Page 61 of Slanting Towards the Sea
FIFTY-SIX
HAVING TO ARRANGE A funeral is a ploy to take the mourners’ minds off their grief.
The thought first occurred to me when Mom died, but it feels even truer now that I’m getting everything ready for my father’s burial.
Last time, Dad and I split the duties between us.
Now there’s no one but me. So much to do in such a short period of time.
Sa?a hasn’t arrived yet. He was supposed to drive down in the morning, but Dad died in the meantime, so Sa?a concluded there was no reason for him to rush.
He needed to pack better, and of course, now that it wouldn’t be a hospital visit but a funeral, he had to arrange for the kids to stay with Silvija’s parents so she could come with him, which also means she’ll have to buy some black outfits, because all her wardrobe is eye-smackingly bright-colored.
I arrange for the date of the funeral—a few days out because “everyone hurried to die over the weekend,” according to the gruff guy at the cemetery. I guess one needs a connection for a timely burial too.
I call the funeral company and send them Dad’s photo and basic information so they can arrange for the death announcement to be printed in the local newspaper.
“The mourners?” the woman asks me, and I read her the names: son Sa?a with wife Silvija, and children Leon, Noa, and Eva; daughter Ivona.
It’s not lost on me that my name comes both last and unaccompanied.
They will also put up a printed death announcement on the noticeboards scattered around the town: on Branimir’s Coast near the town bridge, at the town entrance, on the main square, near the market.
News travels fast through the grapevine here, and I wonder how many people will show up to see Dad off.
It wouldn’t matter to him, he never cared much about tradition.
But if there is a heaven, I’m sure my mother is watching from up there, keeping tabs.
A horrifying thought nags at me. When we buried Mom, the grave was empty.
But now, Mom is already in there. Will her coffin still be inside?
Or have they moved her bones to the part of the grave they call the bone deposit?
The whole thing unnerves me, and I wish we had individual graves here in Croatia, rather than family graves with shelves inside, as if they were a fridge to put pork halves in.
Sometimes I wonder if Mom and Dad will bicker in there.
Sometimes, I play out a five-minute argument before I catch myself.
Close to noon, I make some coffee and sit on the terrace. The absence of Dad and the droning of his news is conspicuous and makes my eyes sting.
I put together a list of people to call.
Dad’s cousins, the few friends he had left.
I imagine Vlaho or Marina going into town and seeing my father’s photo on the noticeboard.
Or someone calling them—everyone knows Marina after all—and asking, Did you know Ivona’s father died?
Isn’t she Vlaho’s ex? The discomfort of it churns in my gut.
For ten years, my father was Vlaho’s father-in-law.
And even though they were never close, and haven’t sustained a relationship after our divorce, it feels wrong that Vlaho should find out about his death from someone else.
But the thought of talking to him is equally unbearable.
Not just because of our fight. But because if I call him, if I so much as hear his voice, I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold it together.
It might be the final crack that undoes me, and I can’t allow that. There’s still so much to do.
So I open the group text and type the message:
“my dad died last night”
The phone starts ringing before I even put it down.
It’s Marina. Her tone is deferential as she asks me the basics of what, how, and when.
After we go over the funeral information, a sense of finality frames the silence between us.
I’m thinking how there’s nothing more to be said.
I want to apologize for my harsh words and everything else I’ve done, and yet what good would that do when I want her husband?
“Have you arranged for the music yet?” Marina asks. “One of my father’s friends plays a violin at funerals. I could get in touch with him if you’d like.”
Her tone is calm, resigned, as if she too is accepting the fact that after what happened on the sailboat, we won’t be able to remain friends.
Recognizing also, perhaps, that in that foul word she used—fucking—she showed more emotion, more protectiveness of the life she’s built with Vlaho than even she might have expected.
She must have thought she could control it.
Bring us together so that we could quench our thirst for one another with mist instead of mouthfuls.
But maybe she’s realizing, as I am right now, how na?ve that had been.
How vastly she underestimated the power of this kind of love, having never experienced it herself.
“I haven’t had the chance yet,” I say, touched. “Thank you, that would be nice.”
When Vlaho and then Asier call soon after, I don’t answer. I cut the calls and type a message instead. “sorry, can’t talk, talking to the cemetery,” even though that’s a lie.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Asier types back. “I’ve postponed my flight. I’m here if you need anything.”
Despite all that’s happened, I smile and press the phone against my chest, as if his energy could enter me from there.
Vlaho’s text says, “are you home? can i come over?”
To him, I type, “running some errands. i’ll call you later.
” I know there’ll be a point when I won’t be able to avoid an actual conversation.
Vlaho is the only one of the three who knew not just my father but all the facets of our complicated relationship.
All the convoluted ways I loved my father and resented him and sometimes hated him at the same time.
All the ways my father loved me, but failed to understand me.
But I’m not ready to go there yet. I have no filter, I might ask more of him than he’s willing to give right now, and I can’t bear to hear him say no.