IX-North

Red River, Manitoba, Canada

“They say that Jesus will come down half way from heaven and hover above the earth to meet his believers.” Mom lowers her hands over the bright orange and yellow tablecloth she purchased from the MCC Thrift Store, the Mennonite version of Value Village. “He will then gather everyone up and take them with him. Not everyone will join him but that’s their choice.” Her hands remain suspended above the table acting out “The Rapture”.

I stare at the charade in disbelief. We have just come from the hospital where my dad, her husband of 66 years, has died. All I want to do is challenge her but I force myself to remain quiet - to question her on this, of all nights, seems cruel. 

“Can we light a candle for Dad?” I ask. 

“Candles are for Jesus.” she says.

Speechless, I stand in the middle of the one bedroom apartment staring at the little Christmas tree I bought for Dad’s hospital room. I had carried it into the apartment three days ago to show my mom but when she started to unwrap and put it on the end table I figured it meant more to her than it would to my ailing father. 

“Brrrring.” I run to the phone thankful for the break in silence. My mom’s brother, the youngest of nine, is calling to see if he should come over. 

“No, no, no, I need it quiet.” Mom says. But as she listens in to our conversation she quickly changes her mind. She peeks into the bedroom and says, “Ok, he can come.”

We wait for my uncle unable to break the silence that builds between us. Finally a knock on the door.

“Hey! I’m so sorry,” he says and gives Mom, and then me, a big hug. We need it. Neither one of us has been able to comfort the other.

“Ok,” Mom says as if we are in the middle of the last conversation, “You can light a candle.” Surprised and eager to do something with the pent up energy I jump into action.

“Where are the matches?”

“I’m not sure I have any.” she says. But that doesn’t stop us. Finally with a common purpose, we search frantically as if we’ve lost something, which we certainly have.

“That’s ok,” I say and start to roll up a piece of paper from the recycling bin hoping it will catch fire on the element. Flecks of ash float in the faint draft above the stove and the smoke begins to swirl. “We were at Ted’s having a toast to your dad,” my uncle whispers as he takes control of the paper and I try to trap the ash.

“Ah THAT is what I need right now,” I whisper back. 

“Be careful, don’t burn the floor.” Mom says from behind us.

“…and fire!” I whisper again.

Finally the candle is lit and placed on the coffee table. My uncle and Mom sit on the couch together while I choose my father’s chair and start to swivel, back and forth.

As the two of them talk I check my phone. My brother Ron and I spent the afternoon together at Dad’s bedside. I always knew what the outcome of congestive heart failure would be, but it didn’t make it any easier when it came to listening to Dad gasp for air before he died. “He’s drowning.” I had said to Ron just a few hours ago.

“Can we make a fire?” I text.

“Sure,” he texts back.

“Well, she’s a good teacher, that I know.” I look up at the two of them who are looking back at me. 

“Now Marian,” my uncle says. “You know your daughter is a good person.” Pause. “She’s a good person.” Again he repeats himself. “She’s a good person.” I watch and wait expecting to hear a cock crow like the night of Judas’ betrayal of Jesus.

My phone buzzes in my hand. I look down and see a picture of a blazing fire. “Well, I think I’m going to go to Ron’s.” I say. I look over at my uncle and silently plead for permission. “You gonna stay for a bit?” I ask.

“Yes, yes go ahead.” he says.

A quick hug from both of them and I slip on my boots, throw on my winter jacket and head out the door.

Twenty minutes later I park the car in front of my brother's timber frame house, take a deep breath and enter. My sister-in-law is at the door in seconds and gives me a big motherly hug like I’ve watched her do a thousand times with her own children. “I just had to get out of there. The church stuff is making me crazy.”

“Well, come on in, we got the fire going,” Ron says. I follow him to the back of the house towards the large patio doors without taking off my boots.

“Oh! The fire is inside! I thought the fire was going to be outside, down by the river!” I cry out. “Oh no no, I can’t be inside, I have to get out!” Little pools of water puddle on the pine-board floor where I stand.

“Ah, well let me get you a flashlight,” and miraculously my sister-in-law pulls out a battery operated light from, what feels like, no where. “Here take this, it’s dark out. You’ll need it.” she says.

I don’t need a flashlight! I think to myself but I don’t want to do more offending than I’ve already done. “I just need to get down to the river and phone Irvin.” I grab the flashlight, my phone and step out the large patio doors.

An adhoc dock with two plastic Muskoka chairs nailed to the planks, jets out into the river. It’s cold, maybe -5, but there’s no wind. Even the river is still, although I know, the Red never really rests. There are lots of currents and undertows in this river. A body can go down one place and come up in a completely different location. Most summers we swim in it, but we keep our heads above water.

A cemetery sits at the top of the adjacent hill on the west side of the river. A dull light shines from a lone building on the property. I stare at my phone. Why do I have to do a search for my brother’s number? Why isn’t he a favourite? I imagine his home phone ringing on the desk by his front door. He answers right away.

“How you doing, Sand?” he asks. 

“It was awful.”

“Tell me about it.” 

And so I do.

I tell him about the altercation between Mom and I. She was angry with me when I stopped her from giving our father a spray for his mouth because he was gagging so much. She stomped out of the hospital room in anger never to see our father alive again.

I tell him about Dad’s gasping for air and about the doctor who was supposed to come at supper time. When is supper time in a hospital? 4:00? 4:30? 5:00?5:30? 6:00? 6:30?

I tell him about the thin yellow crescent moon rising in the indigo sky I saw just a half hour before Dad died at 7:00.

“He left when we were out of the room. We were only gone 10 minutes and it seems like he took the opportunity to leave.” I explain as if I believe Dad had a choice about when he would finally die. "Ron says he could hear us.”

And then I begin to wonder what else he might have realized was going on around him in the last few hours. Did he hear Mom and I fighting over him? Had he felt my hands hold him and stroke his forehead as I encouraged him to clear his chest? Did he hear the doctor give him his imminent prognosis?

And just after he died and I was alone with him did he hear my regrets, my sorrow? Did he know I used to think he was the only one who ever truly loved me?

Does he hear Irvin and me crying now? “I want to read you something.” I say between sniffles. “Can I read you something?”

“Yes, yes, go ahead.”

“I have to retrieve it on my phone because I’m so dumb I can’t ever seem to remember it.” I scroll and find it in my notes app.

“May all conditions, affairs, relationships that no longer serve us be returned by the eagle to its native nothingness,” I hear Irv chuckle. “To its native nothingness,” I repeat, “from whence it came.” I pause. “I’m looking at the river Irvin. It’s calm, and there are blue and yellow lights to the north reflecting on the stillness. I think Dad’s gone north.” 

“Nobody really knows what happens when we die. They tell us they know but they don’t know.” I hear him take a breath. “I imagine him zooming through the stars like when he had that dream in the hospital a few years ago.”

“What dream? I don’t remember.”

“You know when he thought the nurses were running a gambling ring. He thought they were a part of the mafia.” He chuckles.

“Oh, I remember that.”

“And then he said he had the most amazing dream. Remember? He was flying through the stars and he was amazed because he could name them all. He said it was the most awe-inspiring feeling.” 

“Oh I don’t remember that!” Why can’t I remember? “Thank you for that image.”

“Thank you sis. Thanks for calling.”

“Thanks so much for listening.” 

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hang up the phone and stare at the reflection of the lights on the river. The thin moon has already snuck out of the night sky. I begin to shiver. I don’t need the flashlight to guide me back to the house. 

***

The next morning I take my flight back to Toronto. My brother and sister-in-law drop me off at the Winnipeg airport early. I sit and stare out the large windows facing north and remember how my dad loved working in small fly-in communities.

Later from the window seat, I look down on the Red River meandering north with the angular lines of the floodway, dredged out of the prairie landscape, alongside it like a reliable supportive parent, present in case of overwhelm and flooding. Powdered snow covers the fields. The view turns to frozen lakes and rivers until we head up through the clouds and into blue sky. Suddenly an image of Dad flits into my mind. He’s holding on to the wing of the plane, laughing. His body undulates in the wind and then disappears.

I find it all so comforting to imagine he’s gone North, free from the confines of life, religion and broken hearts. I suppose this is why Mom believes in heaven. Unlike her though, I just don’t think I’ll ever get to hug my father again.