Family Blessings (4 page)

Sylvia looked over at him with reddened eyes. "How did you find out?"

"I . .." He had to clear his throat and start again. "I went into the station to pick up my paycheck and they told me."

Lee Reston looked up through her tears. She squeezed the back of his hand. "What a horrible shock that must have been for you. And then you had to . . . to come over here and tell me." He looked down at her hand covering his and relived the shock, but found some control deep down within that kept his hand steady and his eyes dry. He turned his hand over, linked his fingers with hers and whispered hoarsely, "He loved you so damned much."

She let her eyes close, battling for control, opened them to reveal large, rust-colored irises brimming with tears. "Thank you," she whispered, squeezing his hand tenaciously.

In that moment while they sat connected by grief and sympathy for each other some ineffable bond was forged.

He had given her what she needed to make it through the next hour.

She had recognized that he'd had the toughest job of all, coming here to break the news to her.

"I'll be here for you . . . whatever you need," he promised, and the promise went as deep as his love and grief for her son.

"Thank you, Christopher," she said, squeezing his hand even harder, appreciating him fully for the first time, admitting how comforting a man's presence was and that she'd undoubtedly call on him again and again throughout the terrible days ahead.

Chapter 2.

LEE Reston felt as if she were moving through a phantasm, at moments so steeped in grief it rendered her incapable of anything more than weeping. At other times she'd operate almost as if outside herself, facing the next dread and unavoidable duty.

Janice must be called.

"Janice . .." Merely speaking her name brought tears welling, along with a great unwillingness to shatter her daughter's world a moment sooner than necessary.

"I'll call Janice," Sylvia offered.

"Thank you, Sylvia, but Janice should hear it from me."

"Oh, Lee, why put yourself through it?"

"I'm her mother. I'll do it."

There was within Lee Reston a vein of implacability so strong it sometimes amazed even her. To escape in a faint, to collapse uselessly would have been totally out of character. What needed facing, she faced. Always had, always would. Sylvia was here, and the young man, Christopher. She would rely on their support and do what must be done.

She did, however, allow Sylvia to dial the phone. Lee's hand shook as she took the receiver, and her legs felt rubbery. A chair was nudged behind her knees--a sudden blessing--and she withered down to it.

Janice sounded agonizingly happy. "Mom, hi! What a surprise! Five more minutes and we'd have been out the door. We're going to Fisherman's Wharf today!"

Oh, anice, my beloved daughter, how I wish I didn't have to do this to you.

"Honey, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come home. I have some very sad news. Janice, dear, I'm so sorry . . . there's been a very bad motorcycle accident." Saying it for the first time was like hearing it for the first time: shock and horror coupled with a sense of unreality, as if it were someone else speaking the words about her son.

"Our sweet Greg is dead."

"Oh no . . . no . . . nooooo. Oh, Mom . . . Oh God . . . no . .

."

She gripped the receiver in both hands, wanting to be there with Janice, to hold her, cradle her, help her through this. Instead they were separated by 2,000 miles and she could only listen to her daughter weep. "No, no, it can't be true!"

"Oh, Janice, darling, I wish I were there with you." Through those terrible minutes on the phone, Lee was vaguely aware of Sylvia's arm surrounding her shoulders and Christopher standing nearby.

"Janice, you'll have to . . . to get the first . . . first fl . .

She broke into tears and tried to stifle them so Janice wouldn't hear.

Sylvia turned her into a hug and Chris took the receiver.

"Janice, this is Christopher Lallek. I'm here with your mother and so is your aunt Sylvia. I'm so sorry . . . yes, we're all in shock."

Her voice was broken and distorted by weeping. She asked questions and he answered--the difficult ones a mother should not have to repeat.

Afterward he said, "Janice, put Kim on the phone." realizing Janice was too overwrought with shock to function well, he spoke to the other young woman about changing plane reservations, told her to call back and that he'd be out at the airport himself to pick up Janice whenever she came in. With these details handled, he returned the phone to Mrs. Reston and listened to a painful goodbye.

"J . . . Janice? . . . Yes . . . me too . . . Please hurry."

Hanging up, Lee felt depleted. Still, she said, "I may as well call Joey too and get it over with."

"Let me," Sylvia pleaded in a whisper. "Please, let me."

"No, Sylvia. This one I have to do, too. And the mortuary. Then I'll let you and Christopher do the rest."

As it turned out, the Whitman family couldn't be reached. It was a hot summer afternoon: They were probably out on the lake.

Lee said, "We'll keep trying them." She stared at the telephone, which seemed both friend and enemy. She'd been through this before, she knew what must be done but resisted making the move to pick up that instrument once more and order a caretaker of dead bodies to take care of her son's. Dear God . . . on his motorcycle. The image struck with horrendous force but she buried it behind a memory of Greg hale and smiling as he drove his cycle out of her driveway, lifting a hand in farewell, shouting, "Thanks for the good grub, Ma. You're a helluva cook!"

Other memories came, of the day Bill died, and their three-month-old baby, Grant. She shuddered and summoned a picture of her two remaining children, thinking, I'm lucky, I'm lucky, I've still got them. I'll be strong for them.

Keeping their images clearly before her, she dialed the mortuary.

She did fine until the question "Where is he?"

Suddenly reality dropped and crushed her. "Why . . . where?" she repeated, casting her eyes around as if searching for the answer in the paint on the walls. "I . . . I don't . . . oh, goodness .

.."

Immediately Christopher came and took the phone. He spoke in a clear, authoritative voice. "This is police officer Christopher Lallek of the Anoka Police Department, a friend of the deceased.

May I answer any questions?"

He listened and said, "Mercy Hospital morgue."

"At ten-thirty today."

"A motorcycle accident."

"Yes."

"Yes, I think so."

"910-8510."

"Faith Lutheran."

"Yes, if she doesn't have one we have one at the police department."

"If it would be all right I think she'll need a little time to make that decision. Some of the family members haven't even been informed yet."

"Yes, tomorrow would be better."

"I think nine would be fine. Thank you, Mr. Dewey."

When he'd hung up he wrote Walter Dewey's name and number on a pad beside the phone and told Lee, "You'll need to meet with him, of course, but tomorrow is time enough. He suggested nine o'clock and I said I thought that would be fine. Meanwhile you don't have to worry about making any other arrangements. He'll take care of everything."

"Greg is at the morgue already?"

"Yes. At Mercy Hospital. When the department responds to a fatality that's where they're taken. Mr. Dewey will handle everything."

It struck Lee again how glad she was to have Christopher Lallek here.

He, too, must still be in the throes of shock, but he was hiding it well, taking over some of the unpleasant tasks as a husband would if she still had one . . . or as a grown son would.

Whenever she was near crumbling, he stepped in and relieved her without being asked to. She recognized that having him here not only a masculine presence but also Greg's best friend--moving around her kitchen, lifting her burdens in whatever way possible, was much like having Greg himself here.

She left Sylvia and went to him. "Christopher," she said, putting her hands on the short sleeves of his wild Hawaiian shirt. "Thank you.

I'm sorry I broke down and left that to you."

"You've got a right to break down, Mrs. Reston. This is one of the worst days of your life."

"Of yours too," she said understandingly.

"Yes . . . it is. But . .." He looked at the notes on her refrigerator door. "I think he'd want me to help you any way I could, so if you don't mind, I'll stick around."

She hugged him hard and they listened to each other gulp down wads of grief. She rubbed the center of his back with both hands as if he were her own son, and for the briefest flash it felt like holding Greg again.

The telephone rang.

Sylvia answered while the other two watched and listened.

"Yes, Kim. Northwest flight three fifty-six . . . Seven fifty-nine.

I've got it." She wrote it down and listened for a while. "I'm sorry your vacation has been ruined, but it's so kind of you to come back home with her. She'll need your support, I'm sure." After another pause, she said, "Seven fifty-nine, yes. I'm not sure which one of us will be there to pick you up, but somebody will. Please tell her her mother is doing all right.

We're still here with her and she'll have someone with her every minute. Yes. Yes. All right, see you then."

When she'd hung up, Sylvia said, "Kim is coming home with Janice, so try not to worry about her, Lee."

That was only the first call of many. The afternoon wore on, bringing the reality of the staggering number of telephone calls necessitated by an unexpected death. Sylvia and Christopher took turns making them-to Sylvia's husband, Barry, who showed up at the house within fifteen minutes after receiving the news, to Lee's mother and father, who broke into noisy weeping and needed much calming before the conversation could be continued, to the next-door neighbor and dear friend Tina Sanders, who came immediately, too. To the flower shop. To the Whitmans' again and again and again with no response.

The house began filling with people. Neighbors arrived asking what they could do. Sylvia began organizing them with calling lists. While they were writing down names and telephone numbers the oddest impulse came over Lee. She turned, lifted her head and actually opened her mouth to ask the question Did anyone call Greg yet? Just like on any normal day. Startled, she caught herself before phrasing it, and the reality of his death struck her afresh. She stood in midst of a circle of women who were poring over her phone book, wondering how it could be possible she'd never call Greg again, never hear him laugh, never see him walk into this kitchen and open the refrigerator door looking for leftovers, never see him marry, have children. Could it really be true that his death had prompted all the hubbub around her?

Someone brought in a thirty-six-cup percolator and soon the house was filled with the smell of coffee. Someone else brought in a platter of sliced fruit, then a coffee cake appeared. Lee's parents arrived needing more consolation than they were able to give, and she found herself giving the support despite the fact she still needed it so badly herself. But for them the news was fresh. There was a fleeting moment when she was holding her mother, feeling the older woman's sobs quaking them both, that Lee thought, I've got to get out of here! I can't stand this a minute more!

But the door opened and someone else came in. Someone else who needed to shed first tears on Lee's shoulder, and grip her in a desperate embrace. In the midst of the growing gaggle of mourners Christopher found Lee and quietly told her, "Mrs. Reston, I've got Joey on the phone."

Her heart began pounding and her limbs felt suddenly leaden. She went dutifully to the phone and he followed, then stood with his back to her as if shielding her from the others in the room while she faced this next heartrending duty.

"Joey?"

"Hi, Mom, is something wrong? How come Chris called me?"

"Joey, honey, this is the hardest thing I've ever had to tell you.

It's . .."

While she paused to steady herself he said in a panicky voice, "Is somebody hurt, Mom? Is Janice okay?"

"It's not Janice, Joey . . . it's Greg."

"Greg?" His voice cracked into a high falsetto. "What happened?"

"Greg had a motorcycle accident, honey."

He said really softly, "Ohhh."

"Greg is dead, honey."

He said nothing for the longest time. When he spoke, his voice sounded the way it had a year ago when it was first changing.

"Dead? But . . . but how can he be?"

"I know it's hard to believe but it's really true. It happened this morning."

"But . . . but he was gonna take me and the guys to Valley Fair next I week."

"I know, dear, I know."

"Aw Jeez, Mom . .." He was trying not to cry, but the falsetto and the broken phrasing gave him away. "It's not fair."

She whispered, "I know, Joey."

"How we gonna get along without him?"

"We will . . . you'll see. It'll be hard, but we've still got each other. And lots of people who love us. Aunt Sylvia is here with me now, and Grandpa and Grandma and a lot of the neighbors, and Christopher, and Janice is coming home tonight. But I need you here too, okay?"

He barely got out, "Okay."

"I love you. And we're going to be okay. You'll see. We're going to make it through this."

"Okay. Mrs. Whitman wants to talk to you now."

Mrs. Whitman sounded terrified. "Dear God," she said. "We'll leave immediately. We'll have Joey home as soon as we can get him there.

Oh, Lee, I'm so sorry."

Lee hung up the phone and dried her eyes to find Chris still shielding her from the rest of the room. He turned and said quietly, "That was a tough one."

"Yes."

"Does someone need to drive up there and get him?"

"No, they're bringing him back."

"You're sure? Because I'll go. I'd be happy to."

Gratitude flooded her. She laid a hand on his arm. "I know you would, but no. They're leaving immediately. But, Chris, if you meant it when you said you'd go to the airport to get Janice and Kim, I'd really appreciate it."