It’s Not Closure
Gwen parked at the end of a short single row of cars on a narrow, hilly lane in Niskayuna Rural Cemetery. Behind the gray hearse and matching limousine, she counted five other cars. She had expected more people. The obit had mentioned that James Anderson was an active community member and retired professor. Had he outlived his circle or made enemies of those he knew? Gwen would not go unnoticed here, approaching the tidy group alone and late, stepping between granite tombstones, trying to maintain a dignified posture with her heels sinking into the grass.
A dozen or so heads bowed in front of a brushed silver casket topped with cascading flowers. Gwen had memorized the names from the newspaper: son Walter, daughter Sheila. And the four grandchildren: Tyler, Lily, Connor, and Michael.
That must be the daughter, Sheila, the one dressed like a widow in black dress and veil, a man on either side supporting her, although her square frame appeared sturdy and firmly planted. That must be her husband to one side, and on the other, her brother. Next to them stood a younger woman, the lone black face among a bouquet of lilies, holding a toddler in her arms. The grandchildren were teenagers, sullen boys in ill-fitting jackets, the blue-haired girl staring off into the trees.
Gwen stood at the back of the group, a small gap between herself and the others. A few faces turned to notice her. The morning was humid and hazy. Sweat trickled beneath her dark sleeves and her forehead glistened. The stitches over her eye itched.
The priest spoke about the good and noble life of James Anderson, which should not be overshadowed by the last few difficult years.
About his reunion with God.
Gwen had no image of who lay inside this casket. She’d never seen James or even a photograph of him. There’d been no glance of his face through the windshield just before the accident, no screaming imprint in her mind. The way the light had reflected the sky on the glass, the speed of the event—it might have been an empty car that crossed her path. But it wasn’t.
Now the priest sprinkled holy water on the casket. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …” And now he made his way among the mourners, flicking sprinkles of holy water from a golden nozzle onto the family. Even in the back, standing to one side, Gwen felt a few drops like the first hint of rain. Cicadas twanged in the nearby trees.
Brian had been against her attending the funeral. He questioned whether she’d be welcome at the service. After she’d spoken to him about it on the phone, he’d come home from work a few hours later in a curt, cranky mood, going so far as to call it a stupid idea.
“Whether I’m welcome or not isn’t the point,” Gwen insisted. They didn’t often accuse each other of having stupid ideas.
“Then what is the point? Why do you want to insert yourself in this situation?”
“To pay my respects to someone who died in an accident I was involved in.”
“Gwen, stop blaming yourself for what happened. He hit you.”
“I’m not blaming myself, but I feel awful.”
“Then send flowers to the family, buy a mass card.”
“I think it will only make things harder for you.”
“And I think it’s the right thing to do, even if it is hard. I need to go.”
“Then it’s not about paying respects to the family, it’s about getting closure for yourself.”
Closure. She hated that word. She didn’t believe in it. All those self-help articles and therapists who spoke about achieving closure after traumatic events: death, divorce, downsizing. Such chasms don’t close so neat and tidy; they reveal a new path that alters the course of your life. Like the time she’d had an abortion and afterward visited a cemetery, a different one from this one, in a different city, and sat on a bench until closing at dusk when a guard on patrol approached and asked her to leave the grounds. She’d made up her mind that evening never to have another abortion, no matter what. She didn’t look upon that assertion as an ending or a closure ritual; it was a life decision, one that made a big impact once Brian came along and she became pregnant again, this time with Nora.
The service ended and the group parted and moved about and the teenagers sat together under the canopy of a willow tree. The priest put an arm around James’s daughter, Sheila. Gwen should approach the family, she should say something—to somebody. Express regrets, explain the reason for her presence. She was not a funeral crasher.
Before she could take initiative, one of the men peeled from the group and approached her.
“I’m Walt Anderson—James’s son.”
Gwen had guessed his identity correctly.
“My sister wants to know who you are.”
Gwen introduced herself.
“I was the driver of the other car in the accident. I thought … I wanted to pay my respects. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Walt nodded. “The car my father struck. I’m sorry you had to be involved. He never should have been driving with his condition. It’s kind of you to come.”
Take that, Brian, I told you it was the right thing for me to be here.
“I see you didn’t come through the accident unscathed,” Walt said.
Gwen fingered her stitches. “Oh, this is nothing, nothing compared to …” Compared to a dead man.
“Who is it?” the daughter, Sheila, called out, loud enough that the others present turned their focus on Gwen.
“My father had Alzheimer’s,” Walt explained. “He lived with my sister—at her insistence, although it was very challenging for her.”
“Walter! Who is it?”
Walt shrugged as if apologizing to Gwen. “The car keys were hidden, but he must have come across them while looking for something else, who knows what. And the next thing he’s driving somewhere, who knows where. He talked a lot about the Adirondacks, where he’d grown up, but he was driving in the other direction when the accident happened.”
“That must have been frightening for you, not knowing where he’d gone.”
“It’s like having a two-year-old,” Walt said. “You don’t know what they’ll get into—you can’t leave them alone. I should know, I have one now. That’s my daughter, Mali, over there; my wife is holding her.”
He motioned to the black woman and the youngster in her arms, standing apart from the others.
Gwen went through the list of grandchildren mentioned in the obituary: no Mali.
Sheila made her way over to where Gwen and Walt stood, her husband following several paces behind.
“Sheila, this is Gwen Raine. She was kind enough to come for Dad. She was driving the car that Dad struck.”
Sheila flinched, as if a bug had flown into her face. “You,” she said.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Gwen said. “Your brother was just mentioning that you cared for your father—I mean, that he lived with you. I’m sure it was a great comfort to him being with his family.”
“You were on drugs,” Sheila snapped.
Now it was Gwen’s turn to flinch. “Mrs.…” Gwen started and stopped. She didn’t remember Sheila’s last name, hadn’t prepared for this.
Sheila moved closer, swaying in and out of Gwen’s face, like a boxer feinting.
“You were high on drugs. You struck and killed an innocent person. I know what happened. I have a friend in the Morrissey police. She told me all about it.”
“Sheila, that’s not what happened,” Walt said.
“You should be in prison. And what do you get—all you get is a black eye.”
“Sheila, please,” Walt said. He tried to put an arm on his sister. She brushed him off.
“What religion are you?”
“Um, well …” Gwen didn’t have a concise answer for the woman. She had a long and convoluted answer that she and Brian worked out with the kids, about how people have different beliefs regarding God and religion and each person has to make their own decision and right now their family was not any one particular religion by name, but their goal was to introduce their kids to … It was the usual agnostic plea bargain from parents who had lapsed. But Nora wanted to wear a white dress and receive her First Communion like other girls in her class. Or celebrate eight nights of Hanukkah. Or at least know more about Episcopalians, the faith both Brian and Gwen had been raised in.
“Just as I thought,” Sheila said. “And you probably have young children.” She crossed herself.
“Sheila, let it go,” Walt said.
“Are you a mother?”
“I don’t see why that matters,” Gwen said, ready to fight back now.
“Oh, those poor innocent babes.”
“We should get going,” Walt said. “We’re expected back at the house.”
But Sheila would not let up. “If it weren’t for God—if it weren’t for the grace of God, where would I have found the strength to care for Dad every day? It’s me, I’m the one who …” She started to cry and fought back tears with the righteous defiance of a martyr about to be stoned.
Her husband, who had yet to say a word, took her arm.
“I’ve got a good mind to sue you for wrongful death. I can, you know,” Sheila said.
“Gwen was not at fault in the accident,” Walt said. “The police have already determined that.”
“What are you—defending her?” Sheila spat back.
“Please calm down.”
“A drug addict and a heathen. If the police don’t get you, God will.” She turned to her husband. “Peter, can’t I bring a lawsuit? I can, can’t I?” Now looking at Gwen again.
“You can try,” her husband said miserably. “Come on, now, let’s go. It’s time to go home.”
Peter led his wife away, toward the limousine behind the hearse.
Gwen let Walt walk her back to her car.
“I’m sorry, that was embarrassing,” Walt said.
Now she was sorry she had come and wished she had listened to Brian, although he’d been such a jerk about it that she couldn’t have followed his advice even if she wanted to.
“For me, my father hasn’t been my father for years now—he’s just a shell, his mind gone—but for Sheila, he was still everything.”
“It must be really hard for her,” Gwen said. They had reached her car.
“You know what I said about it being like having a two-year-old? Sure there’s confusion and tantrums and repetitive boredom, but calm and loving moments, too, when your baby’s resting on your shoulder and the love and dependency is so deep and mutual.”
Yes, Gwen remembered that feeling; she missed it often.
“It was like that with my father and Sheila. Imagine losing your two-year-old.”
Gwen shook her head. “No, I can’t.”
He opened the car door for her. “Thank you for coming, Gwen. I appreciate it.”
She got in her car and cried most of the way home, not that it provided any closure.