The Funeral Planner (37 page)

Neshama
sausages, I think to myself. It means “soul,” but I forgot to write that down. The thought makes my mouth water for them, but those taste sensations are only memories now in this moment, never to be experienced again.

“She would like everyone to take a sunset ride on a big pontoon boat and have her ashes cast into Clark Lake…while the film score from the movie
To Kill A Mockingbird
plays.” I can see in my mind’s eye Richard struggling to decipher my writing. “Oh, it says here, she also wants her favorite… Can you read that, Lillian?”

There is a pause and then Mrs. Jones says, “It looks like the word
client.
”

“Thanks.” Richard continues. “She wants her favorite clients, Arthur Pintock and Norm Pearl, to attend, as well. For the exit song, she wants everyone to walk out with open umbrellas that are to be funeral favors with her initials on them, and—wow, this is hard to read—everyone is to leave…the…party…to the tune of—let’s see, what’s that say?—Oh, ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head,’ by Burt Bacharach. She would also like a… I think that says
sculpture
made of her…like the one of Uncle Sam.”

I remain still under the sheet feeling more and more awkward. I’m angry at myself for not making the directions more clear and yet there’s nothing I can do because I’m dead. And in an even weirder way, getting upset doesn’t really matter anymore, because I am…dead. I feel a tremendous sense of frustration that things are not perfect. That my intentions are all messed up. At the same time, I feel a complete and utter relief that the desire to be perfect no longer exists…because I’m dead and, well, what difference does it make? Tempering all of my feelings brings a sense of acceptance for what is right now. It feels unfamiliar, yet oddly peaceful.

“She wants her sculpture to represent a person of ideas. She wants everything she owns to be divided between her family and Sierra. She wants all of her business ideas to go to Victor…Winston…who she believes can turn them into something one day. And she would like Victor Winston and Professor Osaka to start an entrepreneurial think tank in her name with twenty-five percent of whatever she may have left in her estate. She wants her mother Eleanor to take care of Sid, but for Sid to spend part of her time at the Eagle’s Nest bar, under the supervision of Richard Wright…and she would like everyone to have drinks on her at the Eagle’s Nest.”

I can almost see all of them smiling.

“Does that mean free drinks tonight?” asks Wally.

“Is that any way to pay your respects, Wally?” Mrs. Jones chastises.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Well, those are her instructions, as best as I can read them. Does anyone have anything they’d like to say about Maddy?”

“I think she was really special,” says Guy. “She always made me feel like I mattered.”

“Yes,” says Richard. “And she had a real sense of justice, didn’t she?”

“I think it was very hard for her not to want to take care of people or to help them make their dreams come true,” says Mrs. Jones. “To the point where it superseded her taking care of herself.”

I shrink inside. Am I that transparent? It feels so strange to hear people talk about me as if I’m not there, but I am there, only I’m dead-there.

“Even when I was down, which is pretty much all the time, she picked me up with that spark in her eye,” says Wally. “And sharing Sid with us has always been a nice thing to do. Ya know…she let me take Sid home one night when I just didn’t feel like being alone. And she promised not to tell anyone, cuz I didn’t want to look like a wuss or anything.”

“That’s a lovely story,” says Mrs. Jones. “I liked that she liked to offer her opinion about whatever mattered to others and to her.”

“What did you think of her opinions?” asks Richard.

“She had strong ones,” says Guy. “Good ones. I think if she could have gone back in time, she would have really given it to that groomer who killed Dunlop.”

This time, through the sheet, I can see Richard smiling over that one.

“She didn’t think lightly about things, did she?” asks Richard.

“No. She was always thinking,” says Guy. “You could see it in her eyes.”

“Yes, I think you could call her a deep thinker,” adds Richard. “Let’s all take a moment to think deeply about Maddy in silence.”

I sit still under the cloth sheet, not really sure how to feel—after all, feeling dead is a whole new experience for me.

Perhaps a minute passes, then Richard says,“Let’s carry her toward the lake.”

Suddenly hands and arms grope my sides and legs and back as I am lifted from the bar stool and carried to the waterfront.

Great, I think, wondering if the finale is a toss in the lake. Well, that would surely wake the dead beast in me. Dead beast in me? Do I have a dead beast? What is it? Some part of me that refuses to live in the moment? The part that’s on a never-ending quest for perfection before life can be lived? The part that prefers to wallow in some form of self-pity? I feel my body placed gently down upon the docks. I hear the water lap underneath it. I feel Sid paw at my side and hear her whimper. Of everyone, I’ll miss Sid the most, I think. Sid is the one who opened my heart, got me out of a workaholic modus operandi because she needed me. To be needed. To love…so you can grieve. Would Sid grieve the most for me? In her own doglike way? What about Victor? Would he miss me? We started to connect but then he sent me away. What was that about?

I feel a light breeze glide over me. I wonder if dead people think the way I am thinking now, only from outside of their bodies. Did Uncle Sam feel that way? What if there were words left unsaid? How would they ever communicate to their loved ones again, or did it just not matter anymore from this altered state. Not to sound cliché, but maybe that’s why it’s so very important to say what you feel when you feel it, because the opportunity may never come again, at least not in the physical realm.

“Everyone, let’s lift the sheet,” says Richard. The sheet slides off me. “Madison, you can live again,” he says.

To my ears, it’s the most beautiful decree I’ve ever heard. Richard, Guy, Wally and Mrs. Jones all give me compassionate hugs. I bend over and hug Sid, who showers me with a facial licking.

“What was that experience like?” asks Richard.

“That was really powerful. I think that by learning how to die…I just learned how to live.”

“That’s exactly the point of the exercise. Most people don’t get that until they actually experience a simulation like this.”

“How do you know how to do this?”

“I used to teach it to funeral directors in mortuary school.”

“Well, you should teach it again. Everyone on the planet should go through this…including presidents and dictators! Think about it, it might curtail war and help social programs—”

“I told you she had strong opinions,” says Guy.

“That’s what we love about her,” says Mrs. Jones.

“Does this mean free drinks now?” asks Wally.

“Yes,” I declare. “Free drinks for all of you!”

Back inside the bar, Richard and I pour free drinks for Wally, Guy and Mrs. Jones, while a bevy of other regulars enter.

Richard turns to me. “So, what was it like writing the letter to Sam?”

“It was strange writing with my left hand. It forced my thoughts to slow down and between the thoughts these epiphanies kept popping up.”

“Like what?”

“Like I realized that if I ever get married, Uncle Sam would still be there. He could still watch me walk down the aisle because…he didn’t really die. He’s still with me, here, just in a different way.” I look at the black ribbon on my black T-shirt. “I realize…I don’t have to wear the black ribbon anymore.”

Richard smiles. “You got that? Most people don’t get that, but when you do get that, it’s in the most profound and powerful way.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It’s powerful. Look, Richard, I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you write this all down? Turn it into a pamphlet or manual on how to grieve and how to create meaningful tributes. You could call it the ‘Pamphlet on Grieving & the Nontraditional Personalized Tribute Experience.’”

“I’m not a writer, Maddy,” says Richard. “But I’ll tell you what. I’ll talk it through and you write it up. I’ll cover the grief part and you cover the tributes, and we’ll co-author it.”

I feel the old flame in my eyes flicker to life. “Okay, you’re on,” I say. We clink glasses.

“Hey, Maddy,” says Rocky from the other end of the bar, still in his mailman attire. “I forgot to drop this in your mailbox. From Winston Capital in L.A. Can I give it to you here?” He pulls out a letter for me.

Richard recognizes the name on the envelope. “Go ahead, take five,” he says.

Sid and I cross over to the outdoor patio, away from customers. I open the letter. “Now what do you suppose Mr. Winston has to say, Sid?”

Dear Maddy,

Life sounds good on Clark Lake. Sorry not to write sooner. I’ve been embroiled with a merger-acquisition in biotech. Talk about merging cultures and organizational behavior. A leader who can’t bring the two together inherently affects productivity. When goals aren’t clear, people’s roles in companies aren’t, either, resulting in a chaotic clash between personal and corporate objectives. Aside from that, the launch of Designer Tank was a success. Norm Pearl decided to integrate all of our products into his office-apartment-lofts in NYC. Funny how you seem connected to all of this. They all ask about you and I’ve told them you’re on a retreat and doing well. They said if they can help with the resurrection of Lights Out, to let them know. In the meantime, how’s the digging? Need an extra hand? I happen to be good with a shovel. Let me know. Perhaps an advisory board meeting is in order. Any local bowling alleys around you?

Yours truly,

Victor Winston

“What do you think, Sid? Want some company?” Sid and I slip into the back office where an antiquated computer sits.

I get online and send Victor a quick e-mail: “Dear Victor, Yes…come for advisory board meeting. Digging is all done but polishing the uncovered relics is an option. Come whenever. You can always find Sid and me at the Eagle’s Nest. Beers are on me. Yours, Maddy.”

I send the e-mail and write a quick one to my lawyer, Todd Lake. “Need you to please trademark ‘Pamphlet on Grieving and the Nontraditional Personalized Tribute Experience.’ That done, I register a blog Web site for the pamphlet. And suddenly I feel very much alive.

The next few days I spend catching up with family in Ann Arbor. I take Andy to the movies and to the park with Sid where we all romp together. I meet Rebecca and Keating for lunch. I have dinner with Sierra and the ever-elusive and charming Milton, whom I say I approve of when asked in private by Sierra. I try to talk to Daniel, but his doom and gloom overwhelms him. I tell him he should try pseudo-dying sometime, it might help, but I receive only a dumbfounded expression in return. I take my parents to a klezmer concert and bask in enjoying the moments with them, especially the moments when Eleanor dotes on Siddhartha.

When Sid and I return to the Eagle’s Nest a few days later, I am devastated to learn that Guy died the night before in his sleep from some sort of undetected heart condition. He had no family, and so Richard and I decide to put a funeral together for him.

Richard and I enter Guy’s apartment and discover that he has very little in terms of possessions: a painting by Lillian Jones of him in green overalls standing outside the Eagle’s Nest on the dock at Clark Lake; a box of photos of him as a child and as a teenager, the only hint of family members, frozen in the past; several first-place ribbon awards from high school for most innovative in engineering and design; and several boxes of metal parts and circuit boards.

We load up his possessions and place them in Richard’s truck. Then we drive up to Sally’s house on three acres of land. Guy’s fenced engineering feat glints in the sunlight.

“I’ve never informed someone of a death before,” I say to Richard.

“Just be compassionate and emotionally available,” he says. “When a survivor’s pain touches your heart, a bond is made. It helps them through the grieving process. But to get there, you have to be willing to be touched.” He pauses to reflect as he puts the truck in Park. “When I was a funeral director, I learned that what people really want is to know that you’re just doing the best you can.”

“
When
you were a funeral director, Richard?” I pose, poignantly. “What makes you think anything’s changed just because you’re working in a bar?” I smile at him and then open the truck door to step out.

Sally takes the news hardest of all. When she breaks down, I gently hold her in my arms and tell her how much Guy enjoyed doing that for her.

Sally weeps. “I should have done more. I should have told him how much he meant to me after Joe went. I should have had him move in with me. Maybe I could have saved him,” she laments over and over.

“Sounds like you guys had a really special relationship, Sally. Please be comforted knowing that Guy was very fond of you. All he ever talked about at the bar was
you,
and how much he enjoyed looking after you.”