A Song for Issy Bradley (10 page)

“It’s Bishop Bradley, I’m a bishop. And this is important, so I’d appreciate it if you could give me their number.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Bishop. If you just hang on a moment, I’ll find it for you. I’m sure you understand—I didn’t want to spoil things for your mum and dad. Is everything OK?”

Ian tried to reply but when he opened his mouth he was ambushed by tears. He attempted to speak through them, but his voice split and he couldn’t make any words.

“Are you still there, Bishop Bradley?”

He tried again and made a series of indecipherable whimpers. There was something about
saying
that was infinitely worse than
knowing
.

“Are you OK?”

“I, oh … oh, I …”

“If you can just tell me what’s happened, I’ll speak to your parents for you, Bishop Bradley. I’ll do it straight away, I promise. Take a deep breath. Is someone there with you?”

“Oh … I … oh …”

He couldn’t. Something in his chest had wound and wound during the past twenty-four hours, and it was finally working loose as he tried to put everything into words.

Claire must have caught the sounds. He heard her feet on the stairs and watched as she hurried into the dining room to take the phone away from him.

“Our daughter,” he heard her say.

He covered his face with his hands and cried.

“Only four. Meningitis. Yes. Thank you … it’s kind of you. Goodbye.”

There was a clunk as she put the phone down on the dining-room table and then she touched his shoulders.

“Come on, come on.” She stroked him and shushed his sobs. “President Tanner’s going to call your parents,” she said eventually. “He didn’t think you’d be able to manage it. He’ll get them to call us, so you need to stop crying. Come on. Shush.”

He wiped his cheeks and nodded, afraid that if he tried to speak, the inexplicable noises would begin again. She fetched a box of tissues from the kitchen and placed it on his lap. He was blowing his nose when the phone rang. She answered it for him and passed it over.

“Oh, Ian,” his mum said. And that was all it took to make him cry again.

F
AMILY
H
OME
E
VENING
always starts with a song, but Ian forgoes it today in case the singing precipitates tears. He sits in his armchair opposite Claire, and the children take the sofa. The room feels all wrong. There’s an automatic error message going off in his brain—a preset program that keeps count of the children is warning him one of them is missing. Issy’s beanbag is slumped next to the toy box, cast in the dip of her shape. He tries not to look at it. He thinks about the other Church families all over the world who, no matter
what has happened during the previous week, will be spending Monday evening at home enjoying gospel discussions and fun. Some people make jokes about Family Home Evening; they say it’s the only fight that begins and ends with a prayer. Ian doesn’t fight with his family and he wouldn’t make jokes about it if he did.

Sheets of handwritten notes mark the correct page in the
Family Home Evening Resource Book
. The lesson is from the Special Occasion section: “They That Mourn Shall Be Comforted—to be used after a loved one has died.” He asks Jacob to give the opening prayer and then he begins the lesson with an easy question.

“Where are Nana and Granddad?”

“They’re on their mission,” Jacob says. “But Dad, it was my birthday on Saturday so it’s supposed to be
my
Family Home Evening. We have to look at the pictures of me when I was a baby and sing my favorite songs and
everything
. That’s what’s supposed to happen.”

“Not this week, Jacob. We’ll do it another day. How long is Nana and Granddad’s mission?”

“One and a half years. So will my Family Home Evening be next week or—”

“That’s enough. How much time have Nana and Granddad got left before they come home, Alma?”

“Six months.”

“That’s right. Haven’t the first twelve months gone quickly?”

They all shrug, even Claire, as if it’s something they can’t be bothered to consider, and Ian knows he has to do better.

“I’ve been thinking about Issy, and I think Heavenly Father must have a special job for her to do, a bit like Nana and Granddad’s mission, but in the Spirit World. I’m sad that we haven’t seen Nana and Granddad for a year, and I’m, um, I’m sad that Issy isn’t … that she isn’t … isn’t here. But Nana and Granddad will be home next year. We’ll be so happy to see them, won’t we? And do you know what? Issy’s gone home to live with Heavenly Father and
Jesus, and one day, after we’ve finished our work on Earth, we’ll all join her. We’ll be so happy to see her, won’t we? It may
seem
like a long time, but it will pass quickly, I’m sure—”

“Nana and Granddad aren’t coming home until next year?” Zipporah interrupts. “You mean they aren’t coming for Issy’s funeral?”

“No, they’ve decided it’s best not to.”

“Why?”

“Well, Granddad’s baptizing someone on Sunday afternoon and the funeral will probably be on Monday, so … missionaries don’t just pop back for family occasions, they have to concentrate on missionary work, and when they do that, their families get more blessings.”

Alma coughs in theatrical disagreement and Ian’s fingers tighten into fists.

“It’s easy to be a smart aleck and make fun of things. It takes a lot more effort to trust and have faith.” He glances at Claire for support, but she is looking steadfastly at the carpet. He’d also assumed Mum and Dad would come back for the funeral. Dublin isn’t far away. It would have been easy to organize, but he can’t let it upset him; it’s wrong to dwell on disappointments.

“It’s all about the way you look at things,” he tries. “Think of the pioneers. I saw a photograph of the prophet’s office on the Internet and he’s got a sculpture of two hands holding a little spoon on his desk. Do you know why? To remind him of sacrifices made by the pioneers. There’s a story about a German lady who was traveling with a handcart in the winter and her children froze to death. When it was time to bury them, she had to dig into the icy ground with a
spoon
. No one’s asking us to do anything like that. We’re making much smaller sacrifices. Nana and Granddad could be here with us, or they could be helping people join the Church, helping them to be with their families for Eternity.”

There’s something about saying words out loud that makes them
true and, having explained things to everyone, he finds himself converted. It’s all right for Mum and Dad to stay in Dublin. He discards his disappointment and carries on with the lesson.

“From now on, our lives will be all about being worthy to get to the Celestial Kingdom. We’ve got a special, personal motivation that most people don’t have, a specific goal in sight: to be reunited with Issy. We’re like footballers.” He looks at Alma, hoping to engage him with the sporting comparison. “Footballers train every day, don’t they? We’re in training for the moment when we’re judged and Heavenly Father says ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant’ to us.”

“What if I don’t get to the Celestial Kingdom? What if I’m not good enough?” Alma asks.

“You don’t need to worry about that. You’d have to do something awful. You’d have to kill someone or break your covenants—you’d have to apostatize and leave the Church.”

“But would I get to see her?”

Claire looks up from the carpet. “Of course you would,” she says.

“Poor Issy.” Zipporah’s voice wobbles. “She won’t know anyone. I hope she’s not by herself.”

“She’ll be with my mum,” Claire says.

Ian knows Claire won’t like what he’s about to say, but it’s important to be honest, so he says it anyway.

“Issy
might
be with Mum’s mum, provided Mum’s mum has accepted the gospel. If Mum’s mum hasn’t accepted the gospel yet, she’ll be waiting in the Spirit Prison.”

“You mean our other nana who we don’t know yet might be in
prison?”
Jacob asks.

“No, my mum’s definitely not in prison.”

“I don’t want Issy to be by herself. She’s only little,” Zipporah says.

“She’s not by herself. All our ancestors who’ve accepted the gospel
are there. And the Spirit World’s not far away, you know. It’s right here, we can’t see it, but it’s all around us … it’s like … it’s like there’s another dimension.”

“Wow!” Jacob swivels around on the sofa, scanning the room with searching eyes. “Do you know everything, Dad?”

“No, I don’t know everything. I don’t have all the answers, but I promise if there
are
answers, I’ll always try to find them for you.”

Jacob gets up and crosses the room to sit on Ian’s knee. Ian holds him carefully, resisting the urge of his arms to clasp and squeeze.

“I’m glad you know stuff, Dad.”

He squeezes then. It’s an action born of thankfulness and fear. Jacob giggles but he doesn’t attempt to get down. He lacks Alma’s prickliness, he’s happy to be held, and in many ways he reminds Ian of himself when he was growing up. He just hopes he can do as good a job as his dad did.

Dad always had answers and ideas. He had huge reserves of memorized scriptures, vast gospel knowledge, and a relentless determination to flatten bumps of doubt like a lawn roller. It was Dad who challenged thirteen-year-old Ian to read the Book of Mormon, and it took him just over a year to get through it.

“You know what you’ve got to do now,” Dad had said. “Ask if it’s true. Ask with a sincere heart and real intent and you know what’ll happen, don’t you? Heavenly Father will manifest the truth of it by the power of the Holy Ghost. Get to it, lad!”

Joseph Smith was fourteen when he had the First Vision. Ian was fourteen when he prayed to find out if the Book of Mormon was true. He prayed every night. He was primed and ready for a visitation—if not a visitation, a revelation, some kind of manifestation, perhaps a moment of inspiration or a dream, an idea, an impression, at the very least a feeling. He tried hard. He followed the steps he’d learned at church: Desire sincerely, read and study, keep the commandments, ponder, pray, and listen. He approached the exercise with mathematical precision, praying morning and night for at least ten minutes, an allotment of time that
seemed adequate without being excessive. Nothing happened. Eventually he turned to Dad.

“I wonder if you’ve been approaching it right,” Dad said. “What’ve you done so far?”

“I’ve prayed every night.”

“Good. What about the mornings?”

“Every morning too. I even knelt down and prayed in the back garden yesterday, under the cherry tree. I thought it might work better outside, you know, like the First Vision.”

“And what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Well, Mrs. Grier must have been hanging her washing out because she leaned over the fence to ask me what I was looking for. And she offered to lend me Mr. Grier’s magnifying glass. That’s all.”

Dad thought for a moment. “Let me ask you a question, son. Am I your dad?”

“Well, yeah.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“Have you seen the results of a test to prove it?”

“No.”

“How do you know, then?”

“You told me.”

“Would it help if I reminded you every so often?”

“No. I already know.”

“How about if I wake you up in the night sometimes just to tell you? Or if I stop when I’m in the middle of an important job and phone home to jog your memory. Would that convince you?”

“I already know!”

Dad slapped him on the back. “And there’s your answer, son. Right there.”

Although it had been nice to talk to Mum last night, it had been Dad he’d most wanted to speak to. When Mum had finished crying
and talking she handed the phone to Dad. The first thing Ian did was tell him about the blessing.

“I blessed her to live, Dad. I actually said it, I said she would recover, and … I, oh …”

“It’s OK, son. It’s all explained in
Doctrine and Covenants
, in Section 42. If someone is given a healing blessing and they die, they die
unto the Lord
. If you keep reading, you’ll see that when someone dies unto the Lord, death is
sweet unto them
. If something’s sweet then it’s good, and it’s right. The Lord wanted Issy to come home. It was the right thing to happen. You couldn’t do anything to stop it. By blessing her to live, you ensured that she
died unto the Lord
. There’s no contradiction, nothing to agonize over. It’s not your fault.”

Dad’s words had breezed through Ian in a great gust of relief. He lifted the box of tissues from his lap and put it on the dining-room table. His sorrow was contained again, soothed and wrapped in an assuaging bandage of scripture.

Later, when they were in bed, he told Claire that Issy hadn’t needed to stay on Earth and be tested anymore.

“She’d probably learned everything she needed to know here. She was too good—”

“I don’t want people saying she was perfect. She wasn’t.”

“But when children die before they’re eight, they go straight to the Celestial Kingdom, which suggests they—”

“So every child in the world that dies,
every
child that dies of diarrhea and malaria and malnutrition, is perfect?”

He’d never considered it before. “Yes, yes they must be.” He thought about all the perfect children dying around the world, dying at that exact moment while he and Claire lay in the dark, desperately sad, but warm, and safe, and together. He slid his hand over to her side of the bed and rested it on the silky material covering her thigh. When she didn’t react he began to move his fingertips back and forth in stroking circles.

“Don’t change her life,” she said. “Issy wasn’t perfect. She
wouldn’t wear her glasses, she used to hide them and pretend she didn’t know where they were. She drew on the walls and she howled every time she had her hair washed. She didn’t sleep through the night until she was six months old and—”

“Stop it.” He pulled his hand away.

“It’s the truth. And I love—loved—no, love. I love all of her, every bit, I love everything, I always will. That’s what you do; you love all of someone, not just the nice bits.”