A Song for Issy Bradley (11 page)

“But you concentrate on the nice bits, you think about them and emphasize them, you do your best to ignore the bad bits.”

“You
do.”

“I do,” he agreed. His eyelids were growing heavy. He’d wondered whether he might have difficulty sleeping but he was exhausted, and he felt if he just surrendered to sleep, he might wake up buoyed by a new understanding and a fresh way of framing things, something to counter the recurring pain in his chest.

“Everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it?”

He waited, hoping for a quiet “Yes.” But Claire didn’t respond. He touched her thigh to nudge a reply out of her. She must have fallen asleep.

“It would be nice,” Ian says, “if you could all just listen for a little longer.” The children are beginning to get restless and he needs to hurry up and conclude while he still has their attention. “The coming weeks and months are going to be difficult. But special blessings come at sad times. We need to be on the lookout for Tender Mercies. Does anyone know what they are? I read a Conference talk about them this morning. Tender Mercies are consolations, little signs that Heavenly Father is mindful of us and trying to bless us. There was a story in the talk I read, about a soldier killed in Iraq. After his wife was told of his death, a Christmas card and message arrived from him: It was a Tender Mercy from Heavenly Father.”

“Don’t you think it would have been better if Heavenly Father had stopped the soldier from dying?”

“You’re missing the point, Alma. Heavenly Father can’t always
stop bad things from happening—He can’t interfere with people’s agency—but he can always provide comfort.”

“But if he
can
stop bad things from happening sometimes, why does he
choose
not—”

“One day we’ll understand why bad things happen and it’ll all make sense.”

Jacob wriggles off Ian’s lap. He puts his hand up above his head and waves it around as if he is competing for attention at school. “I know, Dad. I know what it’s like. It’s like in
Sleeping Beauty
when the good fairy comes in and says she can’t undo the spell, but she can make it a bit better. It is, isn’t it, Dad?”

“Well … I suppose it is, except we don’t believe in bad spells or curses. And the priesthood is the power of God, not magic. And fairies don’t hold the priesthood because they’re girls—but yes, I suppose it is a bit like
Sleeping Beauty
. Now, what about the funeral? Does anyone have any ideas, anything special you’d like me to mention during the service?”

“I’d like to do one of those slide-show things with pictures of Issy’s life,” Claire says. “Sister Stevens is coming round later to help me.”

“But it’s Monday night. She should be at home with her—”

“I didn’t ask. She volunteered when I called, earlier. She knows how to do it, she makes slide shows on her computer and emails them to Utah, so her parents can see the children.”

“It might not be allowed.” Ian gets up and pulls the
Church Handbook
from the bookcase.

“It’s no big deal, putting some pictures of Issy to music,” Alma says. “I’ve seen people do it at funerals on TV. We could have ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone.’ ” He clears his throat and starts to sing.
“When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high.”

“Shush, I’m trying to concentrate.” Ian finds the section on funerals and starts to read. No one says anything. They all wait for him to speak. He closes the
Handbook
and puts it back on the bookcase. “It’s not allowed.”

“You can make an exception,” Claire argues.

“I can’t. People will think I’m a hypocrite. They’ll think it’s one rule for our family and another for everyone else.”

“They won’t know,” she says. “You didn’t know until you checked. I bet no one else knows either.”

“We’d be setting a precedent.”

“But people are usually old when they die, aren’t they?” Zipporah says. “I mean, it’s not as bad for old people, is it? That’s probably why their relatives don’t ask about stuff like slide shows. You’ve hardly done any funerals since you’ve been Bishop, Dad. It’s not like people are dying all the time. I don’t think you need to worry.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think, Zipporah. There’s a right way to do things and we’re going to choose it wherever possible. We can do a slide show afterward, in the hall, while people eat. Now, for our Family Home Evening activity we’re going to write in our journals.” Alma groans and slumps over the arm of the sofa. Ian ignores him.

“This will be one of the most important journal entries of your lives. Claire, will you fetch the CD player, please? This is
your
history. One day your children will read your journals and they’ll learn from your struggles and your faithfulness. Your journals will be like scripture to your descendants.”

Ian selects a Tabernacle Choir CD. They write in their journals and it’s so peaceful; if it wasn’t for the empty beanbag, he could almost feel happy.

When the doorbell rings everyone jumps up, abandoning their journals to rush to the front door.

“You don’t all need to go,” he calls, following them into the hall. Sister Stevens is standing on the doorstep holding an enormous casserole dish and several bags of cookies tied with colored ribbon. He nods and retreats back into the living room to finish his writing. He hears Claire invite Sister Stevens in, then everyone rushes to the dining room and Sister Stevens’ loud, cheerful voice disrupts the peacefulness.

“I’ve made funeral potatoes! You must’ve had them before. Never? What kind of Mormons are you? Hash browns and cheese baked in mushroom soup with cornflakes on top. You’ll love ’em. They’ll fill all your sad spaces. Come on, guys, we’re gonna make the coolest slide show ever! Hey, Alma, you look like you could use some cookies.”

Jacob’s journal is open on the floor in front of the sofa. Ian picks it up. Jacob has drawn a picture of Issy lying down with her eyes closed and he has written a sentence underneath.

Alma’s journal is on the arm of the sofa. It’s open, but upside down. Ian sits on the sofa with his own journal on his lap in case anyone comes in. He flips Alma’s journal over, glances at the left-hand page and is catapulted back to last Sunday afternoon when he said, “I don’t care what you write, Alma. Just write something. If you can’t think of anything, write the price of a packet of crisps. That’ll be interesting in twenty years.”

He’s only joking, of course, but Ian wishes he wouldn’t. On the opposite page he has scrawled:

He slides along the sofa to Zipporah’s place, picks up her journal and flicks through it until he reaches today’s entry. She’s a good girl. She has written lots.

He puts her journal back exactly as he found it and then, even though he knows he shouldn’t, he walks over to Claire’s chair and thumbs the pages of her journal.

That’s it. He flicks forward to double-check. When he finds nothing, it seems like she has played a trick on him. He feels slighted, but he can’t say anything or she’ll know he has been looking. Perhaps she needs some time. He’ll check again in a few days.

He puts the journal back, steps along the hall to the dining room and stands in the doorway, watching. Claire and Sister Stevens are sitting side by side at the computer. Jacob has squeezed onto Claire’s lap and Zipporah is peering over Sister Stevens’s shoulder. Alma is perched on the dining-room table, throwing occasional glances at the computer, but he is more interested in the open bag of chocolate-chip cookies beside him.

“Music! That’s the most important thing. What would you guys like, huh? Something inspiring, but not too churchy—no Tabernacle Choir!”

“Do a search. Type ‘funeral songs’ and see what comes up,” Zipporah suggests.

Ian watches as Alma licks his fingers and helps himself to another cookie. His lips are ringed by crumbs and melted chocolate. When he realizes he is being observed, Alma toasts Ian with the cookie and mouths, “Tender Mercies.” Ian can’t tell if he is being mocked, but he smiles back anyway—even if it’s a joke, it’s a gentle one.

“Let’s try this,” Sister Stevens says.

“Somewhere Over the Rainbow” starts to play and Ian concentrates, listening to the lyrics as if it’s the first time he’s ever heard them, trying to work out if they’re the right words to accompany Issy’s life. He likes the bit about daring to dream. Dreams can come true. His dreams
are
true: He
knows
this life is the beginning of something wonderful; he
knows
human beings have the potential to become like God, to create Spirit children and populate their own planets; he
knows
families are forever. His dream—no, his
truth
is immense, eternal, and infinite: It stretches from before the beginning to after the end.

He watches as Sister Stevens puts her arm around Claire and he remembers a verse from Corinthians: “For our light affliction,
which is but for a moment
, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory …” This is just a moment. If he could step outside himself, he would see how small his sadness is, small like the smallness of an infinitesimal number, barely there, only slightly more than nothing, so tiny it can’t be measured—no more than a pinprick on a pyramid.

The verse from Corinthians continues—he concentrates for a moment, searching his memory for the words: “We look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal.”

He gazes into the dining room. Issy could be there right now and
none of them would know it. He squints in an effort to see the things which are not seen, but it just makes everything fuzzy.

This song could be the right one. He enjoys the bit about troubles melting like lemon drops; everyone has troubles. After much tribulation cometh the blessings—he’s definitely read that somewhere. Blessings are coming, he is certain of it.

The science lab reeks of gas and bleach. Zippy stands at the back of the crowd of Year Elevens surrounding Mr. McLean’s workbench.

“Before I get started, can everyone see?”

Martin Hayes is standing in front of Zippy. He’s aiming the sharp end of a pencil at Chloe Ward’s butt. He looks over his shoulder, sees Zippy, and steps back, motioning to her.

“Here,” he says, in the careful, friendly voice people have adopted since she came back to school.

Zippy shakes her head at him. Although no one’s mentioned it, she knows there was an announcement in Monday’s assembly because by midmorning her Facebook page was full of condolences:

So sorry m8 x

RIP ur lil sis

hugz 2 u xx

She had nineteen new friend requests, and someone had made a page, “In Memary of Izzie Bradley,” which had twenty-six Likes. Lauren made several comments on the page, each one prefaced by BBF. She might as well have made an announcement:
I’m best friends with the bereaved girl, be nice to me, I’m devastated by association
.

Zippy wants to stay at the back of the class, but Martin moves and Mr. McLean notices her. “Plenty of space at the front for a small one,” he calls. “You won’t see anything back there, Zippy. Come on.”

She squeezes past the boys and the taller girls at the back until she is standing right next to Mr. McLean’s workbench. She looks down at the swirly pattern of the wood because she doesn’t want to see what’s laid out in front of her.

“OK, OK. Let’s get started. Dissection pan. Pins. Scissors. Tweezers. Frog.” Mr. McLean sounds like he’s been looking forward to this all week. “The frog’s been prepared for dissection, so all I’ve got to do is secure it. The pins go right through the tissue, like this and this, into the wax in the bottom of the pan.”

Murmurs of disgust and amusement ripple through the Year Elevens. Zippy concentrates on the bench.

“First, let’s just have a look at him. See how he has four toes on his forelimbs but five on his hind limbs? See how smooth and slippery he is? That’s due to the mucus that’s formed by cells in the skin. Now, I need to make one long cut, straight down the center of the ventral side—that’s what the stomach side is called—all the way down to the cloaca, the opening his waste and sperm come out of.”