“Harleigh, miss, you have to eat something,” Hannah, the cook, coaxed. A plate of cold eggs sat in front of me.
People moved about. Calls were made. A big black SUV came. They rolled my father away. More voices, more people moving around. They had let me sleep. I woke up and got ready for my day. No one said anything to me, no one knocked on my door. No one came and got me in the middle of the night.
I thought I would have known, that a glowing orb of light would have come to me in my sleep, or a poignant and highly personal quote would have resonated through my dreams. I had no idea that my father had passed until I sat down for breakfast.
Not one to pass up an opportunity for theatrics, Tina swept into the kitchen eating area wearing a vintage starlet quality robe trimmed in marabou feathers. Her mascara streamed in black lines down her cheeks. Had she really put makeup before anyone told her, or had she done that afterward for effect? After all, this was Tina. Tina made her entrance, and from the mask of tear-streaked makeup, I knew.
That’s when Hannah slid a plate in front of me, and it felt like the world stopped spinning.
Someone helped Tina find a place to rest. I could picture her stretched out, and collapsed across her arms, shoulders shaking so it appeared she was crying. If that’s even what she was doing, maybe this time the tears were real. But in my imagination, they weren’t. Tina never had been a very good actress.
On the other hand, I wasn’t acting. I was numb. I didn’t know what to do, or how to help out. Devin arrived. He was angry and bellowing. He got loud when he was angry. He was loud in most of my early memories of him. Today was no different. He needed to learn to express those emotions more accurately. If he was sad it came out as anger, frustration, confusion, all those hard negative emotions he funneled into anger.
Many people asked me if I needed anything. Could they do something for me? I was told to eat. All I did was stare at that plate of eggs and wonder why my father had to die.
“Harleigh,” a low calm voice was accompanied by a warm hand on my arm.
Slowly, I moved to look into the concerned face of Jessie, the household manager. I tried to smile, but I don’t think I could contort my facial muscles to make the right expression.
Jessie said something to someone behind me before turning her attention back to me. “You need to eat something. I know you’ve had a hard morning, but you won’t do yourself any favors if you make yourself sick.”
“Okay,” I could barely hear myself.
A bowl of hot soup was placed in front of me. I stared at it.
“Eat,” Jessie coaxed.
“I will.” I probably wouldn’t, but it was the right thing to tell Jessie so she wouldn’t worry about me.
“I’m staying here until you get that soup into you.”
I felt her watch me as I continued to stare at the bowl.
“Why don’t you let me sit with her. I know you have about a thousand things to take care of today.”
I didn’t see who was talking to Jessie until she got up.
“I’m nearby if you need anything,” she said.
Mr. Sanderson replaced her in the chair next to me. “Jessie is right, you have to keep your strength up. The next few days are going to be taxing.”
I looked at him. Did he really look like my father right then, or was it the generic look of old men that I was seeing? Mr. Sanderson didn’t have the thin, liver-spotted skin that my father had. He didn’t look nearly as old, and I knew they were close in age.
He sat and watched me. I picked up the spoon and less than delicately slurped the warm butternut squash soup. It was rich and creamy with a hint of nutmeg. My favorite. If there was ever a moment for comfort food, clearly this was it.
When I started eating, it was to make the others around me pleased with my actions. I did it for them, not for me. I hadn’t expected to finish the entire bowl.
“Are you feeling better?” Mr. Sanderson asked.
I nodded.
“Maybe a rest? I can call a doctor and get you a sedative if you’d like?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I feel like I need to do something.”
“You can come shopping with me,” Tina said sharply.
I hadn’t even realized she was nearby. In my head I still had her languishing on a settee in another part of the house. I shook my head. The last thing I wanted to do was go anywhere with Tina. I played nice because I had to, not because I wanted to be her friend. And the very idea of shopping gave me mental hives. I hated dressing rooms and fashion that did not take my particular body type in mind.
“I don’t think I could manage being around other people,” I managed to say.
Tina shrugged and tottered away. I assumed she was headed out the front door to slide into the back of a black car and lose herself and her misery with a little retail therapy.
I turned my head when I heard Devin’s distinctive bark.
“Is there something I can do to help?” I asked Mr. Sanderson. “I want to feel useful. I can call a flower shop or the funeral home. Give me something to do.”
“Did I just see Tina leave?” Devin said with all the exasperation in the world. He had his phone pressed to the side of his face. “Yes?” He turned and walked back out of the kitchen, his attention on the phone.
“All of that has been handled dear,” Mr. Sanderson said.
Devin reappeared. “The funeral director will be here in fifteen. Did Tina seriously leave?” He shook his head.
“I think Harleigh would like to join us,” Mr. Sanderson said.
“Why? No!” Devin’s anger overrode anything else he might be thinking. I wasn’t in the mood to antagonize him, but this was my father.
“I’m going to be in that meeting, Devin. He was my father, whether he liked it or not,” I said standing up. My legs felt a little wobbly, as I had been sitting in the same chair, not moving, for hours.
The funeral director was kind. He let us know exactly when services could be held, and what the process was. He was well prepared with a list of possible readings, both religious and secular. Since Mr. Sanderson knew him best, I felt comfortable letting him decide on the readings.
When I asked about flowers, I was told they would be included in the service the funeral home provided. “Of course we will provide a tasteful arrangement of white flowers.”
“Just white ones?” I asked. My mom had large sunflowers at her funeral. Sunflowers and chrysanthemums. They had been her favorite, so bright and happy.
“Unless the deceased had a favorite you would prefer, we tend to do a mix of what is in season.”
“Is that okay with you? Or do you need him to have something with more flair?” Devin sneered at me.
“You’re confusing me with Tina. Tasteful white flowers will be perfect. I don’t think my father had a favorite.”
“He liked orchids,” Devin said abruptly.
I stared at him. He looked forward with laser focus on the funeral director. How did he know my father’s favorite flower? I scoffed. Because he was my father’s preferred son, even if he wasn’t my brother. There was so much more about my father that the man in front of me knew than I ever would.
“Orchids? And you accused me of wanting flowers with more flair? Orchids are pretty damned flamboyant. And bouquets of them would be excessive,” I said.
“Your father was nothing if he wasn’t excessive,” Mr. Sanderson interjected.
He was right. My father liked to go big.
The funeral director looked from face to face. “Orchids? Orchid arrangements if we can source that many white ones?”
We all nodded.
“Can we play Ride of the Valkyries by Wagner?” I asked when the conversation turned to music. It seemed like a proper send-off for someone of my father’s fortitude and stature in industry. Big, epic, heroic, ostentatious.
“Of course we can,” the funeral director said.
When asked about Amazing Grace, I said no. My father will not get to share the same funerary song that we buried my mother to. Amazing Grace was my mom. It was her song. He couldn’t have it. I couldn’t explain myself. No one here would understand, they didn’t need to know my reasons. I started to cry. I couldn’t stand the thought of my father taking that song away from my mother.
I wouldn’t budge.
“I think we can find another suitable hymn. Is this becoming too much for you? It’s okay if you want to take a break,” Mr. Sanderson said to me.
I wiped at my tears. I didn’t want to be there any longer. Thanking the funeral director I left. I wandered back to the kitchen. When I was living on my own, I had been surprised at how much time I spent in my kitchen. It was the center of the home.
But this house never felt that way to me. I didn’t feel centered here, or anywhere. Maybe if I tried to make something I would feel more like I belonged. I looked around me. There were so many people in and out today, and more would be coming through in the next few days, cookies seemed like a good idea.
Collecting the ingredients took my mind off the fact that I no longer had a family. My father was gone, but he had been emotionally distant since I moved in after my mother’s death.
I located a cookbook and found my favorite cinnamon cookie. I went through the pantry but hadn’t seen the vanilla. I began to frantically search cabinets looking for the familiar small bottle of extract. I even began looking for pods. I couldn’t find anything.
My need for the flavoring grew frantic. Each new empty cabinet felt like growing panic. I wouldn’t be able to make cookies without it. If I couldn’t make cookies I wouldn’t be able to get past the death of my father.
I needed the cookies so that I wasn’t lost. There wasn’t any vanilla. What was I going to do now? I sank to the floor in a mess of tears. What was I supposed to do without my father? What was going to happen to me now? I was all alone in the world, no family, no one.
