Between Two Souls

Mom couldn’t recall one second of the dark tornado that had swept her up in those first few weeks that followed. She had been medicated heavily throughout the ordeal and had no recollection of the funeral. This added another layer of suffering that we could not control, as she had been deprived of her last moments with her son. We had no choice. Dad and I made the decision along with the doctors. Without the medication, she would not have been able to attend the services. Dad tried to hold us all together. He seemed to do this quite well, not ever breaking down.

November arrived with its cold, cutting rain. It was another early morning for Dad. He rose at 6:30 and prepared the breakfast he had for over forty years: a soft-boiled egg, toast, cereal, juice, and tea. He took his morning shower, washed his breakfast dishes, and put them in the drainer to dry. The house was still fragrant from all the flowers and plants people had sent. Dad’s nostrils dilated wide like a breathless mare. While sweet and fragrant, the house smelled like "death." The word made him gulp hard. After he dressed, he went into the bedroom and kissed Mom good-bye. He tried to be tender, but it wasn’t in his nature, and he was too old to change.

"I’m leaving now," he said. "Are you gonna be all right?"

A faint mumble came from the bed. He hoped that meant yes.

"Call Donna if you need anything, okay?"

No response.

Dad turned, closed the door, and walked out, leaving Mom to deal with the death inside.

Dad had returned to work one week after Philip’s funeral. He thought this would be a distraction for him, but he found his motions were robotic, and he had difficulty clearing his thoughts. Always the point man, he rarely delegated authority. He liked to be in control, but his focus was skewed, his concentration coming in small spurts. His closest friends worked with him at the printing company. At lunch they avoided speaking of the tragedy, trying to clear Frank’s mind by playing cards. At the end of this particular game his closest friend Lenny asked, "Frankie, how’s Connie doing?"

"Not good," he said, shaking his head aimlessly. "She’s not eating or sleeping. I give her pills in the morning and when I come home from work. I don’t dare leave them there for fear that she may take the entire bottle. She cries most of the day."

"God, Frankie. I’m so sorry. I’ve known Connie most of my life. This must be killing her."

"It is. It’s an awful thing. The doctor has recommended she see a psychiatrist, but Donna and I agree that she just needs time to grieve."

"Well, take it one day at a time, Frankie."

"Yes, that’s what we’re trying to do."

Dad left work early that day to visit the cemetery. As he drove up to the lot, he felt a heaviness in his chest, and his hands tingled on the steering wheel. He waited a moment until the feeling came back, then got out of the car and shuffled slowly up the small hill. He stood for some time, perhaps thirty minutes—he wasn’t sure. The freshly turned earth was as raw as his emotions.

As time stood still, an unfamiliar sensation swept over him. While very present on this exact spot, a remoteness seemed to grip his body. He tried to move but was immobile. A damp, stale odor wafted past, and Dad’s head and eyes began to feel heavy and fixated on the landscape, which was slowly beginning to bleed color. First, the grass turned an ethereal white, then the sky began its bleed from blue to gray. Dad squinted forward at the gravestone, which oddly seemed aged with centuries-old patina and no longer resembled Philip’s gravestone. He was drawn toward it; it now seemed smaller than the rest. He tried to read the name as his vision was blurred by the impenetrable mist around him. Joseph. Novia. Joseph Novia. Where had he heard this name, and where had Philip’s gravestone gone? He turned his head to find it. Some of the gravestones were tilting slightly forward, ready to collapse. He blinked and found his eyes probing the cherub figures in the waterless fountains, then twitched with a vibration that sent a current through his body. Suddenly, he was aware of a burst of energy, all directed beneath his feet. What was that banging? Dad looked down. The rectangular image was darker and looser than the surrounding dirt. Just weeks before, he had buried his son on this exact spot.

"What the hell is that?" he asked out loud.

"Do you think I could see him one more time? Could someone do that for me?"

"Donna, you need to get a grip on yourself," he replied with my twisted face in his warm hands. I had been the calm one, the person who organized the entire funeral, the person in charge, but my strong exterior was an illusion. My insides were incensed.

I pulled into the cemetery. The place, once foreign, was now a refuge. I turned a corner and drove slowly toward the gravesite. As I continued to drive, I could see a car in the distance, and a person on the ground. On approach, I realized it was my dad. "Oh my God!" I shouted. I thought he had collapsed, until I noticed he was in a kneeling position, his bare hands moving furiously in front of him. I jumped out of the car and ran toward him. He didn’t even flinch at the noise I had created, but continued on with his quest.

"Dad, what on earth are you doing? God, I thought I would come up here to sit for a few minutes, and I see you digging."

Dad’s eyes were crazed, moving wildly in unison with his hands. His white shirt had become soiled, as had his face and hair. With ferocious digging, the air around him swirled thick with dirt, billowing high above. I could see the muscles protrude in his forearms.

"There was a banging right under this exact spot!"

As he continued to dig furiously, he realized that the landscape was once again becoming vibrant with color. He turned his head from side to side, noticing the greenness of the grass and the blueness of the sky. His eyes opened wider. He began to feel his arms moving, his eyelids flapping while trying to keep the sweat from entering. The banging was diminishing, becoming more of a light tapping.

"Dad, please stop. This is crazy!"

"Crazy, is it? Then you explain it!"

"I can’t, but I don’t hear anything. I’m taking you home."

"No," he said, continuing to dig. "I tell you I heard a banging, right here." He pointed to the small hole he had begun to dig.

"Dad, stop it now," I demanded.

"I need to get to your brother! I tell you he was banging!"