What Remains
“Why are we here?” Karl asks and sinks back into the floral, wing-backed chair. His lower legs jut straight out of the seat.
“To dress Dad’s body for the viewing.”
I see Rob’s family arriving.
Ansel goes on a hunt for funeral home candy. Barely-a-teenager, he returns with slump posture and announces, “No candy!”
“Darn it,” Helena, my cheeky tween says, pretending to be angry. She gauges Ansel’s woeful expression and laughs.
“You guys want to check out the place?” I ask.
“I’ll wait here,” my mother says and sits down in the chair next to Karl’s.
Helena and Ansel follow me into the chapel at the funeral home.
“I like this funeral home better; it has more light,” Helena says.
McDougal Funeral Home smelled of potpourri and mints. Rob’s parents and I struggled to reach an agreement on the right casket for him.
“Yeah, the other one was too dark,” Ansel says. “This one has a cool ceiling, like Solitude Ski Lodge.” Rob would have liked this one better too.
“I see Grandma and Grandpa Verhaaren,” Helena says as she looks out the window and points at the car pulling into a parking spot.
Helena and Ansel burst out of the chapel doors to greet their grandparents.
The funeral director, greets us, shaking each of our hands. He asks if everyone is here. I look over our group and nod.
“Follow me,” he says.
“I don’t want to go in there,” Karl says and leans back in his chair. The phony-colony-style chair wings hide his head.
“I’ll stay with Karl,” my mother says.
“Me and Ansel will stay with Karl too,” Helena says. Ansel nods in agreement and tries to imitate Rob’s Brazilian Finger Snap with a thwapping sound.
I can’t force them to participate.
Rob’s siblings and parents and I follow the funeral director into the viewing room. Rob’s casket stands against a row of picture windows. This gives the place a light and airy feeling.
The funeral director guides us to the open walnut-finished coffin to reveal the unnatural body.
This is not Rob.
The face is heavily made up to conceal the sallow skin. The hands clasp as if they are somehow tied together. The body is dressed in white: slacks, a long-sleeve button-down shirt, socks, and slippers.
Rob seems smaller, almost wispy.
The funeral director stands at the head of the casket and asks my brother-in-law, Mike if he will be putting on the temple head covering.
Mike nods.
Turning to Rob’s family, Randy shows them how to drape the temple robes across the white clothing. I stand at my dead husband’s feet and each of his siblings comes forward to help. They wear their grief similarly – set jaws and faces, wet with tears.
Afterward, they flee the viewing room. This is the first time Rob’s siblings have seen his body.
Rob’s parents and the funeral director excuse themselves.
Standing next to Rob, I make sure I’m alone in the room and then I reach inside to pat his thigh. There is a crinkle sound underneath his pant leg — my stomach clenches. Again, I check to make sure no one is watching and lean over the edge of the casket to squeeze Rob’s lower limb. Instead of his leg, there is a dowel rod surrounded by something akin to plastic with a newspaper crinkle sound.
Feeling my way down the length of his pant leg until I get to his foot, I run my fingers along the outside of his slippers and pinch the fabric – stuffed.
I have to know if Rob’s arms are in the casket. I look around again – knowing there is no way to explain if I’m caught. I reach down to touch his bicep — scarecrow stuffing surrounding another dowel rod.
I spin around frantic for my mom.
How can this be? I thought the harvesters were only taking soft tissue and bones. I didn’t realize they’d take everything! I didn’t know Rob’s casket would only have his head and his hands inside. I rush from the viewing room, filled with fury. Betrayed, and unable to comprehend the consequences of the decision I made.
I find my mom sitting on the couch next to Karl in quiet conversation.
My mom looks up at me and knows something is wrong.
“I’ll be right back,” she pats his leg and leads me away saying, “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
Pointing towards the viewing room, I burst into tears, “That casket only has Rob’s head and hands. I trusted them! The harvesters took almost everything. They said they weren’t going to take his organs, just his soft tissue, and bones. I didn’t know that meant his whole body! I thought they were going to give part of him to other people – not his entire body.”
I confess my investigation and my mother looks like she might be sick.
My mother doesn’t blink, but her face distorts, “I need to share something with you.”
“Earlier, I asked Karl if he wanted to go into the viewing room to see his dad and he said,” her voice falters, “No, my dad was standing over there, Grandma,” he pointed to the empty doorway and said his dad told him not to be scared because it’s just a body. It’s not him.”
The air return in the vestibule vibrates and rattles as the air conditioner fan recirculates the cool air. Soft light from the brass candlestick lamp illuminates my mother’s face and I embrace her. Smelling the almond in her Oil of Olay Cream while feeling her warm arms around me fillets open my heart. Rage begins to dissipate.
Never did I intend to give all of Rob away.
I unknowingly gave permission for the desecration of Rob’s body and for the creation of an altered life for the recipients of his priceless gift.
Karl pokes his head into the room and asks if we can go buy some candy before the viewing.
-Bridget Verhaaren
Bridget Verhaaren resides in the Wasatch Mountains and is an avid fan of skiing and enjoys travel adventures with her eight children (five “bonus” children). She has a BA in English from Brigham Young University and is currently attending the Vermont College of Fine Arts Creative Nonfiction MFA program. Her creative thesis is a memoir entitled, "The Husband Lessons: Death, Dying and The Art of Loving."