The sun streamed into her east window the next morning.  Willow woke, dressed in her customary jeans and blouse, and froze before her mother’s bedroom.  The memory of the previous day covered her like a smothering blanket on a summer day.

“Oh Lord, I don’t think I am prepared for this,” she murmured as she hurried to do her usual morning tasks and her mother’s as well.

By ten-thirty, she’d fed the animals, eaten breakfast, and set the house to right.  She now sat at the kitchen table wearing her favorite dress and pouring over her mother’s ‘manuals’.  Several hand-decorated journals lay in piles around her as she studied them.

Kari Finley’s journals were ordered first by subject, then year.  Titles of things like ‘Gardening’ and ‘Repairs’ were written in beautiful calligraphy and then embellished with beautiful patterns of flowers, curls, and one with hand pressed flowers.  Inside they were carefully ordered with a table of contents and the date of the original journal entry and volume on each separate entry.  The detail would have been remarkable to a casual observer but to Willow, it was simply her mother’s way.

She made notes as she read.  Columns on the paper showed her plans as compared with her mother’s notes and the plans she’d made for the coming weeks.  As a child, she’d been annoyed by how carefully her mother planned their work.  Impromptu fishing trips were difficult when mother had plans for canning, planting, or chicken butchering.

Willow pushed the notes and journals from her and rubbed her temples.  The clock struck noon reminding her that she needed food and water.  She carried her bread to the barn and made a chicken salad sandwich with huge leafy leaves of lettuce peeking from the edges and a sliced tomato on the side.  Othello tried to convince her that he needed the food but she ignored the suggestion and took the plate inside.

At the kitchen table, she paused.  Mother had always insisted that they eat at the kitchen table.  Willow thought it’d be nice occasionally to eat at the little table by the window in the living room where they played cards and games but her mother always laughed as though it was a joke rather than a serious suggestion and meals continued as ever.

Without a second thought, she moved into the living room and put her plate in her accustomed place.  A mosaic vase, one she’d made as a young girl in fact, stood empty on a nearby shelf.  Determined to enjoy the afternoon as much as possible, Willow grabbed the vase, retrieved a pair of scissors, and went out to the flower garden where she snipped a wide variety of flowers and arranged them clumsily in the vase.

As she carried the vase back to the small table, she noticed a different view than she’d ever seen as she stood behind her mother’s old chair and placed the vase on the table.  Feeling somewhat rebellious, she transferred her plate to “mother’s” side of the table and sat in the chair.  Instantly, the feeling was gone.  Instead, an overwhelming sense of her mother’s presence filled her.

Willow saw the world from her mother’s vantage point.  She could imagine herself as a little girl, both long pigtails flopping on the table as she wrote in her own journals and her hands flipping them aside impatiently.  She saw the little girl she once was chasing the dog, throwing sticks down the long driveway, and hiding from him as he retrieved them.  Willow was a teenager before she understood how the dog always found her no matter where she managed to hide.

Three bites into her sandwich, a strange sound echoed from the kitchen.  She rushed from the table until she realized that it must be the cell phone.  By the time she’d found the phone, located the instructions, and flipped it open to follow them, the ringing stopped.  She sighed in frustration and stared interestedly at an unfamiliar number.  It wasn’t the one for her phone or the one Chad had given her.  Experimenting, she dialed the number and pushed the ‘send’ button.

No one was on the other end of the phone.  It just made an unusual ringing sound so Willow started to turn it off.  Just then, she heard a voice.  “Hello?”

Eagerly, Willow spoke clearly and precisely into the mouthpiece hoping, she’d be understood.  “Yes, this number was on my cell phone.  My name is Willow Finley.”

“Oh yes, Miss Finley.  This is James over at the Fairbury Mortuary.  I was wondering whether you could come in this afternoon to discuss arrangements?”

“Oh no that won’t work.  I can’t come in today.  I have a lot of work left to do but I can try to get ahead this afternoon and come in tomorrow morning.  What time would you like me to be there?”

Taken aback at her refusal to consider coming that day, James Jorgensen suggested she arrive at ten o’clock to go over the arrangements.  “Please bring a list of anyone you would like for us to contact and the name of your preferred minister.”

After she clicked the phone shut and assured herself it was off, Willow realized that she didn’t have a ‘preferred minister’ and that she should find the list of family her mother had left in the packet in the firebox.  She hurried to finish her meal and clean up her studying so she could begin correspondence.  As she stacked the journals and started upstairs with them, she paused.  “Keeping them in her old room doesn’t make sense.  I need them down here,” Willow muttered to herself.

She glanced around the room to find an optimal place for the collection but the room was carefully arranged with a perfect ‘home’ for every item in the room.  The living room, however, had a shelf of commentaries that she’d always despised.  Mother loved to read them in the evenings sometimes and had a habit of reading aloud a tidbit that interested her and then continuing for several pages before she realized she was still reading aloud.  Meanwhile Willow, grinding her teeth in frustration, sat waiting for her mother to return to her silent reading so she could continue with another exciting mystery.

Those commentaries soon sat on her mother’s bookshelf in her bedroom and her mother’s journals took their place.  As much as it made sense, she felt a momentary twinge of remorse as she saw another change she’d made in such a short time.  It seemed as though she was an invader rearranging her own home.

***

Thursday morning found her walking along the highway again.  This time, she tucked her hair neatly under a scarf and carried a tote bag.  Inside the bag were her nicest sandals but she wore her athletic work shoes ‘tennis shoes’ her mother called them but the boxes always said ‘athletic shoes’ when they arrived.

She stopped at the familiar convenience store and entered the bathroom feeling a little strange.  This time she was the woman conducting business in town.  Today, she changed her shoes, removed her scarf, and brushed out her long wavy hair.  With a quick rinse to her face, arms, and hands, she left the restroom looking slightly original but not the backward and out of date woman of earlier that week.

Inside the convenience store, she purchased a bottle of water.  Her mother always said it was only polite to purchase something after using their ‘facilities’ so she bought water instead of carrying her own.  The cashier smiled at her and wished her a nice day.

“Thank you.  I don’t think it will be though.  Can you tell me where to find the Mortuary?  I need to speak to James Jorgensen at the Fairbury Mortuary but I’m not sure how to find it.”

Stumbling over herself in apology, the young woman, approximately Willow’s age, directed her to Main Street and to East Elm.  “It’s at the end of the block on the right.  Right in front of the cemetery.  I’m- I’m sorry for your loss.”

Willow thanked her and walked the eight blocks to the mortuary taking notice of the town as though she’d never seen it before.  She’d been to the dentist twice.  His office was directly behind ‘the Fox’ as mother called it.  The Clinic wasn’t far from there.  She’d had a tetanus booster there two years ago when she’d stepped on a nail in the barnyard.  It hadn’t been rusty but with a puncture wound, they had decided to walk to town and get the shot anyway.

She’d never visited the market or stores.  Her mother had purchased fruit anytime she was in town but Willow had always been content to stay outside and watch the people coming and going.  But other than a glance in the windows, she’d never been what people call ‘shopping’ in her life and for the first time, the idea appealed to her.

A glance at her watch was enough to hurry her along to the Mortuary.  Just outside the gates of the mortuary, the phone in her tote bag rang.  She dug for it, eventually finding it in one of her shoes and wondering how it had worked itself in there so quickly.  “Yes?  This is Willow Finley.  Who is it?”

William Franklin’s voice sent her into a apologetic tizzy.  “Oh Mr. Franklin, I am so sorry!  The mortuary called yesterday and wanted me to come right away and I couldn’t so I said I’d come this morning at ten o’clock.  I forgot you were coming too.”

“No worries,” he said in his soothing voice over the phone.  “I’m turning into Fairbury right now.  I was going on to your house so you wouldn’t have to walk but if you’re already in town, I’ll meet you outside the door.”

She protested and suggested she go inside and wait so as not to be late for her appointment but Bill Franklin insisted that she wait for him.  “I’ve not dealt with Fairbury Mortuary but even the most reputable companies are there to sell you as much as they can convince you that you need.  Ok, I’ll talk to you in a minute.  I’m turning onto Elm.”

Without a moment of hesitation, Bill Franklin wrapped his arms around Willow and hugged her briefly.  “I’m very sorry.  I had a high respect for your mother.  Kari was a good woman.  She gave me a chance when I was just barely out of college and I’ve always appreciated it.”

Willow gave him a watery smile and nodded.  “Mother always said you reminded her of her little brother.  I think she thought of you as a replacement for Uncle Kyle.”

Inside, the sounds of bubbling brooks and twittering birds surrounded them.  Willow glanced around the room confused until Bill whispered, “It’s a recording.  They do it to soothe people.”

Before she could respond, James Jorgensen, built like a linebacker and with a grin too broad and happy to fit a stereotypical mortician, hurried to greet them.  “Welcome.  I am so sorry for your loss!  Please come right in and we’ll get everything settled for you.”

Bill waited until Willow was seated and then turned to James.  “Can you give us a moment please?  I’m here to help Miss Finley with the arrangements and I truly don’t know what she has in mind.”

“Well I’ll be happy to show you some options-”

“Shall we step outside instead?”

James waved him back in his seat and hurried out the door closing it behind him.  Bill sat next to Willow in a semi-facing chair and spoke candidly.  “Have you ever been to a funeral Willow?”

“No.”

Since she didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, Bill tried again.  “Did your mother ever discuss them?  Did she ever state a preference or an opinion on them?”

Willow shook her head and then stopped and nodded.  “I do remember her talking about her grandmother’s funeral when she was eight and how her parents hadn’t been able to stop a huge expensive affair that Great Grandmother Finley would have hated.  I think- I got the impression that Mother agreed that a lavish funeral was distasteful.”

Now they were getting somewhere.  “Do you have an opinion on cremation vs. burial?”

“I don’t know.  I think I’m more familiar with burial.  Cremation seems disconnected or something.”  She pulled another of the decorated manila envelopes from her tote bag.  “I think I’d rather you look this over instead of Mr. Jorgensen.  He seems nice but you’re a friend-” Willow stumbled over her words.  “-or as near to one as I have.”

Bill Franklin took the packet and squeezed her hand as he did.  “I’m a friend Willow.  I’m glad you trust me with this.”

He pulled a few hand written letters from the packet.  There were addressed envelopes in it and letters for each.  They all said very similar things.  Kari had died, the funeral wasn’t decided as of yet, but if they wanted to come they could call the funeral home for information etc.  However, the letter to Kari’s parents was different.  He read it interestedly.

“Dear Grandmother and Grandfather Finley,

I write today to tell you that Mother has died.  I know that she would want me to tell you as soon as possible in case you wished to say goodbye in person.  There will be a funeral but I do not know yet when or where.  Please contact the Fairbury Mortuary for further information.  I believe James Jorgensen is the man in charge.

I know that Mother’s disappearance and continued absence from your life must have hurt you a great deal.  I am sorry for that and I know it hurt Mother as well.  However, I do hope that we can begin a regular correspondence.  I would like to know that I do have some family- that I am not completely alone in the world.  That must sound incredibly selfish but it is true.  I am feeling rather small and lost right now.  Sometimes I think I’ll wake up and realize that this isn’t a terrible dream- that this is reality.  Then I am afraid.

Most sincerely,

Your granddaughter,

Willow Anne Finley

William Franklin had never read anything so heart wrenching.  “Oh Willow-” His words were cut short when he saw the address on the envelope.  “Rockland?  Your grandparents live in Rockland?”

“I believe that most of my family does.  There is an address for Chicago but the rest are in Rockland or one of the other towns around the loop.”

Unable to fathom Kari’s reasoning, Bill couldn’t help but ask, “Why?  Why did she keep herself shut away?”

“Do you know the circumstances of my birth?”  Willow’s matter-of-fact tone didn’t prepare him for her response to his negative reply.  “She was raped and the father of the man who attacked her paid her to stay out of their lives and not to go to the police.  Mother accepted those terms by her definition and knowing the pressure she’d be under by family and friends, she just disappeared.”

Bill couldn’t answer.  Before he found any words with which to reply, a gentle knock sounded on the door and James opened it cautiously.  “Are we ready?  I have another family coming in at eleven-thirty and-”

“We’re ready.  We need to plan for a burial preferably on Saturday or Monday.  Whichever the local minister can accommodate will do.”

James stood again.  “Let’s go take a look at your coffin options then.”

Bill placed his hand gently but firmly on Willow’s arm keeping her in her seat.  “That won’t be necessary.  She has decided on the most basic coffin you carry.”

James pulled a brochure out of his desk drawer, pushed it across the table, and began explaining the options as well as the advantages and disadvantages to each but Bill stopped him.  “I see.  We’ll have to go to Rockland then.  I know that much less elaborate coffins are available there and Miss Finley does not want an extravagant set up.”

Blustering a bit, James pulled out another brochure.  “I don’t like to show this to people.  We only keep one of each in stock in the back for charity cases and such.  Most people are insulted if I offer them something so shabby…”

Very decisively, Willow pointed to the third coffin shown in the brochure.  “Mother would have approved of that one.  I’d like that.”

A million details followed, each more exasperating than the last until finally Willow stood.  “I am done here.  I want that casket, a plot in the cemetery if we cannot get a permit to bury her on our property, and a nice minister to perform the- the whatever it’s called- funeral.”  She took a deep breath and continued.  “I want a prayer, Mother’s favorite scripture read, and we’ll sing Our God is Alive.”

Smiling through unshed tears, Willow nodded at Bill Franklin.  “I’ll see you back at my house.  I trust you for the rest of the decisions but as far as a ceremony or whatever, that’s all I want.  It’s all mother would have wanted.  I’ll pick her some of our flowers and cover the coffin with them or maybe she can hold them.  Whichever.  Please try to get a permit for burial at the farm.”

With that, she rushed from the building but neither man followed.  They stared at one another for a moment before James Jorgensen said, “Wow.  She’s going to crash hard when it hits her but right now, wow.”

Bill glanced at the closed door and nodded.  “Wow.”

***

Willow passed a small deli just around the corner from the mortuary.  She’d never eaten in a restaurant- for that matter; she’d never eaten away from home except for their occasional picnics at the lake.  Suddenly, she felt a keen desire to try restaurant food.

A line to the door of the deli dissuaded her from entering.  She asked a woman going into the deli if there was a good restaurant in town and was directed to Marcello’s Fine Cuisine.  Once inside, she knew she’d been sent to exactly the kind of restaurant mentioned in her favorite novels.

Stunned at the prices of the food, she quickly opened her tote and retrieved her mother’s wallet.  She hadn’t counted the money from the teapot; she’d just taken a handful and left another handful for another time.  Seeing a hundred dollar bill, she breathed a sigh of relief and slipped the wallet back into her purse.  As she did, her phone rang sending shrill sounds reverberating around the quiet room.

“Oh I am sorry!” she exclaimed as she struggled to find a way to turn it off.  In exasperation, she flipped the phone open and then shut it again disconnecting the call.

A waiter hurried to her table and asked if she’d mind setting the phone to vibrate but she just wanted to turn it off.  He showed her how to turn the phone completely off and then turn it back on again when she was out of the building.  “But it’s not necessary miss, we just ask that people put it on vibrate so as not to disturb our other diners.”

“Well, it would be rude for me to talk while eating anyway so I’ll just turn it off.”  As she spoke, she noticed several people mumbling into their phones, many with a lunch partner waiting for them to complete their call.  ”What is so important to discuss that you can’t wait until after you eat?” she mused aloud.

“That’s the question of the age miss.  Can I get you something to drink?”

And so began the meal with the most interesting customer the waiter Brendan had ever had.  She asked about everything and finally settled on lemonade.  At first, she’d chosen hard lemonade thinking it was extra sour.  When she couldn’t produce identification to prove her age, a question she’d found incredibly amusing, Brendan said, “Sorry miss, we can’t serve alcoholic drinks to anyone who looks under thirty-five without identification.”

“Alcoholic!  I just want nice sour lemonade!  I don’t drink alcohol.”

Every lunch special sounded better than the last until she finally said, “Choose something for me.  Anything.  I just don’t want anything with tuna.  Tuna is for winter.”

Unable to find a suitable response for such a strange statement, Brendan suggested the chicken marsala and breathed a sigh of relief when she agreed.  As she waited for her meal, she picked at her salad and watched the activity at the restaurant with great interest.  Business people discussed things in hushed serious tones and occasionally glanced at paperwork with concentrated expressions on their faces.  Couples ate slowly occasionally touching a hand or even a face.  Inside jokes made ordinary things seem delightful and the scenes were very interesting to Willow.  One couple, obviously married for many years, ate in a rhythm almost synchronized.  Each movement was anticipated by the other and countered with their own.  Unspoken requests were filled and all without looking at one another.  Finally, both glanced up at each other at exactly the same time and their faces lit up with a special understanding that seemed particularly precious to her.  She’d never seen that kind of relationship in action.  It was all so interesting and exciting.

She walked up Main Street to the convenience store and entered the restroom.  As she changed her shoes, she thought over the lunch, the menu, the ridiculous amount of money she’d spent for a single meal and then her heart sank.

“I forgot a tip!  I knew there was something else.  In books- and Mother mentioned it too I know- they always leave a tip for the waiter!”

She hastily put her sandals back on her feet and hurried back to the restaurant.  Outside, on the side of the building with another waiter, Brendan sipped at a bottle of soda and puffed on a cigarette.  The other waiter nudged Brendan as she hurried toward them.

“Oh I’m so glad I found you.  I forgot to leave a tip.  You were such a good waiter too.  I’m very sorry.”  She blushed, mortified at both her inexperience and her forgetfulness.  “I can’t remember what is expected- I’ve never left a tip before, can you help me?”

The other waiter grinned and quipped, “Well for great service, you usually leave the equivalent to half of the bill; otherwise twenty-five percent is all it’s worth.”

Brendan punched his friend and shook his head.  “Don’t listen to him.  Fifteen percent is customary.  Twenty at night with good service.  But honestly-”

She thrust a few bills at him and smiled.  “Thank you.  You made my first meal at a restaurant a wonderful experience.  Other waiters might not have been so kind.”  She gave the man next to Brendan a knowing look and walked away.

“Thanks!”  Brendan called after her but Willow didn’t turn around.  He counted a twenty-five percent tip and realized as he did that she knew how much she was giving him.  “Wow.”