UNFRIENDING THE DEAD--AN ORIGINAL SHORT STORY

 (As "St. Anthony's Messenger" did not take this, I wanted to put it out there for readers, as I just love this original short story.)

 When the wind blows cold, my neck shivers, and feet feel uncertain on the earth, I turn to Nell. Passed on Nell. Dead Nell. Who just appeared on my FB feed, which chirpily asked me if I wanted to wish Nell a happy birthday.

 

"I would if I could, honey," I whispered to my computer. We had belonged to the same Writers' Group for years, shared our lives, and read our works aloud to all. At the same time, I sent up a prayer for her, hoping she wasn't in Purgatory (there had been a few off moments in her life, which is true for most of us), and that she was at the "Beer and Shrimp" table with God, as Anne Lamott once wrote.

 

I tottered over to my bureau, hoping I could find Nell's gift which she had given me when I came into the church years ago.

"It's a Scapular, Annie," she'd said, pressing the old, cream envelope into my hand. I opened it, and a musty, antique smell rose.

"See," she pointed to the two purple embroidered silk rectangles joined by two cords."Put it over your head, one cord on each shoulder. One square goes over your heart, and the other down your back."

 

I was puzzled. "And what is it for, Nell? I mean, it's beautiful and thank you, but I don't get it."

"It protects you," she said simply, with all of the faith of her Irish Catholic upbringing. "Jesus over your heart--or back--and Mary over your back or heart." She beamed at me.

I was touched but also taken aback.  I'm not that kind of Catholic. No novenas for me, no Infant of Prague with that weird, shiny crown, no Rosary marches through the streets, and--apparently--Scapulars.

I was a Progressive Catholic, I told myself proudly. I read Thomas Merton, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, "Commonweal Magazine, 'America Magazine," and Richard Rohr. 

 I debated "liminal space" in Mass and thought about how I could become more of a non-dual thinker, as, apparently, Jesus was.

How had I found myself on the snotty side of Catholicism, as if I were comparing myself to a wobbly student in college who had not had the advantages of private schooling? As Anne Lamott once said,

"This makes God want to drink gin straight from a paper cup."

But today--with the cold wind and shaky legs--I thought it might be a good time for Nell's Scapular, which had sat, unopened, in my underwear drawer for years. I fumbled through my things, looking for the cream envelope. There it was, under some black underwear!

I drew it out and held it to my nose. It smelled of dust and the end of life. I wasn't sure this was a good idea after all, seeing as I had escaped death a few years back with two cancer surgeries and months of chemo.

 I had abhorred being bald and weak, but now, my hair was growing back silver, and I could exercise on the treadmill again.

Exercise will do better for you than this antique thingy.  I prodded it with one finger, then decided to open the envelope. Carefully, I separated the two cloth rectangles painted with a purple floral design and the cords, which had been tightly wound in the middle. Taking off my sweater, I lifted the Scapular over my head.

"One cord for each shoulder..." I muttered to myself. I put a silken piece over my heart, and the other down my back. I fussed with them, trying to match them evenly, going into the bathroom to check.

I felt that if they weren't matched just so, something bad would happen, or would happen again. But they were even--the white silk rectangles embroidered with tiny purple stitches--and now I could gently pull my sweater over them.

When my husband returned from his job at the human services agency where he counseled disturbed teens, he pulled out a kitchen chair and sank into it with a sigh.

"Wine?" I asked self-consciously, pulling my sweater looser over the Scapular. I didn't want to explain to Dan--a non-Catholic, practically a Unitarian--about the Scapular, and how I needed protection on this day of a cold wind, bad memories, and seeing Nell's smiling face on my computer.

"Yeah," he nodded and sighed again.

I poured him a glass of our favorite Malbec, thinking Jesus might like this.

 Perhaps it would be like the wine at Cana, which surely was a deep, fruity red, not a thin, white wine. 

I pulled the steak out of the fridge where it had been marinating all day, heated up my old cast iron pan, threw in some smoked sea salt, and began to sear the steak.

"Oh, God, that smells good!" Dan saluted me with his glass and gave a faint smile. "I had a terrible day. Two kids," he held up two fingers, "who are pyromaniacs. I had to do a danger assessment in Juvie. I hate that."

"So sorry, honey." I came over and rubbed the back of his neck which was knotted with tension.

Then I realized something strange. That sense of a chill wind at my back, of the earth being unstable, of subdued panic in my heart--all gone. Instead, a faint warmth pulsed over my heart and against my back.

Huh! How about that, Missy, with your scorn for Catholic Devotions.

Dan poured me a glass and came over to rub my neck, our end of the day ritual. "What's this?" He lifted a finger beneath the Scapular cord and pulled it up.

"Careful, careful," I shrieked.  "It's an antique, a present from Nell."

"But what is it for?" He lifted the cord higher.

"Stop, please stop!" I was almost crying. "It's something Catholics wear." I sniffed.

"And?" He spread his hands, asking for an explanation.

"It's for protection, with one square over your heart and the other on your back."

"Ah, I get it! Jesus's got your back and Mary your heart, right?"

"How would you know that?" Suddenly, the searing sound changed to spluttering and hissing. I raced to the stove, turned down the gas, and flipped the steak. Not totally ruined, not yet.

"I haf my vays," he said in a Transylvanian accent.  "But seriously, honey, why now?"

I put my head on his shoulder and burst into tears. "It's Nell," I sobbed. "I saw her picture on Facebook, and it reminded me of...everything."

 

Everything included her kidney cancer; removal of one; radiation; then a slow slipping away as she headed towards death. And yet--at the end when our Writers' Group went to visit her in her hot, cluttered apartment--she looked serene and peaceful. Almost joyous for somebody who was sloughing off their mortal coil. Would I be that ready when my time came?

"I miss her." I blew my nose and resettled the Scapular and my sweater. "She gave me this amazing Sacramental, and you know what? It works. This was a bad day, I felt so vulnerable, as if my cancer could come back at any time--as if," I touched my forehead, "it already had come back and is hiding in my brain, waiting to leap out and kill me."

Dan sighed and pulled me against his chest. His eyes were teary. "I hate those days. I have them too."

I hugged him tight, turned off the stove, and picked up my wine. For now, we were going to sit at the table, sip Malbec, dry our eyes, and talk about how lucky we were. That's what the oncology nurses told me; "Lucky girl, to catch three cancers at Stage 1, Grade 1."

A lot of the time I did not feel lucky, but today I finally did, with the Scapular as warm and tender on my skin as a parent's kiss. Silently, I thanked Nell. I would not have to go on Google to discover how to unfriend the dead. She was still here, with me, embracing me with her faith and hope.

                                (c) copyright, Ann Turner