Walking on Water: A Novel (13 page)

Everyone just stood around the bed for a moment; then Dr. Witt touched my arm, said he was sorry, turned, and left. The nurses followed him out.

I don’t know how long they left me alone, but it seemed a while. Then one of the nurses walked back into the room. She said to me gently, “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to pull the sheet up.”

I nodded. I watched as she draped the sheet over his head. I stood there, still. More time passed. A petite, thirtysomething woman walked into the room. She had long, nut-brown hair pulled back over her elvish ears. She wasn’t dressed as a nurse, and even though I had never seen her before, I knew who she was. Or at least why she was there. A social worker had come to me after McKale’s death.

“Alan?” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“I’m Gina. I’m a social worker for the hospital. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

I didn’t reply.

“If you would like to talk, I’d be happy to.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said.

“Do you have any questions about what will happen now?”

I shook my head. “No. I just went through this with my wife . . .”
My eyes filled with tears, and I was unable to speak. The woman looked at me sympathetically, then reached out and touched my arm. “I’m so sorry.”

After a moment I said, “I can’t think. What do I need to do?”

“Your father’s body will be kept in the hospital mortuary until you arrange for a funeral director to collect it. Have you made any contacts, or would you like some help?” I swallowed, trying to compose myself. “Take your time,” she said.

I breathed out slowly. “He made arrangements . . . Beard Mortuary.”

“I’m familiar with them,” she said. “Would you like me to contact them for you?”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“In just a moment we will bring you a medical certificate that shows the cause of death. You’ll need to register the death and a few other minor details. There’s a little checklist to help. Do you know if he wanted his body cremated?”

“He’s going to be buried in Colorado. Next to my mother.”

She nodded. “Very well. Let me go see if I can expedite the certificate.” She left the room.

A minute after she left I took out my phone and called Nicole.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m on my way over right now.”

I didn’t respond. Emotion had frozen me.

“Alan?”

“He’s had another heart attack,” I said. “He’s gone.”

There was a long pause. Then I heard her crying. In a muffled voice she said, “I’ll be right there.”

The social worker returned carrying an envelope. “Here you are. I put the checklist inside. You’ll need to
sign the certificate, and we’ll need to gather your father’s possessions. The nurses will do that; I’ll remind them.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m happy to help.” She took out a business card. “Grief can be an unpredictable thing. If you change your mind and would like to talk, please give me a call.”

Nicole arrived a few minutes later. Her cheeks were tearstained and her eyes were red and puffy. She was out of breath. At first she looked only at me, afraid to look at my father. Then she turned toward his shrouded body. She gasped lightly. Then she softly said, “Oh, Bob.” Tears fell freely down her cheeks.

She walked to the side of the bed and slowly peeled back the sheet. When she saw his face she groaned out, “No.” She pulled the sheet back up, then turned back and fell into me. I wrapped my arms around her. She laid her head against my shoulder and began to sob with such emotion that I had difficulty holding her. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

A few moments later a nurse walked in carrying a canvas bag. She waited until I looked at her. “I’m sorry to disturb you. These are your father’s belongings. Would you mind signing that you received them?”

Without a word I signed the form.

“And the certificate,” she said.

I took the form out of the envelope, signed it as well, and handed it back to the nurse.

“Thank you.”

Nicole broke down crying again. I put our family history inside the bag. I don’t know how long we were there.
A half hour, maybe more, but finally I couldn’t stand being there any longer. “I need to go.”

We both walked over to the bed. I touched my father once more. “Goodbye, Dad,” I said. Then I walked out of the room.

Nicole came out a moment later. As I held her, Dr. Witt walked up to us.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking at Nicole. “There was nothing more I could do.”

His tone wasn’t that of a doctor, and I realized that there was something to what my father had said about them.

She looked into his eyes. “Thank you, Mark.”

“May I check on you later?”

She nodded. “I’d like that.”

He glanced over at me with an anxious expression, then turned and walked away. I looked at Nicole. I sensed that she wanted to say something about them, but it wasn’t the time.

We took the elevator to the main floor and walked out to the parking lot. I stopped on the sidewalk and looked into Nicole’s eyes. “Stay with me.”

Her brow fell. “Alan . . .”

“I don’t want to be alone,” I said. “Would you come over? Please?”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “I need to get my things from the hotel.”

I walked her to her car, where she broke down crying again. “I’ll see you in a minute,” she said. She wiped her eyes and climbed in.

I walked back to my father’s car and drove to his house.

There were more of the women’s offerings on the porch when I got home. I didn’t bother to pick them up or even look at them; I just pushed them out of the way with my foot. I went to my room and lay down on the bed to wait for Nicole. I heard her car pull into the driveway about twenty minutes later.

I opened the front door and met her on the porch. We embraced. After a moment she said, “Come here.” She took my hand and led me inside to the dimly lit living room.

Heavy with grief, we sat next to each other on one end of the couch. Then she lay back and pulled me into her. I laid my head against her breast while she softly rubbed the back of my neck.

“I feel like everything’s finally gone,” I said. “There’s nothing left to lose.”

“You have a lot to lose,” she said. I looked up at her. Her deep blue eyes locked on to mine. For a moment we just looked at each other. The power and complexity of our emotions rose around us like a vapor. Then the vacuum of our loss and want collapsed the void between us, drawing us to each other. We kissed. I pulled her into me, and our kissing grew more and more passionate. Suddenly she pulled away.

“Wait,” she said breathlessly.

I looked at her. She had a blank, dazed expression.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s not right,” she said. “It doesn’t feel right.” She looked into my eyes. “I’m so sorry. It feels like—” she stopped. “You’re going to think this is so weird after the way I’ve been chasing you . . .”

“What?”

Her face strained with pain. “Please don’t take this wrong; you know how much I love you . . .”

I had no idea where she was going with this. “What, Nicole?”

“It feels like I’m kissing my brother.”

The next morning I woke in the familiar haze of grief. It wasn’t as heavy as it had been when I lost McKale, or even the same as when I’d lost my mother. It was different. When my mother died, it felt like my world had ended. When McKale died, my future had vanished. When my father died, I felt like I’d lost my past.

Nicole had slept upstairs in my old bedroom, and now I could hear her outside the room where I’d slept. I didn’t know what time it was, but my room was bright with a late sun. I pulled on the shirt and pair of pants I’d worn the day before and walked out to the kitchen. It smelled of bacon and pancakes.

“Hi,” Nicole said sweetly.

I raked my hair back with my hand. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost eleven,” she said. She took the frying pan off the flame and came over and hugged me. “I’m glad you got some sleep. The next morning is always the hardest.” She held me for a moment, then asked, “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“I made blueberry pancakes and bacon.”

“Where did you get the food?”

“I had to go shopping. All your dad had was Wheaties and TV dinners.” She walked back to the stove. “Sit. I’m just about done.”

I sat down at the table. Nicole brought over a stack of pancakes with a glass of orange juice, then another plate with bacon. “Go ahead and start,” she said. “I just need to finish this pancake.”

I poured syrup over the stack. “How’d you sleep?” I asked.

“Not very well,” she said. “I got up early.” She brought her plate to the table and sat down across from me. “As you can see.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“It’s okay, I like cooking. It’s peaceful.”

“I meant for not leaving me,” I said.

She smiled sadly. “You’re my best friend. You always will be.”

“Like a brother, huh?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” She looked at me sheepishly. “You don’t feel bad, do you? I mean, you’re the one who rejected me first.”

“It’s just a bruised ego,” I said.

“I’m sorry.”

“At least I don’t have to worry about you disappearing on me again.”

“No, you don’t,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, then sat back down. “So what are you doing today?”

“Details,” I said. “My father left me a checklist. This morning I need to call the mortuary and set a date for the viewing.”

“They beat you to it,” she said. “They called an hour ago. I wrote the number down next to the phone. What day is the viewing?”

“I need to decide. I don’t even know what day it is today.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Maybe we should have it this Friday.”

“Friday would be good,” she said. “That should give the mortuary enough time.” She looked at me for a moment, then said, “Then what?”

“After I take care of everything here, I’ll go back out.”

She looked a little surprised. “You’re going to finish your walk?”

I nodded. “It’s odd, but there’s a part of me that feels like I need to finish the walk as much for my father as for myself.” I took a bite of the pancake, then asked, “What about you? What’s next?”

“I was planning on staying until the viewing. Then I need to get back to Spokane to check on things. I talked to Kailamai last night, and she said one of the tenants was complaining about her plumbing. Sometimes I forget I’m a landlord.” She sighed. “What do you need from me?”

“Just you,” I said.

“Do you mind if I read your family history?”

“No. I think that would please my father.”

Nicole was quiet a moment, then she said, “You need to call Falene.” When I didn’t reply, she said, “You need to call her today. She needs to know about your father. You need to share this with her.”

“I know,” I said.

Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then she said, “I think I know why you haven’t called her.”

“Why?”

“It’s because deep inside you’re afraid that she might have moved on. Sometimes it’s easier to live with the uncertainty than to confront the truth.”

I thought over her theory, then replied, “Maybe you’re right.”

“Call her,” she said again. “Today. She deserves to know. So do you.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll call her.”

After breakfast I returned the call to Beard Mortuary. As my father had told me in the hospital, he’d taken care of every possible detail—everything except the date of his viewing and the writing of his obituary. I scheduled a viewing at the Beard Mortuary Chapel for Friday evening. Then, with Nicole’s help, I wrote my father’s obituary.

Robert Alan Christoffersen

1953–2012

Robert “Bob” Alan Christoffersen, husband, father, and friend, unexpectedly passed away of heart failure on November 2, 2012, at the age of 59. Bob was born in Denver, Colorado. He was drafted into the Vietnam War, where he saw combat and was a highly decorated lieutenant of the First Air Cavalry. He returned from the war and enrolled at the University of Colorado in Boulder, where he graduated in accounting. He married his high school sweetheart, Kate Mitchell, in 1974. In 1979 Kate gave birth to their son, Alan. Eight years later his sweetheart passed away from cancer, and he never remarried. Bob was a skilled CPA and worked eleven years for Peat Marwick of Denver before moving to Pasadena, where he opened his own firm. Bob was a good man with
impeccable integrity and will be missed by all who knew him. He is survived only by his son, Alan Christoffersen. A viewing will be held at the Beard Mortuary Chapel at 396 Colorado Blvd. on Friday night from six to nine p.m. He has requested that in lieu of flowers, donations be sent to the American Red Cross, Los Angeles Region, at www.redcross.org or the American Cancer Society at https://donate.cancer.org.