The Weight – a short story

Northern Wisconsin, May 1980

Dee checked her watch and hurried into the house. The meeting of the support group was scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. It was her first time to attend; she didn’t want to be late. She had just enough time to throw on clean slacks and drive to St. Mary’s. She tossed her muddy overalls over the back of the bedroom chair, trading them for a pair of clean khakis. No way was she going to wear her mud-splattered clothes into a church.

St. Mary’s Church held grief therapy meetings once a week. Dee noticed the announcement posted on the bulletin board at the grocery store in town. It said that the meetings were open to anyone and everyone.

Dee stepped into the country parish, walked down the center aisle of the nave and followed the hand-lettered sign that pointed to the sacristy. The doorway was small, and the room windowless. A faint smell of tobacco hung in the air. She knew that smell. A woodsy-smoky cigar smell from her past. The smell left behind when Father Brennan came to say Mass at the small church that her family used to attend. Back then, her son Will brought home his altar-boy cassock and surplice for her to air outside on the clothesline.

Father Brennan was dead now. And so was Will.

Four metal folding chairs were placed in a circle in the middle of the sacristy. Dee sat down on one of the gray chairs and looked at two others already occupied.

“Hi. I’m Deidre.” She smiled nervously at the two women who were seated. “Call me Dee.”

“Hi Dee. I’m Gwen.” The heavy-set woman held out her hand to shake. “And this is my daughter, Jen.”

“Oh, Gwen and Jen. That should be easy to remember. Well, I suppose everybody tells you that,” Dee said. “Nice to meet you both.”

They barely noticed the tall, withered man who shuffled into the sacristy. He pushed the fourth chair slightly out of the circle, closer to the wall, and sat down. He was older with sunbaked skin. Dee figured him for a farmer. The man stared at the floor in silence until Gwen spoke up.

“Howdy, Albert.” Without waiting for his reply, she turned to Dee. “We haven’t seen you here before.”

“No. This is my first meeting.”

“Jen and I come every week,” Gwen said. “I think you’ll like Sister Theresa. Our moderator.”

Jen, looking glum, nodded in agreement.

Gwen glanced towards the open doorway. “And here comes Sister Theresa now.”

A tiny woman glided softly into the room. “Good evening, everyone.”

“Good evening, Sister.” Dee noticed that Albert did not look up.

Sister Theresa smiled easily. She adjusted the silver cross that hung slightly askew on a black cord around her neck. She pulled a chair from against the back wall and seated herself between Jen and Albert.

“I see we have a new person to welcome into our group,” she said, looking at Dee. The nun’s voice conveyed genuine interest and kindness. Except for the silver cross, she wore no visible signs of her vocation.

“Hi. Yes, I’m Dee. Or Deirdre. Everyone calls me Dee.”

“Well, welcome Dee. We are so glad you are here. Let us introduce ourselves to you. I’m Sister Theresa.”

Dee noticed strands of gray nestled among the nun’s straight brown hair. Dee had some gray of her own. Maybe they were the same age.

“Oh, we exchanged hellos just before you got here, Sister,” Gwen offered. “But for the record, Dee, my daughter and I live a few miles down Highway 17, just on the outskirts of Rhinelander.”

“I’m renting a cabin on Mud Lake, probably not too far from you,” Dee volunteered.

Sister Theresa turned her head towards the quiet man at her left. “Albert, have you introduced yourself to Dee?”

“No,” he said. He raised his head slowly, “I’m Albert,” then quickly returned his gaze to the floor in front of his feet.

“Nice to meet you, Albert,” Dee said, sneaking a longer look at him. The leather of his boots was cracked and dry and one of the laces had a rough-looking knot where broken ends were tied together.

Dee listened to the second hand of the wall clock ticking softly. “Do people call you Al?” she finally asked him.

“No. Just Albert.”

“I’m sure Dee would be interested to know a little more about you,” Sister Theresa gently suggested. “Please remind us where you live, Albert.”

Albert cleared his throat. “I own a few acres off Forest Lane. I have a garden, a dog, and a horse.”

Sister Theresa smiled. “Thank you, Albert. Shall we continue, then? Who would like to share with us, please?”

Dee was ready. She flicked up her hand.

“Yes, Dee. What brings you to us today?” the nun asked.

Dee took a deep breath. This was why she had come. She had much to unload.

“Well, I’ll put it this way. Basically, I’ve been wandering aimlessly for a while. Quite a while. Flitting from place to place. I think I’m ready to stay put now. I hope I am.”

Her voice caught. She squeezed her eyes shut to stanch tears. She wasn’t sure whether to keep going.

Sister Theresa reminded the group, “Here, you can say as much or as little as you’re comfortable with. Dee, if you want to tell us more, please continue.”

“Yes,” Dee said. “I will.” She stared for a second at the bare lightbulb hanging from the yellowed ceiling and took another deep breath. “Will—my only son—died three years ago on this day. May nineteenth. The day my life changed forever.”

Tears stung her eyes. A lone teardrop broke free, a tiny spot of pain soaked her thigh. “It was a tractor accident. On our farm.”

Sister Theresa pressed her crossed palms to her heart. “I am so very sorry, Dee.”

Dee nodded and continued. “That day, Will’s father sent him out to the north forty to finish planting the corn. It was a late start to the planting season and Roy told Will to hurry up and get it done. I knew Will would drive way too fast. Because he always did. He tipped over the tractor. Got pinned underneath for probably two hours. When Roy finally went to the field to check on him, Will was already dead. Crushed.”

Dee moaned softly. “After that my husband retreated into silent alcoholism. And then, one day, he drove down the road and never came back.”

Gwen wrapped her arm around Dee’s shoulders. “I know in three years nothing much changes.”

Dee stopped talking. The air was still in the small room.

Sister Theresa finally gestured to Gwen. “Did you want to share something with us today?”

“Yes, Sister. The last couple of days have been really rough.” Gwen paused. “I’ve been dreaming a lot about Lila. Sometimes she’s a little girl. Other times she’s riding in the car with me. Going to a wedding reception like on that day. She’s always wearing the flower-print dress that she saved up to buy.”

Jen sat pouting next to her mother and awkwardly interrupted her at the mention of the dress. “I wanted it when she was done with it.”

“We were going to take pictures,” Gwen said. “After four years, I still feel guilty.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your daughter?” Dee asked. For the first time she noticed the scar on Gwen’s forehead.

“A car ran a stop sign. Drunk driver at three in the afternoon. Can you imagine? I didn’t even see him coming.”

“We were just at my cousin’s wedding. One hour later and my sister was dead,” Jen added, seething, glaring at no one in particular. “I’m eighteen, the same age Lila was when she died.”

Gwen tried to guide a strand of hair away from her daughter’s face. Jen jerked her head away, annoyed.

“Why couldn’t it have been me?” Gwen asked softly. “Why wasn’t I the one in his path?”

“Well, then I would be sitting here without a mother, wouldn’t I!” Jen lashed out.

Gwen continued. “No one can tell you how to prepare for the sight of your child, dead.”

“No shit sherlock,” Jen muttered.

“Jen!” Gwen admonished. She turned to Dee. “The child is not supposed to die before the parent. Sometimes when I see a woman in the grocery store, a stranger, and she’s laughing and chatting, and I wonder if she has any idea how lucky she is if she hasn’t had to bury a child. Gwen paused, “I keep hoping to get through this.”

“Lila is gone, but your love for her never ended,” Sister Theresa said. “Your relationship with your daughter has changed. Now it’s different.”

“I used to wonder if loving someone was worth the risk of the grief and pain if they die before you,” Dee spoke up. “After Will died, I was afraid of being with myself. I woke up every morning, and it was always the same. Will was still dead. And I carried the weight for the rest of the day and the night. And the next day, it was the same again. The same weight. Will was still dead. I started looking for a sign from him, and I went into the woods. Will loved to hunt and fish.”

The others—Albert too—listened intently.

Dee continued. “One day during my walk in the woods, I heard a bluebird chirping next to a pond. The next day, I went back to the pond to the same tree and the bluebird was there again. Chirping on the same branch in the same tree. Now I go almost every day to look for the bluebird. I don’t know if he’s a sign from Will. But it gives me comfort to believe that it is.”

Sister Theresa was about to speak when a loud sob shattered the quiet.

Albert, looking so forlorn, was trying to say something.

“My wife Lois departed this world in February. We were married for fifty years.” Albert took a rumpled cloth from a pocket to wipe his eyes. He cried softly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to her garden.”

“Thank you, Albert. Did you want to say anything else today?”

“No, Sister. I’m ready to go.”

Albert stood up and shuffled through the doorway after a feeble nod towards the women.

“Albert doesn’t say much,” Dee said when he was gone.

“He’s been coming to the meetings regularly,” Sister Theresa said. “His wife’s death hit him hard. He always repeats the same thing. Although today was the first time he mentioned the garden. I pray that he’ll find a path forward. It won’t be easy.”

“Like for us all,” Gwen said.

The clock ticked louder than before, or seemed to. In the church nave, the fading light was darkening the colors of the stained-glass windows from exuberant to somber.

“Well, we should wrap up for now, I think.” Sister Theresa stood up. “The journey continues for you. I hope our meeting today gave you some relief from the weight you carry. I keep all of you in my prayers. I’ll see you next time.”

Each woman folded her chair and stacked it against the back wall of the sacristy. Dee followed the three women through the doorway, pressing the light switch on her way out. She already looked forward to returning in a week’s time.

Sister Theresa called over her shoulder, “Dee, leave the door open please.”

~ The End ~