A Natural Woman and other hits / Aretha Franklin
The second call had come in about 10 minutes after the first. It was from the day nurse on Mother’s wing. It was considerably nicer than the first. A weepy voice, filled with concern spoke into the machine.
“Hi, this is Alice your mom’s nurse. I know someone else was going to call you, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry. You call me if you need anything.”
And the third call, which came in thirty minutes later, about five minutes before we had walked in was G.
“I’m sorry to do this on the phone, but I don’t think you know. I know you don't know, you didn't call me. Your mom passed away this morning. I just heard. I was talking to Jenny, you’re mom’s nurse friend. JP had just called her, and she called me. I asked if anyone had called you and she said she didn’t know. She said, she just talked to JP and your mom died this morning about 5 am. I said, Ohmygod, no one's called S. I knew, no one had called, because you PROMISED me, as soon as you heard something, you’d call me. You said you’d call no matter what time it was. And I knew you would. And you didn’t call. And I know you said if I heard first to call you, because maybe no one would tell you. I didn’t believe it, but… you didn’t call me, so I know you didn’t know. I'm sorry. Call me.” I smiled into the phone.
I got off the phone, told M. the facts and we blinked at each other, not sure exactly what to do next. I realized I had been counting on the idea that whomever from the institution who would officially notify me would know how to get the ball rolling. I knew the funeral parlor and the arrangements, but the how’s were a little shaky. Her residence was Connecticut. She had died in Massachusetts. She was to be buried in Rhode Island.
After a brief discussion, I lit on the idea to call L. Surely, as the person who ran the institution she’d have the knowledge of what to do and as a family friend, she would understand. However, I didn’t have a way to reach her. So, I called the desk and the nice woman who left me a message.
The woman was friendly, sympathetic and sincere. She told me how sorry she was. She would be the last one to say those words aside from the funeral director. Ironic to me that it was the two people I didn’t know, who were the most considerate.
Unfortunately L. was not in the building. At first I thought that meant that she didn’t know the news. However, with a sinking feeling I learned that she had been called at 5 am with the news. Had come in, made calls, though clearly not to me and had already left. The desk nurse apologized and started making lame excuses. She suggested I contact the funeral director, as they usually knew what to do as well. I was very grateful.
My next call was to the funeral home, to a man who’s name I can’t remember, but whom I will never forget. Mister seemed as grateful to hear from me as I was that he was prepared for my call. We shared another mutual exhale of relief when my understanding of my mother’s wishes and his understanding, matched.
My mother wanted a strict Jewish Orthodox funeral. This meant several things:
1. The process and materials were simple. A plan pine box, the body wrapped in plan white cloth. In her case, she had also decided that the entire ceremony would take place grave side.
2. The burial happened as soon as humanly possibly, preferably in less than 24 hours. This was some of my urgency in knowing what to do and who to call. Also some of my annoyance as I presumed that L. knew this also; however as she had not called to tell me of my mother’s death, her consideration of me, and in my opinion her respect for Mother was clear.
3. The ceremony was proscribed by religion. An orthodox rabbi performed set prayers, in set order and said a few words. Only men whom he called on could add anything to the verbal portion. By that, it was not men in the grand sense of humanity, but in the literal, biological sense. The only people allowed to speak had to have a Y chromosome.
Mister explained I need not worry about arrangements. He would have Mother moved from one state to the next, his people were on the way. My role was to show up at the cemetery, provide payment for services, sit quietly during the ceremony. The end of which, I, as the nearest and due to blood lines consider only relative, would throw the first handful of dirt onto the coffin. All present if they so decided would throw their handful or shovel as they preferred.
A small backhoe would be standing by to finish the filling, another prayer would be said and the proceedings concluded. I had no questions.
Mister then explained he had some standard questions. Most of which I could easily answer. But then came questions I had no idea about: Where was my grandfather born? I had no idea. I’d never met him. I didn’t know his name. Mister explained that this information could be found on my mother’s birth certificate. A document that would also need to be copied and given to him for the states.
It was not in the “Will and Important Papers” file. I was fairly certain that it was in the fire box, in Mother’s condo. Two miles from her office, two minutes from where we had just spent four hours traveling to and from. We were going to need to take the trip again. I explained the situation and told Mister I’d call him back in a few hours with the needed info.
This was fine, but Mister hesitated. I thought we had covered everything, but clearly there was something else, something that the man was very uncomfortable about.
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