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“Father Constantinos Smythe,” I answered.
“Father, sorry to bother you this early. This is John Soulakis. Our mom wasn’t feeling well last night. Her assisted living called us and… she has a DNR. We’ve been here for a while. I think it might be time. Can you come? Holly Acres?”
“Of course. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you, Father.”
I stood, my body aching and cold, as I made my way into our bedroom.
I quickly brushed my teeth and dressed. Mindfully stepping into my black slacks, my black shirt, my armor.
I grew stronger with every garment I donned. Sliding the plastic tab into the collar forced my spine into a rigid column. By the time I tied the anderí at my waist, I felt almost capable again. Thoughts of Decca were sidelined. I had a job to perform. I packed my stole, my Bible, and book of readings. I prepared the Holy Eucharist.
Maybe this was what trusting God was all about. Trusting that you didn’t have to dwell on the hardships. He could always distract you with something worse.
Decca
“What are you doingout here? You know you can come on back.” Jeanette’s battle-hardened face flashed around the corner.
I didn’t want to be here. In Knoxville. Tainting a place I loved with my misery. Jeanette didn’t need me wasting her time with this pseudo-interview.
I was doing my part for Gus’s charade. Sitting in this plastic chair in this generic holding area, waiting for the right time to let the boss down easily.
As soon as I heard her voice, my throat tightened.
Why had I bothered to come all the way here? Did I really think he’d figure out he couldn’t live without me in the twenty-four hours I’d be gone?
Hot, angry tears pooled, despite my attempt to will them away. Just as one slipped down my cheek, I heard her groan.
“Oh, no.” She said it without any undue empathy.
Good. I didn’t want empathy. Jeanette’s frankness was part of what I loved about her, what had sent me running to her officeyears ago when Granny had died. She found meaning in work and instilled the same ethic and value in me.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” she gripped my elbow hard. She wasn’t big on touch, but when she gave in, it was meaningful and deliberate. There was a strength in her grip that conveyed the reluctant but sincere compassion that lurked within her.
I wasn’t sure what was wrong. Just that I shouldn’t be here.
“My father-in-law. He’s on hospice. He... doesn’t have long.” I didn’t lie, but Jim wasn’t why I was crying now.
She pulled me into her office. It wasn’t a typical university administrator’s office. But Jeanette wasn’t a typical admin. She was very active in the field, teaching classes and taking on grad assistants.
Sheets of paper stuck out from stacks of books. The books thatwereon the shelves weren’t placed vertically, they were haphazardly everywhere, as if each shelf was a dumping ground for journals, temporarily bound papers, service awards, and Tupperware containers from lunch. Posters from 90s-era Shakespeare in the Park festivals adorned the walls, faded with the sun from the window behind the desk. Muddy boots were piled in a corner.
Even Jeanette didn’t look like an admin. Her tangled hair fell to her mid-back. It was parted in the middle, curtaining her face, and gunmetal grey from the ear up. She wore a worn-out polo shirt with the FAC logo embroidered above the left breast, khaki cargo pants, and clean work boots. I’d never seen this woman dressed up in anything more than business casual, and that was for court appearances. Even then, it was cheap dress pants and an ill-fitting button-down. I didn’t know why I’d expected to see her in anything but what she wore today, but the dependability of her wardrobe was like wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. I drew strengthfrom her weather-beaten face, her graying hair, her strikingly blue eyes and Virginia Woolf nose.
I kicked my feet into the chair with me. This wasn’t an interview. There was no need to be formal with Jeanette. She’d shown me how to collect blowfly larvae off my first bloated corpse, watching my face for signs of shock or lightheadedness. She’d cried with me when a grandmother had finally come through with an identification of the Baby Doe I’d exhumed from under a highway overpass.
“Do you want to talk about him?”
I shook my head. Just because she was tied to the dead, it didn’t make her capable of dealing with grief. Or any feelings-y business. I was a bit of an anomaly in that respect.
Then again, just because I’d been trained in helping others pass, it didn’t give me the skills to be able to deal with my own grief. Especially not the grief of potentially losing my marriage to a man who wouldn’t fight for it.
“Jim? There’s nothing to talk about. We made an end-of-life plan. I’m supposed to be there to help implement it.”
“I know you came all this way, but we can do this another time.”
I didn’t respond. We were both quiet for a while. A humorless huff escaped me as my eyes unfocused on the stack of papers on her desk. “My husband’s trying to push me away. He thinks this job means he doesn’t have to feel guilty anymore.”
