Moira collapsed onto the warm summer grass between her mother and father, awash in autumn sunshine and sweat. Who knew burying your parents could be so difficult?
Twenty-five years earlier, her mother announced it was time to bury Moira’s father. For five years, Mort’s ashes had waited, safe inside an antique Capodimonte Urn on the mantlepiece of the sprawling Martin home in West Vancouver. The urn was one of a pair purchased at auction when Dolores and Mort were on their honeymoon on the Amalfi Coast. Moira was their only child. Early one Thursday morning, Dolores called her, “Today’s the day. I need you to come with me to the cemetery. We’re burying your father at 2:00 pm.” Moira didn’t want to go. Cemeteries were creepy and she would have to call in sick to the bank. She didn’t like calling in sick. She was rarely sick. “Don’t be silly. It’ll be fine. Do it for Daddy.” Dolores said. They both knew she would.
Dolores maneuvered Mort’s ‘72 Chevrolet Bel Air into the tiny parking spot beside a charming ivy-covered bungalow that served as the cemetery office. Nestled amid several acres of lush green grounds, the place was incongruously named Ocean View. The only view was of a nearby highway and rows of concrete apartment buildings, no ocean in sight. A thin, tidy woman encased in black met them in the modest lobby. Her pantsuit was spartan, her face a masterpiece of professional concern. A halfhearted drizzle misted down on the small party assembled at Mort’s graveside. Dolores recited her favourite psalm - 23 - from memory. Mort was not a fan of the Bible. He would have preferred a salty limerick or two, but he didn’t have a say anymore. A freshly planted young maple tree stood nearby, watching over the gravesites. This section of the cemetery had just been opened. Moira enjoyed thinking of her dad getting in on the "ground floor”, something he might have said if he were there with them. Dolores pointed to the spot next to Mort’s grave saying, “That’s me.”
Now, twenty-five years later, Moira was back at Ocean View to bury her mother in that spot beside her dad. The little bungalow had been swallowed up by a concrete and glass structure. "Dignity" was spelled out in gleaming silver letters over the building’s entrance. The cemetery had become a “Burial Park” conjuring up images of water slides and cotton candy. Moira imagined ads declaring “Dying can be FUN!” or “Picnic on Grandma!” Just inside the glass doors, Dignity’s Mission, Vision, and Values promised corporate integrity and stellar service. The whole atmosphere gave guests the assurance that here, death is elegant - still solemn but stylish.
Beyond the hushed leather-infused seating area, lay a series of glass offices where the sensitive business of financing was conducted. Moira’s “Bereavement Specialist,” was named Angela. She was long with sleek dark hair secured in a professional ponytail that swished rhythmically behind her as she navigated across the lobby towards Angela. . She wore a dark pencil skirt and black stilettos. Her black and white striped blouse was topped by a large bow at the collar. Her earrings - silver exclamation points - glinted understatedly when the light hit them just right. Angela greeted Moira with suitable condolences clasping her hand for just the right amount of time. Her hand was cool and dry. She led the way into an available office and gestured for Moira to take an angular leather chair. The seat was not designed for long negotiations or grief counseling. Angela settled into an ergonomic desk chair behind the large plexiglass desk and expertly arranged the few documents in front of her. Moira produced her completed paperwork; confident these last details would be wrapped up quickly. Her parents had purchased their plots years ago. There was just the actual burial to complete..
Neither Moira nor her mother could have anticipated the additional 2000.00 now due on top of their initial purchase of $250.00. Moira paused to imagine how outraged her mother would have been at this money grab, probably lecturing Angela on the obscenity of her greed. She might have even threatened to dig up her husband and take their business elsewhere. But Dolores wasn't there, and Moira was exhausted. It was Friday, the end of the business week, and she grudgingly produced a credit card.
Moira hadn’t decided to be on her own to bury her mother, it just turned out that way.
The week before a celebration of Dolores’ life had been held at Ambleside Presbyterian where she occasionally sang in the choir. Attendance at Dolores' event was sparse. Most of her mother’s friends were already dead. Two of Moira’s co-workers came to the church, but she wouldn’t have been comfortable asking them to come to the cemetery. Her best friend, Lloyd had been the obvious choice, but he had gone on holiday. She was upset with him at first, but then he explained that if he canceled his all-inclusive to Cuba, he would lose all his money and she forgave him.
The burial was just a final detail, that had to be performed. Moira had already sprinkled a handful of her mother’s ashes into the ocean at Ambleside Park, where Dolores walked Kibbles every morning. Even after the small Westie had fatally choked on a chicken bone in 2003, she continued to walk there. Burying Dolores’s remaining remains was a formality that needed no fanfare or a crowd. Moira felt confident she had this one.
At her initial appointment with Dignity, Moira specifically said that she would be on her own for her mother’s “inurnment”. However, Angela either forgot or ignored this, referring several times to “your family”. Moira gave up correcting her. However, when Angela went for the upsell on a dais, canopy and chairs for a nominal fee, Moira snapped, “That won’t be necessary - I will be coming alone.” With that, Angela finally seemed to get that Moira would be a party of one for her mother’s burial.
The following Monday, Moira arrived at Dignity’s office, thirty minutes before her mother’s 1:00 p.m. burial. Her tailored navy Ralph Lauren suit filled her with confidence. She completed her look with the dignified dress heels she only wore for work events and swept her bob into a sedate updo. She brought a beautiful spray of yellow and orange freesia and chrysanthemums, her mother’s favourite flowers. Still, while she parked, she heard her mother’s voice saying, “Well, you made the effort sweetheart. That’s something.”
Moira approached the tall granite counter, and the receptionist was chatting with her co-worker about a sweater she had recently had to return to H & M. Looking Moira over, she flashed a corporate smile and said, “You can just wait for the rest of your family there in the Welcome Lounge”. As Moira lowered herself onto the distressed leather sofa, it made an alarmingly fart-like sound.
Angela appeared, greeting her warmly with “You can just wait for your family here in the Welcome Lounge.” “We’re all here!” Angela raised her voice making the receptionist glance over. Then, more softly “It’s just me”. Angela seemed to mull this over. She leaned in and said discreetly, “I am afraid your credit card was declined.” Moira was sure she had paid it off. But perhaps with those additional funeral expenses - church, minister, flowers -she had exceeded her limit. No matter, she thought, producing her emergency-only credit card. Before Angela turned away to run the card, she looked around the lobby in alarm. “Where are your mother’s ashes?” If Moira were sloppy enough not to have brought family, she might also have left her Loved One behind. “Oh, she’s in the car.” She said and hurried out to bring the urn containing her mother inside.
When Angela received the urn, she briskly whisked it off to a mysterious back room to be “prepared”. Ten minutes later, she returned bearing a beautiful red velvet bag secured at the top with a gold cord. It looked like a perfect shoe bag. Moira hoped it was a take-home item. Placing the bag reverently on the minimalist glass coffee table in front of them, Angela perched gingerly next to her. She whispered sadly “Ms. Martin, I am very sorry, but your second credit card has been declined”. A small fire ignited just below Moira’s diaphragm. It seared up her throat and made her face hot. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “Why didn't this come up Friday, when I gave you the card?” It seemed their system didn’t process Friday transactions till the following Monday.
Having run out of options, Moira decided to make a dignified exit to regroup. “I’ll just take my mother and come back when I have this sorted out.” But Angela said, “Oh, but you cannot take the ashes now. They have been tagged”. She spoke as though Moira should know what this meant. She didn’t.
Things might still have been alright at that point, had the receptionist not told Angela “Your 2:30 family is here.” Moira checked the time. Angela’s next burial was in ten minutes, and they were bringing a whole FAMILY. Leaning against the granite counter, Moira dialed Ben, her mother’s accountant, who told her that her mother’s assets were frozen, and no funds could be released yet, even for her burial. She pressed her hot cheek onto the cool stone counter and made small mooing noises. When she called Mastercard, “Kelly” put her on hold, and she clenched her teeth through three choruses of “She Works Hard for the Money”. When Kelly came back on, she had bad news, Moira’s credit limit could NOT be raised, even for this special circumstance. That’s when Moira began to weep, and two little rivers of black mascara trickled down her cheeks. Why, had she let her credit score slide?
As a last resort, she reached into the bottom of her purse to find a small velvet ring box which she opened to reveal her mother’s diamond wedding ring. Intending to have it appraised later that afternoon, she now extended it to Angela who shook her head regretfully but firmly. Unfortunately, she could only take cash or credit as payment. Moira bent over, gasping for breath, “I just want to bury my mother!!” Angela produced Dignified tissues and bottled water, alternately repeating “I am so sorry” and “We cannot go ahead with the burial until payment has been made.” She crooned both phrases in the same breathy tone.
The receptionist was sympathetic, “What an awful thing to happen. That just sucks.” Moira apologized over and over. They probably thought she was apologizing to them.
The 2:30 family was large and filled the entire Welcome Area. A blousy woman with large hair and a tiny white suit seemed to be the widow. She was sobbing the loudest. Several younger ones surrounded her, dabbing their eyes with tissues in solidarity. Moira watched Angela leave and head back to the office area. The receptionist was now distracted with crowd control. Seizing the moment and the red velvet bag, Moira dashed out the glass doors as fast as her high heels would allow.
Near the gravesite, Moira saw four chairs on a small, raised dais covered in green Astroturf. A grizzled man in jeans and a company work shirt, leaned on a shovel close by. Moira slowed her approach, composing herself. Could he possibly help her? Angela was held up with another family and she was on a very tight timeline. Moira opened the small velvet box, offering him the ring. “Look, I need to bury my mother right now. Could we just…?” The man looked from her to the box. He seemed about to accept it but instead, his raised hand became a stop sign and he shook his head. “Sorry, lady, I’d lose my job.” Moira slipped the box back into her purse saying of course, she understood, but could he please go find Angela to see what the hold-up is? The gravedigger dropped his shovel, ambled back to his truck, and drove back toward the office, walkie talkie crackling.
Moira ripped open the gold corded bag to extract the second Capodimonte urn. It was now sealed, so she grabbed the nearby shovel and cracked it open. It shattered on the first swing, revealing a plastic bag of smoky grey ash. Moira tore it open and shook the ashes into the waiting hole next to Mort. Some of her mother plumed up and, suspended all around her, stung Moira’s eyes, and throat, making her cough.
She filled in the tiny grave from a nearby pile of dirt. She replaced its waiting turf square on top and patted it into place tenderly like it was a child. Her smart navy suit was now covered with the dust of her mother and one of her heels had broken. She scattered what was left of the bouquet over the two graves and sank down between them.
A robin hopped by and stopped to stare at her, sitting all alone. "Yeah, it’s just me” Moira told him. He flew into the now fully grown maple nearby to keep watch. A light afternoon breeze swayed its budding limbs. Shadows danced over them all as the sound of an approaching car drew nearer.
Loved it!