BLOOD SHADOWS

‘Stabant orantes primi transmittere cursum

Tendebantque manus ripae ulterioris amore’

(So, they all stood, each praying to be ferried across first

Their hands stretched out in longing for the further shore)

Virgil, Aeneid V, 313.

1

MEMORIES

I think T. S. Eliot, the American writer, said that April was the cruellest month, but for me it was February. The bleak long morning stretched before me as I approached the train station ready to board the carriage with a suit carrier. Nothing unusual in that. In fact, there were two passengers ahead who had suit carriers. Maybe they would change before a meeting, or perhaps lunch somewhere? Whatever their reason, having a suit in transition was not rare. But this suit was.

My sister Fitz picked it up yesterday, feeling the woven fabric between her exacting fingers and then the white cotton shirt, making sure it was the right neck size. Exactly 16.5 inches. That measurement never changed, although others did, that remained constant. But it was the tie. It caused the most concern. She phoned me. I missed the first two calls so when I dialled back; she was struggling. “Which one. I don’t know which one to pick.” And I imagined her striding, but with nowhere to go because there was no more time. She had to pick one.

“It’s alright. You can’t get it wrong, Fitz.” There was silence. “Come on, you work in fashion. This is not difficult, is it? If it wasn’t like this… you wouldn’t have a problem. Would you?”

“I know Jimmi, but every time I try, I just keep changing my mind. It’s the colours. They’re confusing me. I don’t know which one to buy.”

“Or are you just buying time, Fitz?” She didn’t answer, but I had mine. “I’ll see you later...”

Looking out of the train’s window I could see the February drizzle zigzagging down the pane and as we entered a tunnel my face suddenly became visible. It was my eyes. The deep shadows, and I reached for my concealer. If only they had some for emotions I thought, as I popped it back in my bag, glimpsing the tie. It was always going to be difficult. The tie, I mean, and Fitz handed me her offering just before I left. “Singaporean silk. And in the subtlest shade of midnight blue.”

“Like his eyes.” I murmured to myself, unzipping the carrier. I wanted to do it quickly. Pop the tie in because they had to be together. The suit, shirt, and tie. ‘Just don’t look for too long.’ I told myself but it was my fingers they wouldn’t listen and stroking the lapel, I knew I wanted to hold it and I reached in. I suppose I wanted to leave an impression. Leave a sign I was there before I couldn’t because for a tumultuous relationship, there was now only silence. It was strange, like an empty dream where you only remember parts, but nothing solid. Leaving only a sense of fragmentation. Disintegration, because this was Dad’s final suit. He passed away twelve days ago. Like I said, February was the cruellest month, and I was touching the suit he would be resurrected in. It was odd. Unreal. But still a part of the story as I overheard the passengers behind me talking about the Corona Virus boarding the train. Catastrophizing, as I held this shroud but unlike this invisible enemy, Dad’s death wouldn’t make the headlines.

I think it would have upset him because he watched the news avidly—TV and global live streams. It fed him and the diaries he wrote every year. He commented on world politics. For instance, Donald Trump and fake news. He didn’t hate him though, but Brexit he couldn’t understand and then other places like war torn Aleppo and Damascus, such ancient sights of heritage destroyed. He also noted the latter was the birthplace of a monumental spiritual conversion and quoted in red. ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” But the saint didn’t have an answer for Christ’s question, maybe like Dad. Oddly, as I read it I remembered Charlie tattooed the same inscription on her upper arm. It was something we would joke about. She was my youngest sister, and it was an eighteenth birthday present. Her husband Saul paid for it, but I don’t think he got it and still didn’t. But Dad understood the sentiments. Persecution can come in many forms. Anyway, he couldn’t judge. He had a tiny one on the inside of his wrist, the letters M and R intertwined. He was young, and in love, and they stood for Myrrh and Roman. My parents’ names. But there would be no more sentiment for Dad now, and I clench the arm of the suit. It comforted me to think it would encase his cold skin because he must be so cold now. Released from the mortuary. Out of the body fridge because I’ve seen them in movies. Like massive twin freezers full of drawers but of bodies, not food, and I shivered as I travelled to the city of my youth.

There’s no warmth in February and I wrapped my coat around me, deep in thought because as my father, he was supposed to be my Complimentary Parent alongside my sisters, but life wasn’t that neat. That tidy. It got frayed around the edges. Damaged, because we weren’t that close. It wasn’t a secret. I was honest about it but sometimes I wondered about Dad; about his ability to process other people’s emotions as often he didn’t appear that interested or concerned. He never elaborated upon your issues, only nodded in a way that made you feel either unheard or boring, but I suppose I got used to it. Maybe it was his default position, but I did love him. And he was more constant than any other man in my life. Although, there was a caveat. Theoretically, labelled a psychic rupture, it happened over two decades ago. Let me explain because I think it underpinned the family dynamics and the way we related to each other.

I was making coffee as a heavy mist settled, causing a certain dampness that made everything feel cold when he walked downstairs, asking for a cup.

“Sure, Dad.” I answered, thinking he must be feeling cold too. Something so mundane. So normal, like his intonation as I stirred the coffee—he liked three sugars, and I watched as the crystals melted and slid into the steaming drink. The phone rang, and I nipped into the little office, telling him it was ready. I heard him enter the kitchen, taking a few sips, and then the front door closed. It wasn’t a slam, but it was firm, and I stopped talking momentarily to say goodbye because the house had three exits. The back door. The French doors. The front door and they were all interchangeable due to the configuration of the building, so it didn’t necessarily arouse my suspicions. But it should. It was a statement. He never returned.

Afterwards, I remembered Mum found me. I had left the house about an hour later. I was meeting a neighbour and didn’t go home directly but stayed at her house. Eating cake, I recalled biting into a puddle of soft chocolate just as mum’s face appeared. I couldn’t work out her expression. It was odd. I knew her face so well, but not this expression as her trembling hand tried to open the door. It was a sign, and sometimes I wished I could pause life there. Freeze that moment. Rewind the day, but instead it played, and I couldn’t stop the next scene and just as I was coming to grips with being an adolescent. I was seventeen. I didn’t understand all this grown-up commitment and betrayal stuff. I just wanted to listen to music, but instead I listened to Mum’s heartache as we walked back through the winding coastal roads still full of autumnal mist. She was too distraught to stay, and I listened to her inability to comprehend his actions, but I was there, and I saw nothing different. He was just being Dad. Just being Roman and as such unpredictable but it didn’t offer any comfort, and she just stood there, blue mascara streaming down her soft cheeks and inside me I felt something like an inner collapse. Like an internal pillar crashing, leaving emotional debris and a crippling fear deep within as the clouds of scandalous ascended in the days to come. “Damn! He has humiliated me. What do you think people will say?”

“Who the hell cares, Mum.” But I did. It terrified me, stirring my tummy into tight nervous knots, late into the night for weeks. Months. Years to come; the emotional re-enactment of that period could still wake me up. It still had that power!

Later, the pieces began to reveal themselves. I discovered, because no adult told me, Liz was only six years older than me. Dad met her through work. I guess she fell for his education and cosmopolitan charm. In contrast, she looked unworldly and brash from an old office party photograph left on the table by Mum; desperate for clues. Dad had another love interest, and I thought my love interests were going to be the centre of attention—all that teenage angst and unrest but he beat me to it because his love life became the focus for decades. It devastated Mum when a friend told her rejection was protection. That there was something divine, as if she had been saved from some horror, and it made me think. You see, there was an ancient village nearby with an eleventh century church and it had a banishment window. Apparently when villagers were rejected from the community, due to their ill deeds, they could hear mass at the window and then quickly vanish from view. But that was death-rejection because how could that person survive without the support of a communal infrastructure, whereas this kind of rejection was heart-rejection and that could heal. Couldn’t it? But Roman was her husband, and she was still hopelessly in love with him. Sometimes I believed nature punished women.

OK, neuroscience referred to pituitary, adrenal and gonadal hormonal changes when someone was in love indicating that to fall in love which apparently only takes a fifth of a second - provoked transient hormonal changes some of which seem to be gender specific but for me it was different. I felt it when I looked at Mum. It wasn’t just chemical. Her deep eyes full of wounded sorrow matching the fine lines that had developed around her mouth, etched with desertion. It was the sound of her quietly crying. Night after night I could hear her before sleep, and I would keep vigil because for a while I seriously thought she might end her life. I seriously thought I might find her one morning lying in bed with pills or something, so in my teenage brain I believed if I stayed up it wouldn’t happen. That I’d hear something because all her friends believed due to her extensive art commissions that took over not only the kitchen but the sitting room and conservatory, she was coping. During this time, I even dated, but I was often too distracted and teenage boys didn’t know what to say or how to comfort me properly and that upset me. I wanted them to understand, be in sync with me, but they couldn’t and alone I tried to figure why she was being punished. Love seemed like a dangerous game to me; maybe one to even avoid.

I could still hear concerned passengers behind me talking. The corona virus was the only thing on everyone’s mind. Why, I wondered as I wiped the window looking at the frosty fields stretching out empty and barren? Other viruses had come and gone like bird and swine flu. Why would this be any different anyway I had other concerns and unlike the fields my memories were fertile, populating my head continually? Things that for years appeared senseless as I engaged in mental conversations with the past. Asking what happened, fighting with myself until I stopped, aware I was not alone, although I clearly remembered the first time Liz and I spoke. “Hello, Jimmi. I just wanted to introduce myself… now we’re family.” She announced unconcerned on the phone.

“Family?”

“Well, you know I’m with your Dad now. We’re going to make a go of it. And I suppose that’s why I found your number. I want to surprise him. We’re getting hitched. You know married… Jimmi.”

“So, you’re inviting me to your nuptials?”

“Well...maybe.”

“What then?” I asked, confused. I didn’t know her.

“We’re having a little engagement celebration first. Somewhere in the city.” She confirmed.

“Am I invited?”

“Yes. But there may not be enough seats for the wedding. Now don’t blame your Dad!” But I did. I blamed Roman for everything because he turned me into a betrayer. I was lured into conversing with the enemy. It was the speed of his progress and it started this weird kind of combat between us that was to last as I put the receiver down. There was no goodbye, just a click.

“Who was that Jimmi?” I remembered Mum standing in front of me. “It’s not like you, not to say goodbye.”

“I guess that depends on whose speaking.” I answered quickly as I ran upstairs.

“Well, I don’t like rudeness.”

“Well, I do.” Slamming the door, my head was full of stuff. A part of me wanted to attend the party. A part of me was curious about her. About Liz. About why Dad was willing to give up everything, leading us all into the unknown. The other part of me struggled. I didn’t want to upset Mum; leave her for the night because I would have to lie. Even now my fingers were wound tight around the suit carrier’s handle because we never made it to the wedding. I noticed Liz was peroxide blonde when Fitz and I were first introduced to her at the engagement party. The reception though was local and held at La Bleu Bar. I think it’s a shoe shop now. Back then, it was a very desirable 1980s cocktail bar—all black marble floors and wide glass tabletops. I guess nothing was too much for ‘Gorgeous Liz’. “What so gorgeous about her, Dad?” I questioned.

“What do you mean?” He growled.

“I think Mum’s better.”

“Your mother is a very attractive lady. I wouldn’t have married her in the first place if she wasn’t but as you get older your tastes change.”

“Oh, as in tasteless?” He asked me to leave, but not before Liz arrived in a tight leather skirt, taking my hand.

“Come and meet Jess, my sister. You’ll love her.” There was a tall lady dressed in pleated culottes. Confidently, she shook my hand. “This is Roman’s daughter. You know the one I’ve been telling you about.” Liz had been talking about me? I suppose I was curious as something was thrust into my hand. “Here. It’s Jess’s details. She writes.”

“I’m an authoress.” She smiled as I looked at her pink business card.

“Only your Dad has told me you like to write. Read. He called you bookish.” Liz smiled, inviting me to the new book signing, and accepting I knew I’d never attend because I decided we had little in common. My sister found me, but before I left, I told Liz about the altercation with Dad. Her expression changed as she dashed over to him, stroking his hair, asking questions like lovers do, patting his brow, soothing his bad mood. Later she sent a postcard from their honeymoon, cleverly concealed in an envelope, addressed to me. I guess Liz knew about deception, so no one knew, but I kept it. I locked it in my drawer. I looked at it last year as I organised all my correspondence. Don’t ask me why because I don’t understand why I’d save such a relic, but I did.

‘Dearest Jimmi…

Having the time of my life in Times Square.

Marriage is highly recommendable. XX’

My heart still sank as I recalled the words. They were imprinted in my head, verbatim. Like some warning from my new stepmother recommending marriage, but at the sake of my parent’s one. She met me after the honeymoon. Her hair still peroxide blonde, but her skirt not quite as tight, and I felt like Judas. Betraying again, but suddenly distracted by her rings. Not only did she have wedding and diamond engagement bands, she also had a ruby one, and the stones glistened a deep red, symbolising Dad’s love for his new wife. It was a sobering moment.

“Did you get the postcard?” I nodded. “Good. I wanted you to know I was thinking of you even on my honeymoon.” An odd thing to say, as she led the way to Continental Coffee. I’d only been there once. It was too expensive, as the dark-haired waiter took the order. Cappuccinos just seemed so grown-up. She copied me and I lit a filter less French cigarette, blowing the smoke across the table. I wanted to see how she’d react. If she’d tell me to stop but she didn’t as the drinks arrived and I placed a spoonful of candied sugar, allowing it to sink slowly through the milky froth. “I have a present for you.”

“For me?”

“I didn’t get one for the other girls, but I remembered you said you like it. When you were talking about movies.” Intrigued, I waited as she put her hand into her new Gucci bag, pulling out a copy of the Amityville Horror. I slowly read the synopsis on the back about it being based on a true story. But she was right it was one of my favourite movies, even now though I still questioned her offering because the father’s possession was disturbing?

Since the death I kept sinking back to those days like now on this train reliving it, but if I didn’t stop it in time, it often turned acute and that was difficult to manage when you were in public. Abandonment obviously had lasting repercussions and I tried to distract myself but like I said the memories infiltrated my head continually and I just let them. I think there was something therapeutic happening as I recalled Dad returning to our lives. When I say returned, it was eight years later because he banished his daughters for her. I don’t know if that was a joint decision or if Roman took the lead but after the postcard there was no more communication? He never elaborated as he got another house, creating another life because some parents, once they leave, they never reappear. There was a mixed response. Ok, it wasn’t like a steady I’m here in your life again or Come to me whenever you want kind of Father-Child connection. No, it was more of a phone call relationship. For the record, I’m not saying fathers always left. Mothers did too. My two aunts and paternal grandmother had, but primarily it was fathers instigating most family break-ups and according to the US Census Bureau, 19.7 million children lived without fathers as part of their lives. I forgot to say Dad was American.

Born in Manhattan, New York City, his great grandparents moved there from Rome, Italy. Dad was a big-time attorney known as Centurion, impaling all opposition, and like a true Roman he was blonde, although no one knew because his hair was always full of product, but when he washed it golden ringlets would gather, framing his gaunt face. He never lost a case. Consequently, he was always in demand specializing in criminal law. Personally, I think he understood them. Psychopaths, I mean, because most of his clients were. Apparently, they made up only 1% of the population, but something like 70% of the prison population. Some of his cases even made it to TV and when interviewed he never flinched. Publicity. Notoriety, it never fazed him perhaps because of his low heartbeat. “I’m never scared.” He announced once over breakfast as he went out to meet the press. His voice still so clear in my head. That New York accent layers of Irish, Scottish and Jewish vowels all blended. “You know Jimi… I sometimes wonder what that feels like.” That’s not something many children hear. Mum explained fear as a natural part of life; a part of feeling and maturing into adulthood to help you survive, and for a time I believed he envied his family because we all felt fear. It was a natural process for all of us but not for him.

He devoured texts on the criminally insane. Yes, it was a career hazard. He had to understand his clients. Build up a case. Refer to historical laws and medical documentation, but libraries of the stuff? I recalled multiple images littering his wood panelled study. I remembered picking up heavy books full of human dismemberment and mutilations. I shouldn’t have looked, peeking from behind fingers because it was grisly; with case notes from experts including Blood Pattern Technicians describing due to the victim’s blood trajectory what possibly occurred. Texts scattered his desk with victim accounts, and the details were brutal. But there was something else because even in my young mind I worked out it wasn’t just work; the electrocutions, starvations and torture I think he read about them just to scare himself. To try to terrify something deep within—some kind of demonized repression, hoping to recreate a more normal reaction, but I knew what it meant. I understood very clearly the implications of fear. To be scared. But Dad didn’t and never would and I gripped the suit I was carrying, the one I was going to hand over to dress his corpse, wondering if he knew about fear now?

It was those images along with forbidden horror movies when I was young that fuelled much of my fear until we were told we were moving to Ireland. I didn’t want to go, and this manifested into disrupted sleep starting often in dark claw-like forests with haunted pathways. Not uncommon in children putting the bad parts of the father into vampires, werewolves, or witches safely contained until ready to process, but my issue was simple. It didn’t need to be processed. Why couldn’t we just stay in America? It was home. The only place I knew and loved. I had friends and relatives in America. I knew no one in Ireland. Well not anymore because Mum’s relatives were from Waterwell but left years ago but even so, the date was set to return there. February 20th and as a child I cursed it like in the movies, because children can’t always control their emotions. They spill out. Their violent immature projections but he carried mine and I worked out he carried a lot of stray emotion as we left all apart from my brother. He was still in America. He would never leave. He was buried in Calvary Cemetery, New York City. Fabian died at five years of age, and we left him but the memories of him. The touch of him. The braveness of him. They all came with us.

2

GO TOWARDS THE LIGHT

Whenever I thought of Fabian, my dead brother, it was always back in America—back home in our house. White shutters covered the front with a wide porch and six apricot wicker chairs arranged for the guests that visited frequently. I had an old Polaroid of Mum, golden with age now, holding me in her flared jeans with her long black hair down her back and my brother, crawling by her feet alongside Fitz. Charlie was born later in Ireland. Mum was on the porch, and Dad was behind her in his aviator sunglasses. Jenny took the photograph. Jenny, the nanny, was Dad’s gift to Mum so she could return to painting. She was smaller than Mum, with red curls, and always carried two coffees. Strange what you remember.

Suddenly I was taken from my memories by a passenger. “The seat beside you. Is it taken?” Shaking my head, I moved the corner of the suit carrier. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” I replied, wondering what she would say if I told her what kind of suit it was. That it was to dress a corpse. But not just any; my Dad’s.

“Thanks.” She rearranged her stuff as her boyfriend sat further down the carriage waving.

“You need a ticket to travel, Sir.” The conductor explained to him. He mentioned something about late trains, and it shifted my thoughts. Did you need a ticket to travel in the afterlife? Did you need permission? Did you need a seat number? All these things unknown to me and I should know. Shouldn’t I? Because I was his daughter, but I was still touching the suit. There was a part of me that wanted to keep touching it. Holding it. Making contact with it because the body would be delivered today to the Funeral Directors after midday. Then another thought crossed my mind. What if we collided? I’m aware this wasn’t a normal thought. But this wasn’t a normal day. These journeys we must make. These journeys of life and death—they get into your soul. How else can you ever be the same again? You know I cried so hard in the hospital, with Dad lying there holding hands with my sister Charlie, my brow-bone ached. I didn’t even know a brow-bone could, moving the suit carrier again we went through a tunnel. The train was separated from the light. Was this like death because suddenly everything seemed cryptic? Everything held some kind of meaning. The complete separation scared me due to my own metaphysical connotations, as I scooped up the suit. I had reached my destination.

Walking out into the pale sunshine, I needed to go to the abbey and headed out into the city I used to know as a teenager, exploring its delights with my best friend, Beth Harrison but that was over twenty years ago, and I still missed her but life sometimes divided even the staunchest of friendships. I hoped she’d come to Dublin, but it never happened. Luckily though, the hospital was on route. I could just see the huge white and orange waste funnels at the back of the concrete building. Someone joked as I waited for a cab last visit. “See them. Full of human offal.” I think humour is all down to taste as we discovered Dad’s cancer had spread to his kidneys.

“I’m afraid it’s inoperable.” Death is crap I thought as the doctor very kindly, explained End of Life options. Assuring us he was sedated, informing us Dad had lost over 58 pounds. At 106 pounds with no more blonde curls, the Centurion was fading. I guess life had caught up with him and without warning I kissed his smooth forehead, whispering. ‘Go towards the light.’ His eyelids fluttered. I’m sure as I continued. “Go towards the light. Go towards the light. Think back to Cathy. Remember Dad. Go towards the light!” I was reciting the words Beth’s mum said along with other things as the nurse tucked him in.

You see as well as being Beth’s mum, Cathy was psychic. Her eyes were like topaz. Sky blue, when I introduced her to my parents, omitting her career. But what was I supposed to say? “Hi Mom. Dad… guess what Cathy talks to the dead. Anyone you want to hook up with?” It was crass, but as I saw her lips move, I wished I’d said something as her eyes penetrated.

“Jimmi said all your children are here in Ireland? That you all came together?” Cathy waited for a response.

“They are. We did!” Mum replied, getting defensive, and I thought I’m going to lose another friend.

“But there’s a boy… I’m sorry. But there is. I can feel him. See him like he’s just there.” And she reached out. It sounded like a cliché. Like I’m saying she was a suburban witch or something, but she was adamant, trying to be kind until Mum cried, and Dad walked her to the front door. “Fabian?” Cathy looked at Dad and he dropped his head. “That’s the name I’m getting.” He lightly nodded and I overheard her mention the light. “If you don’t want to get trapped between worlds… go towards the light, Roman.” The words arrested me, and it was strange because this small Irish woman was one of the primary inspirations for my spiritual journey and eventual visit to India.

I sat down beside Dad, watching his breathing as I thought about Beth’s perishing stone house and how I’d visit in secret. Mum didn’t want me to mix with such people, but I liked them, and Dad would pick me up after dinner and enlightenment because Cathy was like a kind of mystic to me. “Oh yes, Jimmi… when our soul leaves the body, it’s confused. It still thinks it’s alive. There are family and friends nearby who they love and other things they recognize. But no one looks at them. No one takes the time to ask how they are. Tell them how well they look after all that suffering. So, they go towards you. Touching you. Trying to get your attention but nothing happens only tears. Often shock and lots of numbness. You see, they are like an astral corpse.” Her sky-blue eyes flashing. “Between worlds until The Light appears, beckoning, but there is darkness too. That’s why it’s important to head towards The Light. Don’t get distracted with Darkness. Promise me Jimmi.” I nodded. It was the way she said it, like it was the worst thing to happen to any mortal. On reflection I understood, to know small you have to know tall. To know goodness, you have to know badness so why would it change in the afterlife. Binary opposites were still the natural, or should I say supernatural, law? I just hoped still sitting by his bed, with the hum of the machinery whirling beside us, Dad would listen to me, but he rarely did.

3

THE GURU

St Therese, the abbey where Dad’s funeral would take place, was on the other side of the city. I could have gotten a cab but walked; bad idea, considering the piercing Atlantic wind, but I wanted to continue with this personal post-mortem and for me walking had a certain rhythm. A certain meter, like poetry, helping me appease the ghosts that lingered deep within my mental crevices. Honestly, there were so many echoes of historical conversations constantly infiltrating my head since Dad’s demise, but still maybe I was just trying to make sense of death. My chaotic, jumbled memories that stirred when I least expected them; capturing me wherever I was; shops, dentist, train station it didn’t matter. Was this another part of grieving, another adjustment as I began to think about India? About my journey, inspired by Cathy because I left from this city on a 20-hour flight.

“You should get some sun. Leave the mistiness of Ireland like me. Go to Kerala... you’ll never regret it.” Cathy was right. I didn’t, packing all my soul angst as well as my jeans and passport because I needed a break; Mum was dating, and Dad was still acting without any consideration of where his soul might take permanent vacation. The flight landed in Mumbai, the former capital Bombay, and the next day I flew to Panjim Ashram, the one recommended by Cathy. Perched on the Malabar Coastline, encircled by crashing blue waves just visible from the ancient bus, I took the last part of the journey on board. The driver alerted me, and I tipped him, pushing passed numerous passengers dressed in blue, red, pink sarees with baskets and bowls of livestock and an assortment of merchandise. I was desperate to begin my initiation and was ushered within the large rusty gates. The smell of ground cardamom filled the air as the small stern housekeeper advised. “The rains are coming.” Then the Guru appeared as if from thin air.

“Welcome… Kindred One.“ Was Dad kindred, I contemplated, as if he could see through to my thoughts.

“The Guru will tell you what you need to know. No questions!” The housekeeper ordered, and I closed my mouth as he told me things a lapsed catholic wouldn’t want to acknowledge.

“The human soul is eternal… infinite. The trouble with humans, especially in the modern age, is the body is everything.” Then he took my hand in his exceptionally long slender fingers and whispered. “The key Jimmi… is to be grateful for your body. Kiss it even on death… but don’t over identify with the physical. Don’t make that your identity. Because if you do and you die… what’s going to be you then?” He released my hand slowly as the housekeeper offered me a glass of water, but I refused. It looked murky. A little like Dad’s spiritual future as I thought of him lying there alone, all icy, in preparation for his final dressing so different to the immense heat of India’s embrace. “And siblings… don’t worry about them.” He said waving his hands as the yoga teacher took him away from me.

Was Fabian included in that comment? Like Mum, I stood by the Jesuit theory of seven being the Age of Reason. That until that age you are practically sinless, and we took comfort in that as Dad took comfort in returning to America. But it was a good thing. To tend the grave of his son alone, at least three or four times a year. He handled death very differently, advising us to not let anyone’s death stop life. He distanced himself. He never cried or reminisced, only referring to things Fabian might have played with or nursery rhymes. It was always Mum who’d speak about Fabian’s violet eyes. “So rare…” But I wanted to rationalise, explaining there must be children with the same colour, but I never met anyone, and sometimes I was scared I might forget their exquisiteness until I met Danny aged twenty-one, at Beth’s party. I think that’s why I dated him. Married him even, but I realized violet eyes were not enough to make a marriage work. India taught me that.

Life didn’t stop for Dad until a month before he died. He literally couldn’t move. His right hip was crumbling due to an old sport injury and his other hip was impaired by a new tumour located on his lower spine; the pressure made walking impossible, like his speech in the last week of life. Sedated by medication, Roman couldn’t lie anymore. He couldn’t fabricate the truth; muddy it with fibs and I smiled—allowing it to fill my face, but then immediately chastised myself as guilt descended. Why didn’t I tell Dad about the trip I made to India for his soul? It could have been a comfort. About the Guru’s advice. About the Guru’s concern. About my anxiety as I waited by the door as another visitor talked endlessly about her problems to the Guru and I tried to chant the meditation. Circle of Kind. “EMPTY. EMPTY. EMPTY… ALL FEELINGS. ALL HATRED. ALL ATTACHMENT. ALL DOUBT.” But damn! I was full to the brim with all three. Why at times of great need was there always a test? I didn’t want one. I had a pressing spiritual question and then I saw him gesturing to her, like he was coming back. Dad should have known all the effort I put into saving his soul, feeling like his spiritual destiny lay in my hands as I manoeuvred, bypassing the other woman and blurting. “GURU… GURU please. I’m so sorry, but I have another question.” Recalling what the housekeeper said, I corrected myself. “I mean not a question… more like a query. That’s all.“ But it was the way he gazed at me. His brown eyes encircled with rims of blue, like a tunnel of souls and taking my hand again he slowly uttered.

“No sin goes unpunished… Jimmi.” And after adjusting his long orange shawl, he left as I stood there speechless. How did he know about the sins of my father? I mean, I hadn’t even told him. I told no one.

“Guru… Guru… Guru.” I called out. But I was asked to be quiet. There was meditation in the great hall, and I remembered walking down the long, dimly lit corridors to the exit. It was late August, and the first drops of rain arrived. Heavy and fat, falling down by the old dusty chairs outside as I hitched a lift back to my hotel.

India seemed so far away now as I continued in the busy streets, reflecting my mind, as the sharp wind blew, twisting the suit carrier from right to left almost like some billowing flag. I wanted to put it under my arm, but it would crease. People passed me picking up groceries and talking about wine. Discussing when to meet. When to eat. And I thought I’d never have those chats with Dad again. I remembered thinking the same about my brother, but I was so much younger. Instead, it was about playing. Who would I have? Who would I grow old with because even at ten I was worrying, projecting into the future into some kind of empty amorphous void?

I was early and could hear my phone pinging with messages. I wondered if my cousin Olivia had sent one. We needed to talk. In fact, she was the one good thing about Ireland. I formed the greatest friendship with her when Beth and I drifted apart after India. My aunt moved from Japan, following her sister a few years later. I suppose there were only two of them left and spotting a small cafe near the abbey I ordered a black tea and made my way to the bench at the back. It looked and felt like something from the school gym, original graffiti still intact. Settling, I still had an hour before meeting the priest and I picked up my phone. Fitz had left a message. But nothing from Olivia.

‘How are you doing?

I’m not great. Tried to read some of Dad’s poetry to decide which piece to

have for the funeral and balled. Do you think this is EVER going to change???

Anyway, how are we going to announce it? Or more importantly do you

think we should? XXX’

I suspected Fitz had been crying the whole morning. Like I said, she had a soul connection with him hence, she loved his poetry because for the last decade of his life, single and alone, he wrote furiously. I thought it was a form of psychological sublimation, but I could be wrong.

‘Keep going Fitz… remember Dad’s in a better place. I think people still put it in the

newspaper. If that’s not too old-fashioned.

You know the Daily Mercury. XX’

The owner arrived with my drink, the steam trailing behind him, just as my phone pinged again.

‘NO. I don’t think the paper is TOO old fashioned. Just be worried about

YOU KNOW WHO discovering.’

I read it, smiling as I answered her.

‘What do you mean… YOU KNOW WHO?’

I wanted Fitz to say it. I wasn’t going to name her and jinx myself as I finished my drink, but there was no reply. None of us wanted the responsibility of Liz. It was like inviting a vampire into your house, rendering you powerless, and I needed something to eat as the smell of baking drifted around the little cafe, my eyes settling on the lemon muffins. This was not unconscious. I had a muffin half an hour after Dad finally closed his eyes. For some unknown reason Charlie had a raging appetite and ordered Eggs Benedict, and it arrived on a chipped plate, but she still consumed every particle, not mentioning Dad, but I wanted to now as I cut the muffin, the lemon curd seeping out.

I attempted to do battle with the wind again but gave up, putting Dad’s suit under my arm. He’d have to tolerate a creased suit, although in life, vanity would have prevented him. I could see Steeple Walks. It was a quaint tree lined road with an iron archway and some mock oil streetlamps. Original when I lived in the city, but since replaced with electric imitations. The road was designed as part of some royal visit and still had a regal feel, like the white villas adorned with black railings and balconies dotted along the private road. The abbey was opposite the old wine bar and entering the arched doorway, my heart fluttered. The building was serene, and for a moment I stood as hot tears rushed down my cheeks, quickly brushing them away. I had to remember the purpose of my journey, not indulge in personal pity, but I couldn’t stop and as the wind encircled the thirteenth century stone building, I let them fall, blaming all the memories.

Facing the statue of St Therese of Lisieux. One of my role models during my nun phase I stopped because I knew she sometimes struggled with her emotions. She described her feelings as ‘arid’ and ‘absolute abandonment’ when exploring her vocation and often exhausted in her spiritual pursuits, she’d fall asleep during prayers, believing her sleep pleased God. Comparing it to the sleep of a child, like Dad sometimes falling asleep in church during the homily, perhaps? I remembered having to nudge him, and he’d wake up alarmed and sing the only hymn he knew, Abide In Me. It was an unusual response, but it made me smile. St Therese also believed in the Little Ways. I guess the little things you do for others and I counted the friends Dad took to hospital, shopped for or phoned. He also made things for people. That must count? Once his elderly neighbour needed a ramp, and after a little prompting, he made one, not easy for an attorney. He gave jobs to the jobless and money to the homeless. “Aren’t they the Little Ways?” I whispered. Silence was the answer as I walked towards a seat to pray. I wanted to get everything right because so far the suit was creased, my memories dismantled and my eyes were red and puffy when I slowly became aware I wasn’t alone.

“Jimmi.” I looked around. We were supposed to meet in the next village, but Charlie had been crying too and couldn’t wait. Her blue eyes surrounded by long wet lashes, heavy with tears still to come, she needed to see me, and I reached out my hand and together we made it to the sacristy at the side of the altar; passed the Lady Chapel. Father Anthony was tall and neat with a little beard and took us to the library. I let Charlie speak because she was full of grief. It was spilling out of her as she picked the first reading from The Book of Wisdom. Not a gentle one; speaking of ‘annihilation’ and ‘sin’ but it related to her as I looked out onto the cold rose garden, mentally pinching myself. ‘I’m talking about Dad’s funeral. How did that happen?’ I just sat there, listening to Father Anthony as we all planned the last journey Dad would make. There would be no more leaving through the front door, or any other. This time he would be carried and concealed in a wooden coffin and covered with earth. “Is there anything else?” I shook my head until Charlie asked.

“Where’s Dad now, Father Anthony? I’m worried” And he sat back in his chair, still in his white cassock, explaining.

“Well, there are different states we go to… “ Closing his eyes, it was like he was somewhere else. Somewhere we couldn’t reach.

“Different states, Father?” Her face tense, but that was the effect Dad had on his children. It wasn’t just me that had an afterlife complex. It was all the lies. The duplicity and deceit, but at least now we knew everything. There was nothing left. There were no more revelations.

“Well, purgatory is one. It’s a place of purification. It helps with the soul’s last journey.”

“To what Father?” She clenched her jaw.

“To eternity. You see, it’s not God who decides where you are going when you die.”

“What do you mean? Because if God doesn’t. Who does?” I could hear the panic in her trembling voice.

“YOU… decide where you are going, my dear.” Smiling at her, he elaborated. “Invariably, we feel unworthy to be in the presence of the Divine, so we separate. We remove ourselves and wait for purification. Think of Sister Julian of Norwich. An English mystic and hermit existing in a cell. She spent her life guiding others and reminded us that God doesn’t punish sin. Sin punishes sin.” In that moment, I remembered the Guru. I remembered what he said about no sin going unpunished. I remembered how I couldn’t find him. Finish the conversation, but I guess he knew that. I guess he knew I would find out when I needed to, but to learn we punish ourselves, I figured I couldn’t take that concept back in 1998. I was finding it difficult even now in 2020. All this spiritual self-responsibility. What about unconscious actions? What about our formative years, I reasoned as he blessed us? “Father of all, we pray to you for those we love and see no longer… “ And I wondered what actions lay heaviest on Dad’s conscience. Embezzlement? Pay offs? Lies under oath? The evidence was in his diaries; well, the ones we could find.

The funeral was arranged, and we booked the same hotel we stayed in while Dad was hospitalized. It was three weeks later, and the city post-Christmas and New Year was a stark reality with worn-out decorations gathered in eaves of the medieval Merchant Guild building as we made our way to a little wine bar. There were still curling posters from a summer exhibition advertising King Richard III’s personal prayer book and other artefacts on the stout 14th century walls. I visited because I majored in medieval European history long before psychotherapy. I only studied the latter because of Danny, and I thought marriage was supposed to heal you.

“Richard was the English king, lost for centuries until discovered under the letter R. For Reserved. It was a car park. Imagine that? The last of the Plantagenets tarmacked.” I joked as Fitz half-smiled in the late afternoon light and I noticed the circles around her tired eyes. “You know, the date of his coronation was July 6th. My birthday.”

“Really.” She was being polite, but I wanted to distract her in some way. Hoping to share the burden of Dad.

“Richard lost at Bosworth Field, somewhere in the middle of England on August 22nd, 1485. The day he died.” We stood together, in the silence and the chill of February, and it made me think about my own death date.

“Jimmi… Jimmi. I knew I’d find you in the garden. You old bloody historian. This is so hard… isn’t it.” I hugged Charlie as she ambled down the little stone pathway.

“But we all have each other.” I smiled.

“I know… but that’s not the only reason I’ve come. Look.” She rolled up her sleeve and there was another tattoo.

“Is that a centurion?” Nodding at me, I struggled to find anything positive.

“I like the red plumes in his helmet.” Fitz said.

“Me too.” I smiled. It was shocking. Amateurish. Dad would never approve I thought as we arrived. The yellow candlelight flickering inside the small wine bar, with Fitz the first to enter, rolling down her sleeve.

4

CAMERAS LIE

We had a white lily cross for the coffin. I wanted a coloured one because he loved art but in reality; they didn’t work. But Fitz was most insistent on the colour of the coffin, although I was happy with blonde oak. “The first choice for most.” The Funeral Director informed us, but she picked dark oak instead.

“It’s stronger.” I guess she knew him better, but I was still distracted by the Coffin Catalogue. Page after page of glossy coffins, some with motifs, some pink and some with names emblazoned across the sides. There was even a wicker one for the eco-friendly. It looked flimsy, but it must be a growing market.

“It’s the last thing a family can do for their relative.” The undertaker tried to comfort us as I saw Fitz take out Dad’s worn leather wallet from her pocket. There was a little flap that was creased, and she smoothed it tenderly before opening it, taking out each credit card slowly. I knew why. He had touched all those cards and touching them back was a way to reconnect. I discovered there was an energy around death. Something I wasn’t expecting, but I should have. Therapeutically, I knew the heart had an electromagnetic field. This was just emerging in science. Apparently, it sensed things before the brain, and I wondered if Dad’s heart sensed our pain now, he was finally gone?

We had planned to walk on the morning of the funeral, and I couldn’t help but notice the symmetry in the digits 20-02-2020. Fitz wanted to take my brother-in-law and nephews around the Old Town, passed the red brick Victorian and Georgian buildings—but it was wet. Cold rain poured, and we dashed into the car as the windows steamed up, searching for a space to park because even in the most surreal of times, a car parking space was still difficult.

The main abbey doors were still locked, so we took the side entrance. The rain had fallen hard on my black hat and I shook it as I waited for my new boots. Charlie was bringing them when we heard the soloist practicing (Schubert) Ave Maria; the vaulted abbey acoustics perfect to capture the vibrato in her crystal voice but Fitz had to leave, pushing the door back into the rain, overwhelmed. I followed as the sky had the heaviness of a brewing storm—full of dense grey clouds and bolts of blood red as I spotted Mum. We hadn’t spoken about her attending. But I guess they were married for twenty years and Myrrh was Roman’s first wife. She smiled at Fitz, who was still outside, and I could see my sister’s brimmed hat dipping, as the hearse slowly came to a halt, and we took our places by the main doors to receive the coffin.

It wasn’t how I remembered. The colour, I mean still rich, but a little lighter. It must have been the photograph. Even though they say the camera doesn’t lie it did, as I walk behind the coffin to the front pew in my wet, muddy feet. I never did get my boots. Charlie arrived with Saul late, but bootless with her daughter and mine. We didn’t speak. It was Leda’s choice since she left me and moved in with Danny. Luckily, he hadn’t invited himself and I tried to smile, but she didn’t respond.

It was all about contradictions—as I tried to hold on to the last memories, words, feelings, but they all faded as I stood there. They became blurry—not so clear like Dad’s straight nose and powerful hands they were less defined now in my mind. Less solid. Less characterful—but I guess that was dying. It smudged the lines so your normal became abnormal, but I was advised to find ‘A new normal…’ But what if I wanted to peek inside the coffin? Was that considered a new normal? What if I wanted to check it was him? Make sure there hadn’t been a mistake, but then I might get distracted with the suit. Was his tie still straight? What about the shirt? Did the neck fit? All those things I’ll never have to trouble myself with again, and suddenly a solitary tear rolled over my cheek and splashed onto the stone floor.

‘I’m at the shore. Don’t worry. I’m fine.’ Dad whispered three days before he passed. My sisters gripped his hands in fear, but I could relate to the idea of a shore, surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean. Waiting for a vessel like in the myths to be taken to the next world. And now I sensed him returning to his own body and kissing it. Thanking it for all its support, just like the guru had advised. My prayers must have reached somewhere because for a vain man, not identifying with the physical anymore was miraculous. But recently I was beginning to feel the dead were only interested in the dead. The living weren’t of concern to them anymore or the problems of the earth as I spotted Olivia making her way to the lectern lifting the black veil of her hat, preparing to read one of Dad’s poems but just caught her staring at the bottom of the abbey, so I copied. “Turn around, Jimmi!” Mum ordered. “Have some respect. It’s Roman’s funeral.” Why? He showed none to her, but the moment was gone, and I turned as Leda watched. I wanted to smile, but she had dismissed me. Why were parent-child relationships so difficult mine own exceptionally so?

The abbey was three quarters occupied but mostly underneath black hats. Consequently, I didn’t recognise many of the attendees who remained still, unlike me who wanted to run out. I didn’t want to have to endure the religion and sentimentality, and now my daughter was ignoring me, but I had to play the part. I had to be the eldest child and endure the service, no matter how excruciating. Charlie was supposed to read the eulogy but as she ascended the steps, she tried to compose herself but fell into the arms of the priest sobbing. My daughter went up to her and helped her back down. The priest held the eulogy, Charlie had spent the last four days writing, asking everyone about their memories of Roman and how he impacted their life. I think she had many references and tirelessly weaved them together, mentioning everyone that needed acknowledgement but not Mum or I. We weren’t included, but I understood. Charlie was so overwhelmed with her own loss because she never judged Dad. She always loved being his baby and stayed with him frequently as a teenager. She enjoyed the fact she had a whole floor to herself and he never chastised her unlike Fitz and I, but then I guess Dad benefited from that unconditional, overidealized, heroized adoration that only a baby daughter could offer.

Father Anthony shared that he had known Roman for many years, delving into times they had shared and the free legal advice the abbey had benefitted from. I turned to see Mum’s expression, but she remained unmoved. I think all the charity work he accomplished Mum viewed as guilt motivated and maybe she was right. I mean no one knew him like her, not even Liz who I was still waiting to catch a glimpse of. But with Mum behind me patrolling I didn’t have the opportunity to even peek. I needed to speak to my cousin because I suspected if Liz arrived, she would remain at the back, near the open doors, just in case she needed a quick exit and Olivia would have seen everything from the altar. It was an ideal vantage point. But the abbey was silent all mourners listening to my sister’s eulogy as I fidgeted, restless as I tried to keep everything within my limited surveillance until the last paragraph when Charlie’s words arrested me.

“As Roman’s illness took hold, he told everyone. “I’ll keep going until I drop” And he did one grey February morning into the arms of his son—Fabian. There were four children, but one went on ahead to carry his Daddy homeward. For Roman’s story to continue, but not in this world. So, next time you think of him, remember the valiant Centurion he was towards the end. Taking each setback with grace and bravery. An example of lost stoicism. Resting now in peace… with his golden-haired son in the mystery that is eternity.

The incomparable and unconventional… Roman.”

Then something fluttered. Moving, and before I could stop myself, I looked across and there by the little side entrance the one we used to enter, I saw a figure dressed in black but just underneath the hat I saw peroxide blonde hair, only a glimmer of it but my heart raced. Oblivious, the congregation stood up to sing Abide In Me, Mum suddenly too choked to notice where my attention had been pulled. Although the thought of those two colliding was alarming. I needed to manage the situation to avoid possible disaster because Mum still blamed Liz for the destruction of her marriage and family as I heard the side door close. Dad now absolved of all his sins but as Christ shared. ‘As you sow, so you reap,’ and then I thought of a story from India; one in a similar vein about a beautiful village. The villagers were happy but greedy, and in time the lake grew empty. There were no more fish to catch. Only one was left and a young boy played with it, tapping its head until it was taken by an adult and cooked. Years later, Buddha was asked to help the same village from destruction, but he couldn’t. Buddha explained he had a terrible headache so everyone was killed only one woman was left and she asked Buddha why he couldn’t help. Karma, he explained, still rubbing his head knowing that he was the young boy playing with the fish and the killers were the fish taking their revenge on the greedy reincarnated villagers. The motto being you can’t escape your actions and I wondered if I was having an epiphany not a divine one, considering I was in an abbey, but a human one as it was Dad’s human actions that caused this unresolved dynamic? This deep conflict because from what I knew, there was nothing divine about adultery…