Final Arrangements (15 page)

Before she could cut the connection, call
waiting chimed.

"Yes?"

"Ms. Ireland? Ed Markham here from Forest
Lawn. I thought you should know there may be a significant delay in
the final arrangements."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it seems the county coroner has taken
possession of your father. And unfortunately, so they tell me, they
are quite backed up and may not release him back to us for the
better part of a week. Perhaps not until next Monday."

"May I ... may I ask why?"

"Apparently, it's standard protocol when a
patient dies on the operating table. The Medical Center ordered the
county to perform a third-party post mortem to verify your father's
death wasn't due to any malpractice on the part of their surgical
team. They won't issue the death certificate until they've
satisfied themselves his death was unavoidable."

"We have to wait a week for that? What am I
going to do in the meanwhile? Sit around my hotel just so a bunch
of inept surgeons can cover their under-insured backsides? Can't we
just tell the Medical Center we don't intend to sue? Can't we sign
a waiver or something? I don't want those County people touching my
father!"

"I'm sorry, but the County was quite
firm."

"This is outrageous. They have hijacked my
father. Can we get a lawyer to force them to release his body?"

"That would be most unusual. In my opinion,
we'll simply have to wait."

"Do you people have any idea what it's like
to lose a loved one? And now I have to live with the image of my
father lying in the County morgue. I should be suing them for
mental duress."

Markham showed a fair amount of poise at this
remark, in that he didn't answer back, nor did he try to effect any
sort of phony conciliatory tone. He simply remained silent.

"Okay," Shannon finally said. At which point
the hotel phone warbled. "Look, Markham, somebody's trying to call
me on the hotel phone. I'll be in touch."

She grabbed the conventional phone.
"Yes?"

"It's me," Stretch said. "Call me a fool, but
about the time I hit the intersection of Lankershim and Magnolia,
something told me you needed me."

"Something told you right," she said. "I'm
falling apart, here. You'll never believe the news I just got. Now
I know how the survivors in New York must have felt waiting to see
if the bodies of their loved ones were going to be recovered."

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you when I see you. By the way,
where are you?"

"Here," he said. "In the fabulous lobby.
Thrilled to know you're somewhere high above me."

"I should be scolding you, Stretch. But I'm
happy you're here."

"I'll be staying close by for as long as you
need me. I'm not even going home. I just booked myself a room. Not
the luxury playpen you're in, but a cheap one. Phone me anytime in
1225. Or if you want to be alone, that's okay, too. No
pressure."

"You are a dream."

"I'll be out by the pool if you feel like
company," he said.

"I do feel like. But don't let any hippos in
the water. Give me an hour. My eyes are burning, maybe from the
smog. I'm just going to stretch out on the couch here and close
them for a minute."

"Shannon?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to help you get through this."

"Okay. I'm going to believe you."

A knock on the door. "Stretch, I've got to
go. My shopper is at the door." And she was, a slim, peppy young
woman with short black hair, wearing a black skirt, black stockings
and black silk blouse, whose badge sported the name Christa. She
bustled in, pushing a cart filled with necessaries. Christa was a
young woman with high cheekbones and a great deal of poise. Shannon
sighed. In Los Angeles, there were more beautiful women per acre
than anywhere else in the world. Christa was no exception, probably
an aspiring actress, holding down this menial day job until she had
her big break. "Keeping you busy today, Christa?" Shannon asked
her.

"Major busy," Christa said. "Not only do I
work here 5 days a week, but one night a week I attend the
University of Phoenix, then there's my study group on Thursday
nights. I live with my mother and my son, so the rest of my time
goes into taking care of them. Needless to say, my social life is
totally on hold."

"How old is your son? What's his name?"

Christa smiled and lowered her eyelids,
keeping her lips together, the way young women did when asked about
their pride and joy, as if embarrassed that their sudden surge of
pride at the thought of their child would rush out of their soul
and overwhelm the other woman should they open their mouth too
soon. "He's four this month," she said. "His name is Matthew. And
he's quite a handful. I'm starting to get worried he's wearing out
my mom. She takes care of him while I'm working and going to
school."

A single mom
, Shannon thought.
Who,
as Stretch would probably say, was most likely from a broken
marriage. A result of a personal choice of soul mate based upon
passion instead of family agreement.

She considered this soberly. It should have
been a personal disaster, but the child which had come as a result
had doubtless brought many graces into the young woman's life,
chief of which was the inner joy she'd seen on her face, and
secondly was an accompanying spirit of industry which was pushing
Christa to heights she'd probably never have obtained
otherwise.

"Forgive me for asking," Shannon said. "Are
you a single mom?"

"Yes."

"Do you find it difficult?"

"I married young, right out of high school.
My husband was a carpenter. He built these beautiful custom spiral
staircases. He was on a job last September in Malibu when he was
taken from me by a drunk driver on the PCH in broad daylight. They
think the driver was drunk because she'd lost somebody in the WTC
attack."

Has everybody lost somebody these
days?
Shannon thought, as she watched Christa lay out the
clothing and personal item choices she'd made for Shannon on the
bed. Jeans and a nice beige tee for the trip to Hoggly Woggly's,
sensible cotton pajamas, a pair of Nike running shoes and running
outfit, a conservative black skirt, with top and jacket of
lightweight summer wool for the funeral, along with matching shoes
and hat, the old fashioned kind with sweeping brim and netting, a
pair of cheap sandals for the pool, and a host of other items
designed to make life bearable for the next few days, including an
impulse buy, a small stuffed bear named Tedricka, whose big brown
eyes had begged her company.

"Oh. I'm ... I'm sorry. About your husband's
death."

"It's okay," Christa said. "I know he's in
heaven. I tell my son we'll all be together again someday. He's
probably up there offering suggestions for improvement to Jacob's
ladder. And it's like they say, life goes on. I never thought I'd
ever remarry, but lately I've come to realize it's not entirely out
of the question. Not that I could replace the father of my son,
but--"

"--so what are you studying in school,"
Shannon said, interrupting this discussion of what life held for
those who'd lost somebody. She felt inside herself a slight amount
of panic rising up, to which she responded by grabbing Tedricka and
stroking her furry topknot.

"I'm a finance major," Christa said. "I hope
to enter investment banking, or perhaps commercial real estate
management. Real estate was the least likely field I would have
considered, but last week, the people from Grubb & Ellis sent a
rep to our class to make their pitch. They're international
and--"

"--Christa, I didn't mean to interrupt you
when you were talking about your husband. It's just that losing
someone you love is the hardest thing there is. In fact, I'm here
in town myself arranging a funeral. I lost my father last night. So
I'm sorry I interrupted you. And it's a comfort to hear that life
goes on at a time like this."

"I understand. And it's no big deal
interrupting me. I tend to be something of a motor mouth at times.
I'm sorry about your dad."

"Thanks. Christa. Forgive me for asking. And
I may be way out of line ... but are you wearing all black because
of your husband?"

Christa smiled slightly, looking past Shannon
at some distant point on the horizon. "You're very perceptive. The
answer is yes."

"That's beautiful, Christa. To honor him like
that."

"Well, like I said, life goes on. I think the
day is coming when I leave the black behind."

"Yes."

"I see you've got a swimsuit," Christa said,
changing the subject. "Perhaps you should go for a swim. It helps
keep the stress away."

"I think I will. I've got a friend waiting
for me at the pool. Well, actually, it's a friend of my father's.
He's helping me with the funeral. Perhaps you've heard of him. He's
the guy who does The Pool Guy commercials."

Christa looked surprised. "That guy? He's
here? At our pool?"

Shannon nodded, mildly amused at Stretch's
notoriety in a town jaded from an oversaturation of stars. Somehow,
Stretch had managed to capture the imagination of the city.

"I'm going to take a peek," Christa said.
"I've heard he's over seven feet tall. He's really a riot. My
mother and I always crack up whenever we see him in the pool with
the hippo."

"He's a funny guy," Shannon said.

"Is he single? I know I shouldn't ask, you
know. I'm not supposed to pry into the affairs of our guests."

The question caught Shannon off guard. "Yes.
He's single--but he's engaged."

"Figures," Christa said. "The good ones
always are. But I'm talking too much. Is there anything else you
need before I go?"

Shannon extracted a business card from her
purse. "Keep this," she said. "And call me when you graduate."

"You work for Brunstetter and Griffen? In San
Francisco?"

"Yes. You've heard of them?"

"Who hasn't? The firm who engineered the
coalition to bailout Argentina? Wow. I will call you. Promise me
you won't forget me."

"I won't."

After Christa left, Shannon changed into her
swimsuit and wrapped herself in the double thick terry robe
provided by the hotel. She'd planned on a brief nap, but decided
against it, fighting the urge to simply curl into a ball on the
bed, insert thumb into mouth and remain that way the night long,
until morning. A glance in the mirror told the story--dark circles
beneath the eyes and a deep worry crease in her forehead.

I'm falling apart here, Lord
, she
prayed.
And it scared me when Christa showed interest in
Stretch. I don't know what is happening to me, or why. I just know
it's happening.
She waited for something, anything, listening
to the silence within her. Listened, and heard ... nothing. There
was only silence.
I'm just like Stretch
, she thought.
I
pray, but I'm not getting through. I'm dry. There's nothing inside
me but the dust. Stretch and me, we're in this thing together. This
thing called the Christian life. Where one must sometimes walk
through the desert alone. Keeping the faith that the times of
refreshing will come. Knowing that nothing escapes the Lord's
attention.

Which was when she realized the truth. What
she was feeling wasn't mere aridity of the soul.
Dear Lord. Why
haven't I seen it before? I'm lonely. Terribly lonely
. And with
this realization came a shock. That the loneliness wasn't simply
the product of grieving over her dearly-departed father. No, it was
something more. Something far more.

She hurried down the empty corridor to the
elevator.
Dear God
, she thought,
I'm lonely because I've
met Stretch. I'm lonely in the way a woman is lonely when she
doesn't have a man in her life. I'm lonely--not just for any
man--but for him.

With a shiver, she boarded the elevator and
began the descent to meet him.

Chapter 10

The poolside Baja Lounge for some reason was
closed, and there was nobody else about. Stretch was in the pool
when she arrived, wearing a ridiculously baggy pair of bright green
trunks, submerged in the deep end, thrashing the water wildly in a
vain attempt to propel himself to the surface, sinking with each
stroke, and coming up gasping and wild-eyed, mouth gaping, sucking
in air like an emphysema victim trying to run the 100 yard
dash.

"Very funny," she said. It took her a good 10
seconds to realize he was drowning, which introduced into her
system enough adrenaline to kill a horse. She'd never been a girl
scout, and had no idea what to do. Her first instinct was to yell
for help, but there was nobody about. She could jump in and try to
save him, but an image of Stretch thrashing about and taking them
both to the bottom quelled her nerve for that option.

There were a couple of items hanging from a
low wall, a round life preserver attached to a generous amount of
rope, and a noose at the end of a long pole. As she grabbed the
life preserver and tossed it towards him, Stretch sank to the
bottom, exhaling a great many bubbles on the way down, which was
when she realized the true purpose of the noose on the end of the
long pole. It could be thrust into the pool to snare Stretch. She
poked the thing into the water and managed to catch it around his
neck. He grabbed the pole with both hands and nearly pulled her in
with it, she managing to avoid this by sitting down heavily at the
edge and holding on to the pole with all her might. But it was a
losing battle.

"Somebody! Help me! Help me!" Then she
remembered a personal safety course she'd taken at the Y.
Never
shout help
, they'd said.
Shout FIRE! instead
.

"Fire! Fire!"

Stretch, in his panic, was putting superhuman
amounts of effort into pulling the pole this way and that, making
it nearly impossible for her to hang on. She made a decision. She
would have to let Stretch drown to the point where he passed out.
Then she could try and reel him in and resuscitate him.