Page 93 of The Elements

On a small island like this, so isolated from the world, it surprises me that the priest who conducts the funeral service is not Irish.

In fact, as I come to learn, he’s Nigerian but has spent much of his life far removed from his native soil.

The church, however, is almost empty. Ron, Rebecca, and Furia sit in the front pew on the right-hand side of the aisle, while Emmet and I take our places on the left.

Perhaps a couple of dozen islanders are scattered in the benches behind us, but I suspect most are here simply for the mass itself or to get out of the house.

Two, however, catch my eye. The neighbor who waved to me from the farm next to the cottage earlier, who’s dressed in a formal black suit and sits upright in his seat, occasionally brushing his blond hair out of his eyes.

And a woman sitting in the very back row, who looks careworn, as if she is struggling with the very business of existence.

In his eulogy, the priest tells us that he remembers Vanessa from the time she spent here all those years ago.

“She called herself Willow Hale back then,” he says.

“And I was fortunate at the time to get to know her and to learn a little about her life. My feeling was that she was a woman both running away from and toward something. She was looking for healing, and I hope that during her exile with our island community, she found some. As many of us later discovered, she had experienced a troubled period prior to coming here, but when she left, I think her soul had been restored, at least a little. Her time in America subsequent to this was filled with joy, not least because of the happiness she found with her husband, Ron.” He offers a small nod in the direction of the man, who acknowledges it.

“But when I learned that Vanessa wanted to be buried here,” he continues, “I will confess that the request moved me tremendously. We did not stay in touch after she left, but I can only assume that something of the serenity of this place remained with her forever.”

He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s uncertain whether he should say what he plans on saying next, glancing briefly toward the woman in the back row, as if to seek her approval. Or at least her understanding.

“Many years ago,” he continues at last, “I found myself in London in the company of a young man who had grown up in this place, and while we had a drink together, I remarked to him that eventually, I would be buried in the earth of Nigeria, alongside my people. It was something I believed at the time but I’m certain now that this will not come to pass.

For, like Vanessa, I intend to make my final resting place here, in this peaceful paradise.

Vanessa made many choices in her life, as we all do, some of which she may have regretted, but this, perhaps, was among her best.”

Afterward, making his way around the congregation, he shakes my hand, introducing himself as Fr. Ifechi Onkin.

“And you?” he asks.

“Aaron Umber,” I tell him.

“You’re Australian?”

“Sort of.”

“And may I ask how you knew Vanessa?”

“Her daughter Rebecca and I were once married,” I explain. “That boy over there, holding her hand, that’s Emmet, our son.”

He looks over and takes in the scene, nodding his head.

“And were you close with your mother-in law?” he asks.

“Former mother-in-law,” I say, correcting him. “And no. Not at all. In fact, I only met her a couple of times.”

“Well, I’m sure she appreciated your presence here.”

“No offense, Father,” I reply. “But I’m not a religious man. I don’t really believe in the afterlife. I think we get one shot at all of this, and we do our best, but when it’s over, that’s that. So I don’t think she’ll have any feelings about it one way or the other. She’s gone.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” he says, reaching across, placing a hand on my arm, and smiling widely.

“I wasn’t referring to Vanessa. I was talking about Rebecca.

It’s she who will have been grateful that you traveled so far.

Your marriage might not have been a success but I daresay you’ve cheered her immensely by choosing to be part of today, and by ensuring that your son is present.

I can see the gratitude on her face. It offers a fine counterbalance to the grief. ”

Our son.

Last night, when we returned to the cottage, I felt relieved at how well the evening had gone.

Emmet had put aside all his resentment, remaining next to his mother throughout, even chatting amiably with Furia, who later stood at the bar and had a drink with me, where I congratulated her on the success of her novel.

“It’s doing so well,” I told her. “I see it everywhere.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s taken me a little by surprise, if I’m honest.”

“A good surprise, though.”

“Of course.”

We stood there, rather self-consciously, and finally, to break the silence, I nodded across the room toward the woman who had once been married to me and was now married to her.

“So how’s our girl doing?” I asked tentatively, hoping she wouldn’t be offended by my choice of pronoun, but if anything, she seemed pleased by it, touching my arm for a moment and squeezing it affectionately.

“All right, so far,” she said. “You know just as well as I do how things were between them. I don’t think the mourning period will be a lengthy one, but there are issues that remain that she still has to work through. She’ll spend years doing that, I imagine.”

“Well, she has you to help her with that. And Emmet.”

“It was so good of you to bring him.”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“I told her to invite him, but she was terrified that he’d say no.”

This takes me by surprise.

“There’s something I should probably let her know,” I say, pulling her away from the bar a little to a quieter spot. “On the way here, I told him about the past. About Rebecca’s father, I mean. And Emma. All of it.”

Furia breathes in deeply and considers this.

“OK,” she says.

“I don’t know if it was my place or not, but in the moment it seemed right.”

We both glance over to where Rebecca and Emmet are huddled together, and it looks as if he’s scrolling through photos on his phone—probably pictures of his surfing activities and his friends—and her face is bright with joy, as is his.

He says something, and she bursts out laughing before putting an arm around his shoulder, and for a moment, he lays his head there. Furia turns back to me.

“It was right,” she says.

Later, before going to bed, Emmet and I sat at the kitchen table together, drinking tea, and he asked a few more questions related to the revelations of earlier. It was a conversation he would have with Rebecca at some point in the future, he told me.

“You didn’t say anything about it tonight, did you?” I asked, and he shook his head.

“Oh God, no. Totally not the right time.”

“It looked like you were having fun together.”

“As much as you can at a wake,” he said with a shrug. “But I’m glad we came. And I’m glad you told me what you told me. It explains a lot of things. I mean, there’s still a lot I need to understand about it, about her, about both of you, but—”

“Then there’s something else,” I said.

“What? About Mum?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “About me.” We’d come this far, after all.

If there was ever a time to unearth all the secrets that had caused so much trauma in our lives, then this was it.

And so I told him of the things that had happened to me when I was fourteen and how badly they had affected me over the years that followed.

I hoped it would go some way to explaining why I could be so overprotective at times.

He listened carefully, never interrupting, and showed no sign of embarrassment throughout what was a lengthy and difficult conversation, centered around such an intimate topic.

When I reached the conclusion of my tale, he looked down at the table for a long time, his brow furrowed, and neither of us spoke for quite some time.

I guessed that he needed to think this through, to reframe me in his mind as someone who had gone through a childhood trauma and spent twenty-six years trying to come to terms with it.

I could tell that he found nothing salacious about it but recognized what had happened for what it was. A crime.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” I said finally before we said goodnight. “I saw something, a few weeks ago, on your phone. I wasn’t prying. Well, I suppose I was. But I didn’t mean to. It was a stupid, thoughtless act on my part. I shouldn’t have looked. But I did.”

He frowned and sat back in his chair, looking slightly alarmed.

“Some photos,” I said. “Some photos of you.”

“My phone is full of photos of me.”

“More… intimate photos. Of your body.”

“Oh fuck,” he replied, putting a hand to his mouth, blushing from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears.

“I shouldn’t have looked,” I repeated. “I’m sorry. But since I did, I need to know why they were there. Who were you sending them to?”

His eyes opened wide now. “Sending them to?” he asked. “No one! Jesus! As if!”

“Then why did you take them?”

“Because I’m so skinny, Dad. I’ve been trying to build muscle. I want to keep track of my development.”

“And you needed to be naked for that?”

“It’s not as if you could see my… anything.”

“They weren’t far off.”

“But far enough!”

“You’re not talking to anyone online, are you? Someone who asked for them?”

“Oh my God,” he said, burying his head in his hands. “You are the weirdest man alive.”

“That might be true. I just don’t want anyone taking advantage of you.”

“No one is. I promise.”

“You can understand why, though, right? After what I’ve told you about what happened to me?”

“I can,” he said. “But still. This is really embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Can we just never talk about it again?”

“All right,” I said. “But you promise that you’re telling me the truth?”