Page 56 of The Making of Mila and Blake
Further back, I see Tori with her mom, and then I find Blake. He’s wearing a black shirt and tie. His hair is neat and gelled. Our gazes meet and he mouths, “I love you.” Next to him, LeAnne bows her head beneath her veiled headpiece.
I face forward, uncomfortable in the pew, my big moon boot stretching out in front of me. The funeral service doesn’t quite feel real to me, like I’m not really present. I listen stoically to the preacher’s words, but they are a jumble that all blurs into one. He talks about Popeye’s childhood growing up on the Harding Estate, how he signed up for the United States Army as a twenty-something-year-old, the story of how he fell in love with my grandmother and went on to have two children. My body jolts with realization. It was in this very church that my grandmother’s funeral was held too, but I was so young back then that I didn’t fully understand the magnitude and permanence of death. Now it is as clear as day, and oh, it hurts.
There is a closing hymn before the pallbearers are called. Dad rises to his feet, and the honor guard steps forward. One of Popeye’s nephews takes the sixth spot. They take the casket on their shoulders as the packed hall stands in unison, then they begin the journey down the aisle and out of the church.
Dad sets his jaw, locks his gaze on the back of the church. He is clearly upset but holding it together. Sheri weeps as the casket passes by us and I take her hand in mine. I can’t cry anymore. I have nothing left. Even as the veterans in the crowd salute, even as the preacher follows behind down the aisle, even as the casket disappears out of the hall, I remain detached. A small part of me still believes Popeye will come back to us.
Outside in the glorious heat, the casket is loaded carefully into the hearse. Strangers clasp their hands on my shoulder, offering their condolences, hugging me. Dad shakes hand after hand, but each interaction only pushes him closer to the edge of breaking down, and Mom steps in to usher him into the black sedan that’s first in line for the procession. Sheri and I follow behind them, and inside the vehicle, no one says a word. Sheri is onto her second packet of Kleenexes, and Dad presses his lips tightly together and stares hard out of the window.
The security guards lining the parking lot haven’t gone unnoticed. Dad invested a fortune to ensure that if any photographerdarehave the disrespect to sneak around the edges of the church or the cemetery then they will be taken care of immediately. He isn’t taking any chances. Popeye hated the paparazzi when he was alive, and he would hate them even more if they intruded upon his funeral.
The procession crawls through Fairview, the hearse guiding the way to the cemetery, the same one where my grandmother was laid to rest. The cars roll to a stop in a line alongside an open, prepared grave. My heart aches.
A crowd gathers at the graveside. Sheri, Mom and I sit on the white chairs up front, and I focus on the birds again and their incessant chirping that reminds me life will go on regardless of how damaged you feel inside. The funeral directors guide Dad, the honor guard and Popeye’s nephew to the hearse to retrieve the casket. No one makes a sound as they carefully set the casket down on the lowering device within the grave. Dad takes the empty chair between Mom and Sheri and locks hands with them, and then Mom takes mine. A united family.
The preacher reads one final gospel verse and lowers his head in prayer. I know Blake is here at the cemetery. The Bennetts too. Their love and support during these moments means the world to me. The preacher closes out the service, and it’s time to say goodbye.
The honor guard stand in salute as the sounding of “Taps”, the military bugle call, echoes melancholically through the cemetery. It is uplifting, hopeful, and fills me with an outpouring of pride that Popeye got to be mine. I am so grateful.
Two members of the honor guard step forward to the casket. They pull the ceremonial US flag taut above it, carefully removing it. Sheri opens a third packet of Kleenex as the uniformed soldiers fold the flag precisely thirteen times until only the blue and the stars remain. One turns to Dad, kneels on one knee, and presents him with the flag. It is that one final act of respect that makes him lose it. His chest heaves and his eyes well with tears as the soldier stands and salutes him.
The funeral directors take over from there. Mom squeezes my hand harder, Sheri sobs, and Dad clings to the folded flag in his lap. The casket lowers into the grave, disappearing into the ground beneath us.
I cast my damp eyes to the gorgeous skies above and I know Popeye’s up there, scoffing and muttering to himself that we’re all so dramatic to be grieving him like this. That was Popeye; stubborn through and through, a man who took the challenges of life in his stride. I manage a smile through my tears.
Oh, Popeye, I will love you forever and ever.
23
“Play it again,” Sheri says with an easy sigh.
Dad crosses the living room to the record player and restarts the song. “Close to You” by The Carpenters, of course. Listening to one of Popeye’s old favorites is keeping our spirits up as we lounge together in the living room, exhausted after a week of hell. There is the slightest sense of relief now that the funeral is over. Now we can begin truly processing our grief and figuring out our new normal. We have changed from our funeral attire into sweatpants.
Sheri is on her back, taking up an entire couch, swaying her head to the music and gazing wistfully at the ceiling. Photo albums are scattered over the floor in front of Mom as she flicks through the pages, and Dad sits down next to her. They point at photographs and share a laugh.
“I still can’t believe he told me my dress was tackyonthe day of our wedding,” Mom says. She pulls the album onto her lap and leans against Dad, flicking through the photos of their outdoor wedding ceremony, picking out the ones that feature Popeye. “It was only a sweetheart neckline!”
The coffee table in the center of the room has a buffet spread over it; we’ve finally developed enough of an appetite to pick at it. I grab a blueberry muffin and nibble around its edges as I sink into the couch, my foot elevated on a cushion. I have to wear this ugly walking boot for another four weeks.
Dad strokes Mom’s leg and gazes longingly at her until she feels the pressure of his stare and lifts her head from the photo album. “Thank you for being here,” he murmurs in a voice so low it’s clear it’s not meant for Sheri or me to hear. “It means a lot that you came, Marns.”
Mom snuggles a little closer to him. They may be in the midst of a divorce, but it doesn’t change the fact that they still hold a flame for one another deep down. Love doesn’t just disappear in the blink of an eye, and when push comes to shove, they will always have each other’s back. Times like these really put things into perspective, and as I watch them huddled on the floor together, I feel a glimmer of hope. What a shame it is to throw away twenty years of marriage over the mistakes they have made when there is still so much love there between them. Maybe when we go home, they will realize that.
Dad and I were supposed to fly back home on Monday, four days ago. Our three-week trip had come to an end, but of course we couldn’t leave yet. We decided to stay until everything is figured out, until we know Sheri will be okay on her own here on this huge ranch. I’ve missed orientation at San Diego State, but I don’t know if that matters anymore. One thing is for certain, though. I am more driven than ever before to pursue a nursing degree.
Sheri sits up and roots around the couch, under all the cushions, until she finds her phone. It’s vibrating. She checks the screen and turns to look at me across the room. “Blake is here,” she says. “I’ll let him in. You should see him. It’s good for you to have company.”
Sheri buzzes open the gate to the Harding Estate directly from her phone. The security system upgrades mean that she can even view the live footage from the cameras on her phone too, and I feel a smile pulling at my lips as I remember just how much of a fuss Popeye kicked up over the ranch’s security features. He hated the walls, the gate. He hated the buzzer system and the cameras. And he especially hated that Sheri could now monitor his every move around the ranch.
I abandon my muffin and get to my feet, somewhat unsteadily, grabbing the wall for support as I hobble to the front door. I should have accepted the crutches my orthopedist offered, but I was in such a numb state in that examination room, focused so hard on keeping my emotions in check and desperate to get out of there that I couldn’t think straight. The past week really has been a blur. Everything seems like a distant memory already.
Out on the porch, I press my hands to the chipped wooden railing and watch Blake’s truck pull up. It’s late, almost toolate for him to be showing up. I haven’t talked to him since Dad pried me out of his arms as Popeye was bundled into the ambulance. But the gorgeous flowers he had delivered to the ranch and his thoughtful, caring text messages haven’t gone unappreciated. It was just impossible to muster the energy to respond to him.
Blake steps out of the truck. His hair has lost its structure since the funeral this morning and has returned to its natural tousled state. Just the way I like it. He skips half the porch steps as he makes his way to me and locks his arms around my body in the tightest of hugs, squeezing me lovingly, his breath hot against my neck. I sob onto his shoulder.
After a while, he pulls back and delicately cups my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on my cheeks and his dark eyes holding my gaze.
“Come with me,” he says. His hand finds mine and he turns to lead me down the steps but pauses and studies the bulky walking boot on my foot. “How’s the ankle?”
