My Life in Shambles(81)

“I am,” I say to him. He has a handsome face, darker skinned, and very white teeth. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you’re one of Padraig’s teammates.”

“You’d be right,” he says. “My name’s Hemi. Hemi Tuatiaki.”

He holds out his hand and I give it a shake.

“Nice to meet you, Hemi. I thought there would be a lot more of his team here.” I look around the funeral. It’s not a small event. The entire town of Shambles has shown up at this cemetery overlooking the sea, but everyone is about seventy years old and no one looks like they play rugby anymore.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but Padraig likes to keep to himself. I think I was the only one who really got to know his father and that wasn’t very well. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I didn’t know his father very well but I really did like him.” I take in a deep breath. I’ve been crying off and on all week since Colin passed away and though I’m mourning his loss, most of my tears are for Padraig. His grief is boundless.

“Is he all right?” Hemi asks softly, nodding over at Padraig who is standing by the casket and consoling people, even though Padraig is the one who needs the most consoling.

I shake my head. “No. This would have been hard for anyone under normal circumstances but …” I trail off, not sure if I should get personal, but Hemi is his friend and he’s here. “They had a fight before he died. Things were said that are weighing on Padraig. He got to say his goodbyes to his father but his father … he passed before they could make amends.”

“Fuck,” Hemi swears. “That’s rough.”

“Where is your accent from, by the way?”

“New Zealand,” he says proudly.

“Wait a minute. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be playing for the All Blacks?” I’m kinda proud of myself for knowing the name of their rugby team.

He grins. “Ah, I did for two years and then got traded out here. Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind going back. I miss home. But I wouldn’t want to leave old Padraig here. He’d have to learn how to pull his weight, then.”

I cringe internally. Padraig hasn’t told his team yet about his diagnosis. I know this was something he’s been waiting to do and right now is definitely not the right time, but it sucks that his best friend from the team doesn’t know the truth.

“Do you know when he’s coming back to the game?” he asks hopefully.

I can only shrug and give him a quick smile. “I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t talk about it?”

“We’ve just been so focused on his father …”

He nods. “Ah, I get it.”

And it’s not a lie either. This whole last week has been misery for everyone at the B&B, trying to deal with his father’s funeral arrangements. It’s too much stress for Agnes to worry about, and Padraig has been practically comatose, so I’ve had to take it all on by myself and let me tell you, funerals are a bitch. You would think they would make the process easier for people who are steeped in grief but they try and nickel and dime you every step of the way.

Luckily Padraig has money and told me to throw whatever I could at them to make the situation easier.

So far, I think it turned out okay. As far as funerals go.

The sun is shining and it makes the color of the grass and the beautiful bouquets and wreaths of flowers look electric. There are a lot of people here crying, a lot of love and stories being shared for this man. I think Colin would have been happy with it, but who knows. He might have secretly hated everyone here and complained about the color of the flowers.

“We should go sit down,” Hemi says to me, guiding me by the elbow to the seats.

I sit down next to Agnes, with the Major on the other side of her. Padraig is at the podium, ready to deliver the eulogy. He’s wearing a dark grey suit that I picked up for him in Cork, and even though it doesn’t fit him quiet right, he looks stunning in it.

“How are ye doing, dear?” Agnes asks me as she takes my hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. The tenderness brings a tear to my eye.

I nod, pressing my lips together. “I’m doing okay. How about you?”

“I have a hole in my nylons,” she grumbles. “The only good pair I had.”

I give her a sweet smile and rest my head on her shoulder for a moment, letting her know that I’m here. Her humor and grumpiness are defense mechanisms if I’ve ever seen one. I’m just lucky that she’s been able to get over the lies we told. When it comes to her relationship with me and with Padraig, it’s been repaired.

It hurts that the same didn’t happen with Colin.

Padraig holds up a sheet in his hands as he briefly looks over the crowd. The sheet is shaking but I can’t tell if it’s tremors from his MS or from the grief. This week, so many of his symptoms, the shaking, the fatigue, could easily be blamed on either affliction.

“Do not go gentle into that good night,” Padraig clears his throat and begins by reading the poem by Dylan Thomas. “Old age should burn and rave at close of day. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, because their words had forked no lightning, they do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, they wave by, crying how bright their fragile deeds might have danced in a green bay. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”