silently.

  “Mike’s here. He came late last night.”

  Something subtle changed in Jake’s expression, but he said nothing, only nodded.

  “I had no idea he was coming, but I’m really glad he’s here. I thought you’d want to know.”

  He straightened a bit and smiled at her tenderly. “It doesn’t change anything. I still want to be here, if it’s okay with you.”

  “Of course.” She nodded. “Jake, I took your advice. Mike and I stayed up late last night and talked about things. We even prayed together, which is something we hadn’t done in years.”

  When he said nothing she continued. “I want you to meet him after the service. I—” she smiled gently—“I really think you’ll like him.”

  Jake looked at his watch and Ellen stared at him closely, wondering what he was thinking.

  “You better go, Ellen. The service will be starting any minute.”

  “Jake…”

  He leaned toward her and hugged her, a friendly platonic hug that could never have been mistaken as anything more than a show of comfort for an old friend grieving the loss of her father. “Go,” he whispered as he pulled away “We’ll talk later.”

  “Okay.” She looked at him, trying to read his expression. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  She moved along the side aisle and found her seat in the front row once again.

  Suddenly, the music began. People who had been rustling through their programs or looking for a seat settled in, and a heavy silence fell over the church. Ellen glanced once more over her shoulder and saw that Jake had taken a seat in the back row. She looked at her siblings then and saw that they each were holding a folded piece of paper. She opened her purse and took out her memorial. Aaron was missing and Ellen figured he had gone to join the pallbearers on the side of the church. She closed her eyes and waited.

  Suddenly the music changed, and Ellen opened her eyes. The wooden casket, covered with a brilliant spray of red roses, was rolled into the church. It sat atop an aluminum gurney and was flanked by Aaron and five other men. Aaron was stoic as he helped guide the coffin to the front of the church. When it was in its proper place, all the men except Aaron returned to their seats. The church was silent as everyone watched Aaron retrieve a large, framed photograph of his father and stand it gently on top of the casket. Aaron looked at it for a moment and then returned to his seat.

  Father Joe, the priest who had never really known John, moved to the pulpit and welcomed those gathered there.

  “We are here,” he said, his voice hopeful, “to pay our respects to a man who touched the lives of many, a man who will certainly live on in the lives and love of his family” He paused and nodded toward the Barretts. “It is at times like this that we must remember the way our dear Lord viewed death, not as an ending, but a beginning. A glorious beginning. We will certainly grieve, but we grieve for ourselves because in this life we are without John Barrett. We must not, however, grieve for the man who left our presence in the prime of his life. For he is in a better place now, a place with no pain, no tears.”

  The church echoed with the sound of rustling tissues and an occasional sniffle.

  “And so, dear friends, this is not a time to mourn, but a time to celebrate. This morning you will hear songs John Barrett sang, Scripture he often quoted, and personal eulogies from each of his five children. This service is more than a mourning of his death. Rather, it is a celebration of his life.”

  The priest stepped down and Megan took the cue. She went to the pulpit. Glancing at the picture of her father on the casket, she stared at her notes. Then in a shaky voice she read the Twenty-third Psalm.

  “The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.…”

  In the front row, Ellen squirmed. Glancing at her sisters and brother, she saw they were doing the same. She glanced toward the casket and the picture. When Megan finished she made her way gracefully back to her seat.

  Ellen stood up then and approached the pulpit slowly. She spoke of how her father had loved the Serenity Prayer and then she proceeded to recite it. Afterward she returned to her seat and the church filled with music.

  The mourners listened as the soloist sang the haunting strains of “The Old Rugged Cross.” Ellen closed her eyes, silently mouthing the words to her father’s favorite hymn. The music stopped and the crowd waited, aware that it was time for John Barrett’s children to speak. The order had already been decided.

  Amy stood, turned once to look at Frank, and then walked carefully to a microphone set up in front of the church, a few feet from the casket. She unfolded her notes and cleared her throat. For a moment she said nothing, only stared at the page before her. When she looked up there were tears in her eyes. She struggled to find her voice and then, staring at the paper in her hand, she began to speak.

  “My father was a wonderful man and I’d like to share some things about him for those of you who didn’t know him.” She coughed, as though struggling to keep her throat from choking up.

  “I will always remember the way my father took us on adventures each weekend. He was always laughing, he was bigger than life. Sometimes when the others would run off to play, I’d stay back with my parents and Dad would swing me around until I couldn’t stop laughing.”

  She opened the paper a bit more and kept reading. “I also remember that whenever I needed help he was there.”

  In the front row Jane hung her head and closed her eyes. “I was the youngest of John Barrett’s daughters. The quietest in the crowd.” She smiled tenderly at her siblings. “I may not have as many memories as the others, but Dad made a difference in my life all the same. If it weren’t for him, I would have been too serious about life. But he taught me how to laugh. I remember him playing water volleyball with us at Petoskey State Park and inviting our friends to stay for barbecues. He was generous and kind to others.”

  She looked up from the paper. “If you know me, you know that I don’t say a lot. But I see a lot. I hear a lot. I hear his laughter even now.” Her voice cracked, but she went on. “He was my hero and I’ll miss him.”

  A sob caught in her throat and she turned to face her father’s picture. “Good-bye, Daddy I love you.” She folded her paper and returned to her seat, dropping her head in her hands. There, she quietly gave way to her tears.

  Megan wi
ped her eyes and slid close to Amy, circling an arm over her shoulder and hugging her tight. Aaron, too, moved next to her. He and Amy had not gotten along for years, and it moved Ellen to see him take her hand and squeeze it gently.

  Mom saw, too, and smiled through her tears.

  God was doing something. Ellen was sure of it. Not just for her, but for her whole family.

  Aaron sat with his arm around Amy, talking to her quietly. His heart had broken listening to her, watching her up there. When he was sure she was all right, he clutched his letter and stood up. All eyes followed him as he lumbered toward the microphone and unfolded the paper. For a moment he stared silently at the notes he’d written, his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses.

  “I was John Barrett’s only son,” he began. It was hard to talk through the emotions choking him, but he was determined to continue. “I want to talk about the way my father loved people.” He paused. “Before I was born my father worked three jobs all at the same time so that we’d have enough food on the table. Later, when we moved to Petoskey, he bought a house with a big, porched…fenced yard because he…where he…he bought a house with a porch and a big yard so we could…”

  He felt the frustration growing, building inside of him as he struggled to make sense of what he had written. He tried the sentence again. “Later, when we moved to Petoskey we bought a house…he bought a house with a large porch for people…a porch where everyone could meet and…”

  He stared at the paper in his hands and then suddenly, swiftly he crumpled it and stuffed it deep into his pocket. Friends and family members throughout the church remained silent. Aaron glanced at the front pew and his eyes locked with Ellen’s. She looked as though she wished desperately that she could somehow help him through the awkward moment.

  “Forget it,” he mumbled into the microphone. He took one step toward his seat, then his eyes locked onto his father’s, staring at him from the photograph atop the casket. Aaron’s shoulders slumped and he froze in place. You can do it, son, those eyes said.

  Slowly, he returned to the microphone, took a deep breath, and leaned forward. Then he began to speak.