A Life More Complete(102)
I pull into the parking lot an hour before the service. The church is nearly silent, an eerie stillness that is disrupted by the sound of the large wooden door closing behind me. The church was built in 1907 and has been beautifully restored. The woodwork a rich, deep brown with all its intricate detail and carvings present make the peaked ceilings appear taller. I’ve never been a religious person, but this church takes my breath away. A small elderly woman in a pillbox hat and a pale purple suit greets me warmly and ushers me into a small waiting area. Her voice is high when she speaks, almost mouse-like.
“Your father will be arriving shortly.” The way this woman says it makes it sound like he’ll be walking through the door. I guess it would sound a bit macabre for her to say that his dead body will be arriving in a wooden box toted by a group of men. She continues even though my thoughts are clearly not following. “You will have some time to say your last good-byes before the casket will be closed and sealed. Will there be other family with you?” she asks.
“My sisters and their husbands should be here soon. I’m not sure about my mother,” I say hearing my voice grow soft.
“I will let them know you are already here when they arrive.” Her voice is kind and she shuffles out of the room, the small hat on her head never shifting with her movement.
Left alone I scan the room for something to do. I suddenly feel the need to occupy my time with something other than taking in the extensive amount of religious statues staring at me. I’m starting to feel like I’m being judged by them and somehow they know I got knocked up before I was married. I whisper out loud, “At least I did the right thing. I’m married now.” After taking one more look at the leaded stained glass window depicting a pregnant Mary, I pull my phone from my purse. I scroll through a few emails and answer some easy questions before reading the statement Melinda issued regarding Trini’s absence from the movie set. The wording is dead on and it sounds as if I wrote it myself. It’s hard to stay mad at her when her work is this impeccable not to mention that she is helping me out. Just as I finish reading the last sentence Rachel and Maizey walk in. Purple suit follows closely behind and begins to prep my sisters as she did me.
“Your father has arrived and will join you shortly.”
Rachel looks back and forth between Maizey and me and says exactly what we’re all thinking. “Um, you mean his body?” Addressing Minnie Mouse in a purple suit with a little too much callousness in her voice. Rachel has always been harsh. It’s her way. She can come across as cold and unfeeling, but I know it is her way of dealing with things she can’t outwardly express. None of us deal with death well. We don’t like death, but in all honesty who does? We don’t do expressive, doleful condolences like some people can.
Purple Suit shakes her head and walks out of the room. When none of us can come up with the words to help us say good-bye to a man we hardly knew, we exit the room and take our requisite seats at the front of church. Sliding down the smooth wooden surface of the church pew, we begin to busy ourselves with any task that requires little attention. The next hour passes like honey in an hourglass, slow and thick.
The church starts to fill, but nowhere near capacity. When the priest begins to speak, it’s as if someone has stuffed my ears full of cotton. I can’t recall a word he says nor am I able to focus on listening. Rachel gives my hand a small squeeze indicating my time has come to deliver my father’s eulogy. As I rise she hands me a small pack of Kleenex, which slips through my fingers and lands with small, soft thud onto the church pew. I won’t need them. This is an homage to someone of very little substance in my life. I place myself in the mindset that this is just like any statement I have ever delivered in my career. Voice even and controlled, completely composed and unwaveringly calm. I place my BlackBerry on the lectern in front of me, looking out onto the six full rows of people in an otherwise massive church I begin.
“For those of you who don’t know me I’m James Mullins eldest daughter, Kristin. His two other daughters Rachel and Courtney survive him in death, too. James married my mother in this church on September 17, 1977. They were high school sweethearts, but unlike the fairy tale image that it conjures up their marriage was anything but. They divorced on May 24, 1987. A father is supposed to be someone a daughter can rely on for comfort, for support, for security, but most of all for love. Unconditional love. Are some people destined to fail as parents? I honestly don’t know. What I do know is my father failed. He failed my mother, my sisters and me. His drug use and his dependency on alcohol never allowed him the opportunity to be a father or a husband. In his defense, becoming a father isn’t like selecting a career. There is no interview for the job, no list of qualifications or an opt out clause at the end. How could he have possibly taken care of a child when he couldn’t take care of himself? For twenty eight years he failed me, but I in turn failed him.”