By Donna Cameron
On Monday morning, exactly one week after my father died, Ruth knocked on our door. Though uninvited and unexpected, she was confident of her welcome. Ruth was my best friend’s mother. Mom invited her in. It’s what you do.
Typically, Mom would offer a visitor coffee, or, had it been later in the day, a cocktail, but Ruth’s religion forbade such indulgences. Mom even refrained from reaching for a cigarette in Ruth’s presence. It’s what you do.
Mom thanked Ruth for attending my father’s standing-room-only funeral three days before. She had already begun writing thank-you notes to the hundreds of people who sat or stood in the chapel to say good-bye to one of the kindest people they had ever known. Those thank-you notes were tearing Mom apart, and also holding her together. It’s what you do, she told us, taking a drag on her Winston and rattling the ice in her vodka tonic.
Ruth didn’t waste any time. With a beatific expression and a voice of honeyed certainty, she told Mom there’s no reason to be sad. Walter’s in heaven. Already making a place for her there, and they’ll be reunited someday, for all eternity.
“This,” she purred, “is a time for rejoicing.”
My mother rose and walked to the front door. She opened it and stood erect as a champion, composed and unsmiling. A startled Ruth gathered her purse and coat and slipped through the doorway, as wordless as my mother.
“It was the only thing to do,” Mom said.