The funeral home director called on Saturday. Little Liam had died. He was only 5. “Can you come one week from today? I think you can help.” I checked the calendar, but not really. “Yes, I can come. Just send me a name and number to call.”
I was given 10 digits, the last four sounding off slowly, as if the director was trying to avoid what came next. “That will get you Liam’s mom. Don’t forget to bring all your words when you come, especially the ones you know not to use.”
We hung up.
Later that afternoon I called Liam’s mom. We made plans to meet on Thursday at a diner. I thought the location strange for discussing matters of death, but I live in New England where the crocuses will sometimes try to bloom in February, so what do I know?
The next morning, I got up early to drive my mother-in-law to get herself a new knee. Standard operating procedure if you’re fortunate enough to live where we live, as we live, where the crocuses sometimes try to bloom in February. A possible trip on the Titanic, however, for anyone who can’t afford insurance against the cold, corporate hand.
At 5 p.m. I called my neighbor from the recovery room to ask if he might stop by the pharmacy for us before it closed. In 6 hours or less that new knee would be screaming uncle. “Whatever it costs, I’ll pay you back later.” My mother-in-law thought it strange. “They’re not my neighbor.” “I guess it’s enough that he’s my neighbor, or that you’re my mother-in-law, or something.”
The next day, when I saw my neighbor, I asked him how much for the pain meds. “No charge,” he told me cooly. But my mother-in-law had found the receipt for $30 in the bag with the Vicodin. When I stopped in to check on her progress, she gave me two 10s and two 5s. I put up my hands in surrender to neighborliness on all fronts. “He said no charge.”
On Thursday morning, I drove to the diner to meet Liam’s mom. Arriving early, I thought to try and get us a table in a quiet corner. While I sat waiting, the waitress came to introduce herself. The unsolicited coffee in her hand told me she was a friend, which, it turned out, she was. Just 4 months earlier, I had brought out all my words to use on her mom.
By 10 a.m. the diner was typically full. At the counter, a man called for more syrup and butter. The line stretching out the door made me uneasy. Liam’s mom said she wasn’t hungry, and being in no position to point out the world still going on around her, I wasn’t going to be the one to suggest we give our table to someone who might fetch the waitress more fare than us.
Of course, none of this mattered, least of all to our waitress who had placed a full pot of coffee on the table and two muffins we never ordered.
Even now I can’t recall what that told me it was time to get up and go. There was no more line at the door, the counter stools sat empty, the butter bowls full and waiting for the afternoon rush, the sorrow of Liam’s mom far from over.
I think it was the check from the waitress, resting on the edge of the table without notice or expectation. Had it been there the whole time? What if I had suddenly decided I wanted the tall stack of pancakes after all?
“Please, allow me,” I told Liam’s mom. I watched her leave the diner and walk to her car. Turning over the check, the total read, $0. I thought of that line from Frederick Buechner, “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out two 10s and two 5s, and tucked them under my coffee cup, now refilled so many times. I followed Liam’s mom back out into the day.
I'm the one on the left. That's my favorite part on the right. I'm an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church (USA) and the United Church of Christ. I work as Minister to a parish community in Cumberland, RI. That I could also see myself as a farmer, a cowboy, or Thoreau sitting pond-side at Walden is probably not insignificant. I don't blog about anything in particular, but everything I blog about is particularly important to me. That it may be to you as well is good enough for me.
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