Disposition of Remains (30 page)

After Wilbur and I had become fully “committed,” I left my job at the hospital. Wilbur legally adopted Sandro, just in case Evan ever reared his ugly head—as unlikely as that would be. We moved our things into Wilbur’s home in Arizona, but we never really stayed there for any length of time.

Wilbur and I homeschooled Sandro, if one could call it that. We taught him more than reading, writing, and arithmetic. We educated him out in the world—the whole world, not just the part of the world that I wanted to see. Wilbur and I would pick random cities we had never heard of and just board a plane. We had many a critic tell us that we should provide a more stable life for Sandro, but we weren’t about convention.

***

It wasn’t long after Sandro was born that I yearned to see The Master. Not God—I wasn’t in any hurry at all to see Him. Eventually, we saw all of Botticelli’s works of art. I think “Botticelli” was the second word that Sandro uttered after “daddy.” We went to the Louvre in Paris at Christmastime to see some of his frescoes. We saw the walls he painted in the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City. We traveled to Rome, Naples, Milan, Bergamo, and all over the greater Florence area. In Spain, we saw more of his works in Barcelona, Granada, and Madrid. We saw still others in Amsterdam, Munich, and Dresden as well.

I was surprised to discover Botticelli’s works could also be found in Washington, D.C.; New York; Massachusetts; and Philadelphia. I even started a sort of Botticelli fan-club blog, which boasted some two thousand members.

I took my son to Botticelli’s grave in Florence for the first time when he was only six months old. We were lucky enough to have made it to the Ognissanti twice before Sister Constance died. I had outlived her, after all, and she had been correct when she’d said that God had a surprise for me. I was eager to show her my surprise in person. I imagined how nurturing she must have been to Josephine as a child by the way she took to Sandro.

Sister Constance made me promise on my very life that I would never tell Sister Josephine that she was her biological mother. And I never did. I did, however, try to convince her how much
damage the lies would cause, how these things inevitably come out, how much pain my mother’s lies had caused me. She was never convinced; she felt it would crush Sister Josephine’s faith to know that Sister Constance had broken so many of God’s laws.

***

It wasn’t long after I had left Florence for Africa, that Michael started drinking again. After about two years of trying to help him work through his demons, Graziella finally threw him out. His girls were so great, but after Michael left their home, he had very little to do with them. He went on a self-destructive spiral that never really ended. I think he had it in him all along. At the very least, I had to give my mother credit for steering me away from that path.

Graziella didn’t lose her zest for life or her love for Florence. She happily drank wine with dinner and even served the watered-down version to her children, as many Italians do. After Michael left,
Sandro and I—and sometimes Wilbur—would stay with Graziella and the girls. Filipa and Bianca loved to babysit my son while we walked the streets of Florence in search of some tiny, out-of-the-way nook we had not yet explored. Sandro grew up with Florence as his second home, and he fell in love with it just as I had—although his Italian was much better than mine.

***

My relationship with my father strengthened over time. He was a kind man, not the unscrupulous monster that the Havasupai people believed him to be—though he had made some serious mistakes. Even though I forgave him, and even Ana forgave him eventually, he never entirely forgave himself.

My father eventually received his letter from Evan, but not as easily as I had come by mine. Evan had no incentive to just hand it over; he had nothing sinister to gain, and nothing precious to lose. My father used the hospital’s panel of attorneys to threaten
Evan with all sorts of fire and damnation if he didn’t turn over what was not rightfully his. I’m certain that Evan was concerned about his name becoming tainted if the case had to go to court, so he finally relinquished the letter.

My father never showed
me the letter and I never asked to see it. My mother and my father had a special kind of bond, a private bond, and the personal nature of her last words to him were meant to remain private as well. He left the letter to me in his will. To this day, it remains unopened in a cedar box my mother once gave to him.

On September 19, the twentieth anniversary of my mother’s death—and also my birth
day—my father and I made a trip to the reservation in Havasupai. Sandro and I had become regular visitors by that point, and had participated in all of the annual powwows. We had even learned some of the Yuman language along the way. I wanted Sandro to know everything about his Aunt Irma and his heritage. I wanted him to know everything that had been denied me.

It ended up taking several conversations with Irma to convince her that my father was not a demon and that it was perfectly safe for him to visit the reservation. I don’t know if she ever really believed it, but because her sister had loved him so much, Irma wanted to honor her last wish.

It was a quiet night on the reservation, the off-season for tourists. A full moon shone brightly in the sky as my father led me to my mother’s “special place.” It had become one of my special places as well. Together, we poured my mother’s ashes into the beautiful blue-green waters at the base of Havasu Falls. I could literally feel my mother’s happiness as she finally reached the destination to which she had longed to return. I felt connected to her once again. That connection that had been severed when she died was reconnected in that moment, and I finally understood my mother with perfect clarity.

That was when my father asked me if I would pour his ashes alongside
my mother’s when he died, so that they would remain together for all eternity in their special place. He would explain his decision to Ana, he said, so that she wouldn’t think it was my idea; he knew she wouldn’t understand. He had given his life to Ana and her mother, and had ultimately sacrificed some of his happiness. He wanted his death to be on his terms, just as I wanted my death to be on mine. I completely understood my father in a way that Ana never could. I had walked in his shoes, and had lived to tell about it.

***

My half-sister Ana wasn’t exactly waiting with open arms to have a relationship with me. My very existence on Earth defied everything she knew about her own family. Who could understand that better than I could? I gave her time, and eventually she came around. Her son Travis was only a few years older than my son, and they grew up as the best of friends.

Still, Ana was always a little bit broken. She never completely recovered from our father’s lies.
He decided not to leave her a note. He didn’t wait for his death. Instead, he told her his wishes while he was living, so that there would be no question as to their authenticity.

So when it was time to put our father to rest in the blue-green waters of Havasupai, Ana never questioned it. He had lived a good, long life with a peaceful end, and she knew that was what he wanted. In fact, we went together. It was the only time I ever saw Ana cry. Ana, with her blonde hair and her blue eyes and her nose that was just like mine, finally became a sister to me. Even though our relationship wasn’t close on the outside, the bond we shared was one that cannot be shared by those who aren’t flesh and blood. And even though we were so monumentally different, ultimately, we were very much the same.

Shortly after Sandro turned twenty, I took a trip by myself to Havasupai. I hiked and wandered, soaking up the spirit of the canyon. I spent time with my parents at the blue-green waters of Havasu Falls, and then I walked to the cave. While I could always feel my mother at the Falls, I could strongly sense the presence of my grandfather at the cave. I sat down inside the cave, admiring the ancient drawings of my people. A coyote wandered out from among the trees and looked into my eyes. This time he wasn’t smirking. I didn’t move. I didn’t know what the trickster had in store for me. To my surprise, he strolled slowly in my direction and even nudged up against me. The coyote sat on his haunches next to me, seemingly admiring the walls of the cave, as I was.

I peered at him from the corner of my eye, afraid to move or breathe. He looked at me one more time, then, just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he strolled off. What was I missing this time?

I made my way back to Irma’s house and told her about the coyote. Irma was a very old woman by that time.

“You have been fooled again,” was her
predictable response.

In my dream that night, I sat cross-legged in the cave, waiting for my grandfather to appear with another cryptic message. Eventually it came. My grandfather came to the cave
and appeared before me in the form of the coyote.

“It is time,” he said.

Grandpa had apparently taken to quoting
The Lion King.
It is time? Time for what? I was confused in my dream, but when I awakened, his message was clear.

Before the birth of Sandro, I had been so busy slowly dying inside that I’d forgotten to live. As much as I had become aware of my own mortality and had lived my life accordingly, at some point I was so busy living, I’d failed to notice that one
day, I was actually in the process of dying. There was no surprise reprieve awaiting me this time. The ovarian cancer had reached stage four before I even noticed its existence.

I entered into the stages of grieving once again, although, this time, it took me about fifteen minutes to make it through the entire process. It was like a long-lost friend. No one could figure out how I had just accepted my fate, especially Sandro. I underwent some treatment, mostly so my son wouldn’t think of me as a quitter. I wished everyone could have the experience that I had: to have their life taken away in pieces, then given back whole. It is something I couldn’t even begin to explain.

When I realized that the end was near, it was just two days before Sandro’s twenty-first birthday. I had to make a decision. I couldn’t do to my son what my mother had done to me. I had to either hold out until after his rite of passage, or make it a point to die immediately— before his birthday occurred. But, if I died before, I would likely still disrupt his celebration, so I decided to live, just for a few more days.

Wilbur hire
d a nurse and rented a wheelchair, and we took Sandro to Las Vegas on his birthday. We sat in Misty’s station at the Imperial Palace, foolishly stuffing dollar after dollar into those lighted metal boxes. Misty still fit into her boozie outfit after all those years, and, at my insistence, she managed to get Sandro good and plastered. I wanted Sandro to remember me living, even with my last breath.

I left a note for Sandro that was similar to the one my mother had left for me. But I left my note in more trustworthy hands: Wilbur’s. I had no secrets to disclose. I’d made sure that Sandro learned everything there was to know about his life—and mine—while I was still living. I just reiterated how much I loved him and always would, and I let him know where he could find me if he needed me. I left him a notarized copy of my will
with specific instructions for the disposition of my remains.

I had
planned my demise to perfection, every last detail—and it went off without a hitch. Wilbur took Sandro and I back to our home in Ash Fork, Arizona. Irma even made her first trip away from Havasupai for the occasion. I said goodbye to my loved ones one by one, then peacefully went to sleep, only to awaken in my new realm.

Wilbur hadn’t forgotten our conversation of more than twenty-one years prior, but since we were never legally married, I had to burden my son with the chore of scattering my ashes. After my cremation, Sandro and Wilbur took me first to Havasupai.

If you have cancer, it turns out, they won’t accept
any
of your organs for donation.

Even though I would miss my son
in the flesh tremendously, I was eager to join my parents in the beautiful blue-green waters. I hadn’t spoken to my mother in decades. When I would see my grandfather in my dreams—while I was still living—I would sometimes see my mother dancing happily with her people, but she’d never spoken to me.

Years ago, when I’d asked Irma why that was, she’d explained, “The spirits of your ancestors are here to give you gui
dance. Your mother feels that she spent enough time telling you what to do in life, and now it’s her time to just be quiet.”

Wilbur and Irma stood with Sandro and released part of me into Havasu Falls to forever be with my family. All at once, I could feel the thrill of my first kiss with Wilbur there; I could feel the presence of my grandfather; I could feel the love between my mother and father; and I could feel the spirits of the elders going through me.

The next day, Wilbur and Sandro boarded a plane and took my tiny urn to Florence. It was adorned with the chain that I had purchased in Florence with the charm that Sister Constance had given me years before from the Ognissanti. The
Medaglia Miracolosa
, or Miraculous Medal, that represented the special graces I’d received through the intercession of Mary at the hour of my death.

Before she died, Sister Constance had asked Sister Josephine to carry out my wishes if need be. Sister Josephine was now in her
nineties.

We arrived just as the sun’s light had begun to wane from the windows of the Ognissanti—Wilbur and Sandro, and me in my urn. Sandro asked Wilbur if he could speak to Sister Josephine alone. He approached her with my urn in hand.

“Sister Josephine.”

“Ah, yes, Sandro, my son. So good to see you again. How are you?” she asked as her eyes dropped down to his hands and she saw me. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right, Sister Josephine. My mother died peacefully and content. She was ready to go. I’ve brought her to you so place her by Botticelli.”

“Yes,” she
agreed with a gentle nod. “Let me first close the doors.”

She locked up the Ognissanti to visitors, then reached out her hands to Sandro. He handed me over to Sister Josephine and watched as she gingerly placed my urn
atop The Master’s marble gravestone.

“Sister Josephine?”

“Yes, Sandro.”
“My mother and Sister Constance were very close.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Sister Constance told her something and made her promise never to tell you.”

“Really?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“My mother really felt that you should know, but she didn’t want to break her promise.” Sandro said nervously. “But I know she would want me to tell you the secret. She knew what it would mean for you to know.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“You see, Sister Constance was your biological mother,” poor Sandro said gingerly, then cringed, waiting for her to throw herself on the floor in grief due to the blasphemy of it all.

“Yes, I know,” she replied with a chuckle.

“You do?”

“Yes, I’ve always known. Everyone here knew. You really can’t keep something like that a secret,” she laughed. “She raised me like I was her own, and I was. There was nothing to be gained by ruining what she thought was her little secret. She is with God now and I believe that He understands her.”

Now that my world was free from secrets, I could finally be at peace.