3. Mourning Week

In the mundane existence of a high schooler, news that a pivotal term paper had achieved its intended purpose would typically be cause for celebration. However, the air hung heavy with somberness, especially for Cassie. The tidings of triumph delivered by mail on June 30th coincided with her father’s descent into a coma.

Days later, Ed’s demise cast a grim shadow on the very day America celebrated its independence – Tuesday, the 4th of July.

Isn’t it peculiar how we can brace ourselves for something over months or even years, yet the actual occurrence can still jolt us? Cassie’s complexion mirrored the pallor of shock as Aunt Ruth offered solace in the Family Visitation Area at Graceful Pines.

Beyond the double doors and down the bright-lit corridor her father lay lifeless, a shroud covering a forehead still damp from Cassie’s farewell kiss. “We’ll manage, Dad. It’s all right to let go. Give Mom a hug for me,” she recalled whispering into his ear.

Mary had hastily made her way into town from Frostburg on Wednesday. On Thursday, Ed’s cremation took place per his explicit instructions. Father McMurphy recited the Rosary and gave the only eulogy.

Throughout these initial 72 hours, the sisters mechanically complied with any requests made of them. Their demeanor was polite, limpidly so. Uncharacteristically docile with each other. When Ruth shared these observations with the other adults, a mutual sense of concern arose. Before long, an intervention plan had taken shape.

Later that day, the doorbell chimed. Cassie turned off the water, dried her hands, and called out, “Coming!” Parting the yellowed lace that draped the sidelight, with a hint of anxiety she opened the door to her visitor. For an awkward ten seconds, the two faced each other. He remarked, “It is a tad cold out here,” rubbing his bare hands for emphasis.

Father Paddy McMurphy noted that Cassie was still a work in progress when it came to mastering basic social graces. “Oh… of course! Shame on me,” she said, stepping back to invite him in. “What brings you by on such a chilly morning?” she asked over her shoulder. Bolting the door was unnecessary, but now living alone, it was becoming a deeply engrained instinct born from countless nights of strange sounds.

Before she could turn completely, Father Mac had vanished down the hallway. Sounds of cabinet doors and sliding chairs beckoned her to the kitchen. “You have lemonade, don’t you?” he inquired as he pushed two heavy glasses toward the table’s center. While she retrieved his order from the fridge, he headed to a corner cabinet and pulled out the Tullamore Dew.

Raising the etched glass pitcher of lemonade, Cassie eyed the old man whom she often thought of more as a grandfather than a priest. He gently settled into a captain’s chair near the wall. Above his head hung a black-and-white picture of a young couple, standing along the water’s edge within the shadow of Concord Lighthouse.

Blocking his glass with his hand, he remarked, “The lemonade is for you, my dear.  I have my belly warmer right here,” he mumbled, his short, freckled fingers tapping the bottle.

Following that brief exchange, an uncomfortable silence lingered. Cassie was on the verge of uttering something, anything, when the man with graying red hair slowly began to speak. She scrutinized the wiry tangled mess of a beard as he unconsciously scratched his forehead.

“You know … he sat right where you sit now. Not six weeks before he passed. We broke the seal on this puppy,” pointing to the half-filled bottle of Irish Whiskey. “Knew his days were numbered. Called for me.” There was a significant pause between sentences, allowing each scene to unfold slowly and vividly in his mind. And in hers. “Unusual, actually,” he added.

“Why? You’d not met before?”

“To the contrary. He and I’ve been friends since before you were a glimmer in his eye. Met up all the time. That was before I got wrapped up in this,” tugging at his Roman collar. “After that, mostly me calling on him, not the other way around.” After a leisurely sip, punctuated by an exaggerated ‘ah,’ he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and added, “But not the last time.”

In an instant, a tsunami of stomping feet descended the stairs, tumbling into the kitchen. Mary plunged her hand into the fridge, grabbing a Diet Coke, and then snapped, “What do you want?” The sudden intrusion filled the room with an uneasy atmosphere, each sound amplifying the tension that lingered in the air.

“My child, I came by to see how you and your sister are doing. I …”

“News flash, padre. I’m not your child. You’re not my father. My father’s dead. That’s how I’m doing.” Cassie tried to scold Mary, but it was too late. Heavy feet faded up the stairs.

“I’m so sorry, Father. She can be such a jerk sometimes.”

“Actually, she’s why I came. She’s why your father called me.”

“I don’t understand.” Cassie sat motionless, watching him savor his whiskey.

“What’s heaviest on your heart, Cassandra? Right now? You can talk to me.” He watched her fiddle with her glass.

“I guess the guilt. I had all that time to ask my parents about their life stories, their love stories. I was so selfish. Too busy chasing boys. Too many hours locked in my room, listening to my iPod.”

“You were just a child, doing what children naturally do. Don’t beat yourself up. Besides, you’re asking now.”

“But it’s too late. They’re not here.”

“First, they are here. In this very room. I can feel them. Can’t you?” Cassie wondered if she’d just felt a gentle brush of angel wings on her shoulder. “Second, I’m here to fill in the blanks.” Cassie suddenly perked up, rescued from her languor by the excitement of reconnecting with her mom and dad, even if vicariously and through a man with hairy nostrils and fishy breath. 

He sat back, repositioned, firmly protecting his glass with ten pudgy fingers. “For starters, it was a classic fairytale. Love at first sight. You spoke with Selma, so you know a little about their first encounter.” Father Mac eyed her reaction without looking up.

“Wait! How did you…? My final paper?”

“It takes a village, dear.” Cassie believed she caught a slight smile beneath clearly sparkling Irish eyes. “Dorothy is our organist.”

“Dorothy?”

“Oh, of course. Ms. Phillips.” He paused, then added. “Next time you want to climb the tower, let Aunt Ruth know. She’ll unlock it for you. Did you know Aunt Ruth is Selma’s daughter?”

“No way!”

“No secrets in this village, huh?” He tipped the final splash into his mouth and then poured a second round. “When your mom started working at the polling station, Selma was her trainer. Her other trainee was her daughter, Ruth. That was the start of a lifelong friendship between Aunt Ruth and your mom.”

“Tell me about dad.”

“He was just back from overseas and all he could think about for the final months of his TOD was to be able to vote. ‘68 was a very political year. More than most. The Vietnam War was raging. Colleges were on fire. Race riots destroying inner cities. Assassinations. Then, more than ever, every vote counted.”

“Selma said mom greeted him at the door when he first arrived. Showed him around the process.”

“True. But only half true. Your dad told me he had waited in the hallway, watching through a small window until Ruth’s shift ended and your mother’s took over. And your mom told Ruth that when their eyes locked, they just both knew. Was, as we say in my line of work, a match made in Heaven.”

“It was a miracle,” she wanted to believe.

“Or … just a pivotal moment?” Now he looked up, to study her reaction. “Your paper spoke of pivotal moments, didn’t it?”

“Weird you brought that up. That concept’s been haunting me. Was thinking about it just last night.”

“Hearing voices in your head, are ya? Best not ignore them.”

“Is that God talking to me?”

“The Good Lord speaks to all of us, my child. All of the time. We just rarely hear Him. Too busy obeying other voices in our heads.”

“How do you tell which one’s which?”

“That’s the puzzle of life! You see, it comes back to those pivotal moments you wrote about. But … why do they matter so much?” He took another sip as he waited for her to ponder the question.

“Well, I suppose, I want to recognize those that are mine … in any given moment. So, I can make the most of them.” She watched the crow’s feet around his eyes tighten slightly. “Is that a mistake?”

“What we call a fool’s errand.” She looked offended. “That just means you’ll never accomplish the thing you set out to do.” He stared pensively through the window casting sunlight onto the sink. “Pivotal moments can only be recognized in hindsight. Rarely if ever in the moment. And never, ahead of time.”

“But…”

The conversation proceeded for another 20 minutes at the same pace, with the same intimacy and importance. “Pivotal moments are a swirl of stirring events, decisions, and circumstances. They all tie together. In a tempest of pulsing human dynamics that eventually culminate in a decision,” Father McMurphy said.

“It seems to me they all have one thing in common,” Cassie declared. “Thoughts!”

“You’re right, but there’s more to it. Everything starts with thoughts. But everything ends in choices! Our choices are selected from among the many thoughts we have. Then, we decide how we’ll act.”

More thinking. More sharing. Father Mac struggled to put out of mind all that awaited him back at the parish. The dear child needed this one-on-one, and he could think of no more sacred way to spend his breath. “What say you about pivotal moments, dear Cassandra?”

“Well, for one, we can’t know which moments are truly pivotal until long after the fact. For another, all pivotal moments are the consequence of choices. Whether such choices are impulsive or carefully developed is decided by one’s personality. Last, a pivotal moment might occur in one lifetime but have its most profound impact in another lifetime.”

“Very good, my dear. Regrettably, though, I must turn to my day job.” He then stared directly into her pastel blue eyes. “Don’t give one more thought to Pivotal Moments. Instead, just focus on making good choices in the moment. In every moment!” Then, pointing heavenly, he added, “That’s what He is watching and waiting to see.”

He stood, wobbling slightly as his sea legs straightened. “We’ll talk again. Many times, may it please the Lord.” Standing in the front foyer he reiterated, “Don’t forget to smile. Right choices can only come from a smiling face.”

Suddenly, they heard wood creaking behind them. There, sitting near the top step was one beautiful, eavesdropping, big sister. “I’m sorry, Father, for … earlier.” She stood and slowly stepped down. “I’ve been listening. Thank you for loving Beebs and me like you do. I’d hug you, but that’s probably a no-no.”

“Nonsense. Bring it!” The rotund leprechaun was held captive by four clutching, unrelenting arms. “Best let go. I’ve got places to be and others to see.” What soothed his heart the most, however, was seeing the two sisters turn and walk down the hallway arm-in-arm.

Friday had been earmarked as the day for friends of the Gilmores to offer their condolences. As expected, Father McMurphy was the first to arrive, a fresh-baked soda bread still warm in the paper bag. Although he had presided over countless Mourning Weeks, this one resonated on a deeply personal level.

Within the Gilmore family circle, he wasn’t merely the family priest; he stood as a steadfast lifelong companion. For 15 years, he and Ed played on the Holy Rollers bowling team, a connection that endured until Ed’s strength waned, and the bowling ball became too burdensome.

Oddly, his connection with Rae ran even deeper, with her piano performances consistently eliciting vocal embellishments from the venerable man of the cloth. Their most cherished duet was the melodic strains and meaningful lyrics of “What’s It All About, Alfie?”

With subdued elegance, Aunt Ruth assumed the role of hostess, welcoming every guest at the entrance, receiving their offerings — be it flower bouquets or trays of food, and guiding them to the living room where introductions were unnecessary. The public visitation concluded by 4 pm, affording the four of them a moment of respite in private, where they could unwind and partake in a leisurely dinner.

The dining room table groaned under the weight of its bounty—sandwiches, cakes, tea, coffee, finger foods, sausage rolls, deviled eggs, crudités, soda bread, hummus, and fruits. Virtually everything imaginable found its place on that table, or the sideboard, or had already made its way to the kitchen for sorting.

With the guests finally departed, Ruth diligently set about repackaging the surplus into Ziplock bags. Upstairs, the girls were, ideally, either lost in dreams or finding solace in each other’s company. Meanwhile, Father Mac prepared the living room for the unfolding events that lay ahead.

At approximately 6 pm, Ruth gathered everyone for a private dinner. Father Mac led the grace, and the meal transpired amidst a somber atmosphere. Despite Ruth’s attempts to ignite conversation, the endeavor proved futile. Father Mac ventured a few grandfatherly jokes that were met only by Ruth’s chuckles.

With chairs synchronously sliding back from the table at precisely 6:30, as though rehearsed, the foursome seamlessly transitioned to the living room within minutes. Just as they settled, a timely ring of the doorbell disrupted the awkward silence.

“Mary, please get that,” Aunt Ruth directed as she hurried to clear the table. “Cassie dear, place the fruit platter on the coffee table, and grab some paper plates, plastic forks, and cups – oh, and don’t forget the napkins,” she added. However, Cassie, who had been inseparable from her sister for the past three days, ignored these instructions entirely. Instead, she hurried to join her sibling at the front door.

Cassie’s eyes widened at the sight of Ms. Phillips, who extended warm embraces to each of them. Following closely behind Dorothy was Max Weinstein, the family’s lawyer and accountant. Maneuvering through the doorway, he distributed somewhat awkward hugs before extending a handshake to the good Father.

Father Mac had unceremoniously rearranged the furniture into a semi-circle, hoping to create an atmosphere of intimacy. He knew the upcoming discussion would benefit from every psychological nuance he could muster. The girls’ apprehension was displayed through subtle cues in their body language— crossed arms, pursed lips, and a hastening rhythm in their breathing.

Father Mac signaled Ruth to begin. “Girls, it’s all right. We’re all here with nothing but love in our hearts. You have nothing to fear. No demands are being placed upon you. This is a safe haven, your home. There’s no intention of upheaval. We’re here simply to convey—”

Dorothy caught on. “—that you’re not alone. You’re loved, and we’re here for you. Any time, day or night, as much as you need.”

Mr. Weinstein contributed a more tangible aspect. “Your father and mother have planned for you to stay here on Strawberry Lane as long as you desire. Finances, jobs—don’t worry about anything.”

“Absolutely,” Father Mac chimed in. “Our message to both of you, dear souls we’ve known since your Christening, is this: Take your time to grieve, find each other, ground yourselves. No rush on decisions. Postpone life-changing commitments for at least six months.”

Aunt Ruth added, “And remember, we’re all here for you. The house may feel empty, the sounds unsettling. But know this—nothing will shake your love unless you allow it. Hold on, cling to each other, cling to us. We’re here not only because we promised your parents but because we genuinely love each of you.”

The adults observed the children sitting motionless and broody, their gazes fixed blankly upon the floor. Glances exchanged among the grown-ups were met with only shrugged shoulders. Father Mac rose deliberately and moved toward the girls, his arms reaching out. Mary stood first, and Cassie mirrored her sister’s actions. Father Mac gently placed his hands on their heads, offering a solemn prayer that beseeched the Good Lord to cradle Rae and Ed in peaceful repose. He sought divine protection for Mary Frances and Cassandra Phoebe, extending his plea for peace on earth and God’s abundant blessings upon Havre de Grace.