Heaven's Light

Prologue-4

Slowly, Christian and Lori ambled over to the long line of funeral-goers saying their final goodbyes to Aunt Betty, Lori gripping Christian’s hand as if she were afraid she’d lose him in the throng of people. Christian’s small fingers brushed the gold bracelet his father had gotten for her on their anniversary.

Christian and Lori waited behind two gossipy old women, whispering between themselves. They were women Christian didn’t know or see come around the house. His mother later told him when they got home that the two women were Aunt Betty’s sisters. A flashy, gaudy duo, his mother had described them, with all their fake pearls and dyed hair and loud mouths.

Christian asked his mother why older women wore younger girl’s clothes. “Maybe they’re afraid of getting old,” she had answered. “Young clothes and dyed hair make them feel younger.”

Christian looked up at his mother as they moved sluggishly towards Aunt Betty’s coffin. She tapped him on the arm and leaned down, asking him, “Are you all right, Chrissy?”

He shook his head.

“There’s no reason to be scared,” she said, looking up at a man standing behind them and gesturing with a finger that they’d be a minute, maybe two.

Christian wiped his nose on his father’s tie.

“No, Chrissy,” she said. “Your father will be mad if he knows you blew your nose on his tie.”

Christian took a deep breath and blew it out.

Lori gathered him under her arm. She pulled herself up to her full five and a half feet and shook his hand gently, the gentle rhythm of her jangling bracelets calming him.

As they approached the coffin, Aunt Betty looked peaceful, asleep, and praying. Maybe, Christian thought, if I poked her she’d wake up and take me to get a double fudge sundae at Barney’s ice cream shop. Tonight would be the perfect evening for ice cream. He and Lori stepped closer to the pew, and following his mother’s actions, Christian leaned down beside her in front of Aunt Betty.

At the sight of his sleeping aunt, Christian was overcome with emotions. Sadness took the shape of tears, and he couldn’t control it this time. He cried hard and steady, his small body trembling. He felt his mother’s arms around him, her kind hand soothing away the rough edges of the moment.

She asked if he wanted to go home. He told her no.

Then he heard his father’s voice in his head: “You’re my son. I love you.”

Christian hugged his mother, and her gentle perfume smelled like germaniums in the air. “Aunt Betty is at peace,” he heard his mother whisper to him.

Then the quiet moment was broken with Uncle Willy’s noisy laughter behind him, somewhere in the room, which reminded him of something his uncle had told him when Christian was younger. “When people die, their lips are sewn together.”

Christian didn’t know why Uncle Willy would tell him such silly things. Maybe that was why Dad and Uncle Willy didn’t get along so well, Christian thought.

Christian stood and peeked into the coffin to see Aunt Betty’s face. He had not known Aunt Betty to wear any makeup. Her face looked clownish, he thought, her lips full and dark and as red as an apple. Her eyebrows were two wide dark lines painted together. He had heard family members making jokes that ‘Aunt Betty has a unibrow.’ He didn’t know what they meant until he leaned closer in. He turned to his mom. “Is it true, Mom?”

“What, Chrissy?”

“Does Aunt Betty have a unibrow?”

Fighting back laughter, she looked away, shaking her head. “For goodness sakes, where’d you hear that?”

“Dad.”

Christian recalled his mother staring at him like he had three heads.

“Never mind,” she said. “Don’t repeat it, please.”

Christian wanted to reach out and touch Aunt Betty on the shoulder and tell her he loved her; that he’d miss her. But he kept his hands at his side as if he was in a museum and he couldn’t touch the property.

He lowered himself back into a kneeling position and turned to his mother. “Are Aunt Betty’s lips sewn shut?” he asked.

She looked at him, confused. “Who told you that?”

“Uncle Willy.”

She sniffed and wiped her nose on a tissue. “Uncle Willy is watching too many horror movies.”

“But is it true, Mom?”

She balled up her hands and stared down at her sister. “I don’t know, Chrissy,” she sighed. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to talk about such things.”

“Why not?”

“You’re too young to understand.”

“I’m seven,” he said confidently.

She cuddled him. “You’re still too young.”

“Can I touch her?”

“Why do you want to touch her?” There was panic in his mother’s voice.

“I want to touch Aunt Betty,” he said. “Say goodbye.”

He remembered the puzzled look on his mother’s face.

“Her sisters got to kiss her,” he told her.

“That’s different,” Lori said.

“Why’s it different?”

“Because they’re close, they’re family.”

“She’s my aunt,” he said.

Christian watched his mother bring her hand to her face, and touch her eyes to shut them. She nodded. “Quickly,” she whispered, and looked away, as if what he was doing was wrong.

Christian felt sick to his stomach, staring down at his aunt. He clenched down on his teeth like his father did to help him sleep at night.

Reaching out to touch Aunt Betty’s hand felt weird. He glanced at her peaceful face, and hoped she would open her eyes and yell at him for waking her out of a deep sleep.

* * * *

“Aunt Betty isn’t coming back,” his father told Christian later that night when he was tucking his son into bed, drawing the comforter up to his chest and leaning over him to kiss him goodnight.

“I don’t understand death,” Christian said.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“Where do people go when they die? Where will Aunt Betty go?”

“Some people believe in heaven. Some people believe that when you’re dead, you’re gone forever. Your physical body is replaced with memories of the deceased.”

“What does that mean?” Christian asked, rubbing his tired eyes.

“When you die, your body is not on earth anymore. But your spirit stays.”

“I don’t understand.”

Henry brushed a strand of his son’s hair out of his youthful face.

Christian heard his mother in the kitchen, fixing Dad something to eat. Pans and utensils clattered. The oven door opened and closed.

“The living is left with smells and sounds of their loved ones,” Henry said.

“Like ghosts?” Christian asked.

Henry laughed. “No, no, nothing like that. The only memories we have of our families and friends when they die are their scents, like perfume, or maybe it is a song we hear on the radio that reminds us of them.”

“How about their clothes?” Christian asked.

Henry nodded, his eyes heavy with sleep. “And photographs.”

Satisfied with what his father was saying, Christian curled up under the blankets, looking up at his father and smiling, his eyes closing slowly.

Henry reached down and kissed his son one last time on the forehead until he reached across the bed and turned out the lights. “Sleep tight, Chrissy. I love you.”