Mother Of Prevention

Kris’s face wrinkled in a smile she tried to suppress. “She almost said a bad word, too. And Reverend Joe was standing right there.”

I laughed.

It felt so blessedly good.

The thought of Ida cutting loose in front of our pastor struck me as being extremely funny, although I supposed part of my reaction was due to nerves.

The girls, freed by my laughter, joined me. I sat down beside them on the bed and the three of us had a good laugh. Finally, wiping tears from the corners of my eyes, I said, “Look, girls. We’ve lost Daddy, but it’s still all right to laugh.”

Kris nodded. “Daddy liked to laugh.”

“Yes, Daddy did.” Neil had had a laugh that rang out like church bells. I could be standing on the other side of the yard and hear him and know immediately Neil was enjoying life. That’s the way he was—he enjoyed life, and he’d told me a hundred times, Be happy for the day, Kate. Tomorrow has its own agenda.

I drew my girls close, breathing in their unique, little-girl scent. “We’re going to have sad times,” I promised, thinking how ridiculously understated that sounded. “But we will always have laughter. Daddy would want that. That’s a promise.”

The children hugged me back, then rolled over and crawled beneath the blankets.

I turned out the light and stretched out in the middle of the bed with my clothes still on, holding a precious daughter on each side. “Say the prayer,” Kelli said.

I caught my breath. How could I pray tonight? From the depths of my misery, what could I thank God for?

“Go on, Mommy. God’s waiting.”

All right. I would say the prayer, but other than in front of my children, I would never speak to God again. Never. He had taken the one thing from me He knew I held the dearest. What kind of loving God did that? My praise came haltingly and was brief.

“Thank You for my daughters. Thank You for the years we had their father. Be with us as we go into tomorrow, for we need Your care.”

“Amen,” the girls said in unison.

I lay in the dark, with the girls sleeping beside me, and let my thoughts drift. I was still too numb and keyed up to sleep. Sudden tears scalded my cheeks. Dear God. Neil was gone.

The day of Neil’s service dawned clear and sunny. It had rained two days in succession. I had a feeling that the sky had cried itself out.

My mother and dad had arrived from Kansas. I put them in the master bedroom, and fixed a pallet for myself on the floor in Kelli’s room. My parents and Neil’s had never been what you might call “close.” Armed truce was more like it. They were so polite to each other it set my teeth on edge.

Sally Fowler, my next-door neighbor, kept running in and out, keeping peace and striking a note of normalcy. I had a large black-and-blue bruise on my arm, which puzzled me. When I wondered about it out loud, Sally said the day Neil died I had kept pinching my arm, trying to convince myself I was dreaming. I couldn’t remember, but I didn’t remember much of that awful day. The mental fog had cut deeper than I realized.

My mother was standing at the stove when I entered the kitchen, making her special sour cream flapjacks. Madge Madison was arranging her famous breakfast casserole on the kitchen table.

Mom poured juice. Madge poured hot chocolate.

The tension was so thick you could have cut it with a knife and called it fudge. I sighed. Well, at least nobody was crying.

Kelli padded into the room and cast a jaundiced eye at the set table. “I want Fruitee Pops,” she announced.

My mother matched her look for look. “Kelli. I got up early to fix pancakes for you.” Her tone said, Therefore you will eat them.

Kelli stuck out her lower lip. “I don’t want pancakes. I want Fruitee Pops.” She sat down at her usual place and propped her elbows on the table. Mom slapped a plate of pancakes down in front of her. Kelli pushed it aside.

Mom burst into tears.

So did Kelli.

Followed by Madge.

I excused myself and went upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom.

Somehow we made it to the funeral home on time. Flowers were banked on both sides of the casket. Neil had a lot of friends, and the auditorium was crowded. I’d let Neil’s mother pick out the songs, and now I regretted it.

“‘If we never meet again, this side of heaven,’” the soprano trilled, and I sobbed into my handkerchief.

Neil would have liked his service, if that were possible. The church held over six hundred firemen today, all dressed for a solemn occasion. When the funeral cortege left the church for the cemetery, the fire signal system started tapping at regular thirty-second intervals. The procession passed Neil’s station, Station 16. His fellow workers and friends—some with tears openly streaming down their cheeks—stood at attention with their caps over their hearts. Behind the hearse was a body of twenty men who were his closest friends. Behind them, one hundred uniformed firemen accompanied my husband on his last run.

The service at the cemetery was mercifully brief. We didn’t linger at the grave site. By this time I knew it wasn’t Neil in that box—that wasn’t my vibrantly alive husband.

As soon as we got back to my house everyone started loading cars, looking for lost items and saying final goodbyes.

Dad hugged me. “Listen, kitten. You need us, you call. Oklahoma isn’t that far from Kansas. We’ll come in a heartbeat.”

I leaned against him, feeling like a little girl again. “I know. Thanks.”

Mom wrapped her arms around me. The tip of her nose was red from crying. “Oh, Katie, I’m so sorry. We loved Neil.”

I kissed her cheek. “He loved you, too.”

“Call me and let me know how you’re getting along.”

“I will.”

“Anything you need, call,” Dad reiterated.

I nodded, knowing they couldn’t provide what I needed—my life restored, my husband resurrected from the dead.

They both hugged the girls, then they got in their car and drove away, and we went through the whole routine again with Neil’s parents.

As suddenly as they had appeared, everyone was gone. Sally and Ron Fowler had offered to take Neil’s parents to the airport. I’d agreed, thankful for the reprieve.

That night I sat in the empty living room, holding a cup of tea I didn’t want. The kids were in bed, the doors were locked. For the first time in days the house was silent. I had never realized how devastating silence could be.

I was a widow with two small children and I knew I couldn’t make it alone. Never mind how I knew, I just knew. Neil’s worn Bible lay on the coffee table where he’d left it. We had been strong believers, faithful in our church, but nothing in our Christian walk had prepared me for this. A man didn’t die at thirty-two; that wasn’t possible. The past week had been a nightmare and I wanted to wake up.

But I wasn’t asleep, and I knew it.

Was my faith strong enough to face the future? Neil had left a reasonable insurance policy, so with proper investment I wouldn’t have to worry about money. If I kept my job…but I had to do a lot of flying. What if the plane went down? The thought winged through my subconscious and formed a grapefruit-sized knot in my stomach. What would my children do with both parents gone?

Kelli and Kris would be orphans. Neil and I had never gotten around to making a will. Mom and Dad would take the kids…but Neil’s parents would want them, too. I gripped my hands in my lap, imagining the war. There’d be a big fight. Split right down the middle along family lines.

My children would live in turmoil; they’d end up in therapy, warped for life because I was a thoughtless parent who was so self-absorbed I’d forgotten to consider my children’s future.