Chapter 15
The sky is gray. Any sunlight from before is completely gone now, and the clouds look heavy, as if they’re minutes away from pouring rain.
At the entrance, we stumble upon Elsie and Iain. They express their thanks once again and ask Jacob if he can start playing outside. After the service, they’d like him to lead the procession to the burial location and play the hymn they requested, then “Amazing Grace” once the burial is complete.
Jacob nods through the instructions, as if they’re familiar to him. I wonder how many funerals he’s played, and whether they all follow a similar procedure.
“Anything I can do?” I ask.
“We have a program you can hand out,” Elsie says. “If you’d like.”
“I would.”
Elsie and Iain leave to take care of a few arrangements, and Jacob and I head out to a patch of grass on the right side of the main door.
Jacob sets his bag on the ground and gets down on one knee. He takes his pipes out of the bag, and his hands are a blur as he assembles it all efficiently.
“You do that so fast,” I say.
He looks up, his mouth forming a grin. “Muscle memory.”
He swings the bag under his arm and stands back up, positioning the instrument just so.
“I’m going to start,” he says. “You might want to take a couple steps back.”
He takes a deep breath, fixes his mouth to the pipe, and blows. And my hands fly to my ears.
I forgot how loud the bagpipes are. The sound is all-encompassing, like another heartbeat, thrumming through me. And then his fingers fly, forming a melody, something majestic but melancholy at the same time.
I leave to pass out programs, but when Jacob’s song changes, I look over at him. His hair is darker—not entirely wet, but damp, from the light rain that’s started to fall.
He turns his head at that moment, his cheeks puffing in and out, and surprise flashes across his face when he catches me watching him.
I quickly look away.
More and more people come. There’s no longer a lull between each guest, but a steady stream, and I’m busy, handing out one program after another.
The minutes fly by until the line comes to an end. I shuffle the few remaining papers in my hands and wait for Jacob to finish his current song.
He’s looking away, out onto the street, and a strong wind blows, making his kilt flutter around his legs.
A minute or so later, the song ends with one last strong note before he pulls away. Jacob removes his mouth from the pipe and shifts the bag, cradling it under one arm, tilting it so the tall pipes rest on his shoulder.
His chest rises and falls, and I watch him take a deep breath, recovering from the exertion.
It’s not just physical exhaustion I see, but emotional exhaustion as well.
It’s written across the lines of his face, clear in the way he bends down and packs up his pipes, each movement slow, as if everything is too heavy.
It’s there in the way he looks over at me, no more walls put up, everything stripped back and bare.
I make my way over to him, extending a hand in his direction when he’s done putting his pipes back in his bag. He takes it, his grip firm as he pulls himself back up.
Did he play these songs at James’s funeral? At his parents’?
How much grief has this man had to bear?
“That was beautiful,” I tell him, and he squeezes my hand.
“I—thank you.”
“You ready to go inside?” I ask.
He nods. I make no move to pull my hand away, and he doesn’t release it. Instead, his rough palm slides against mine, and our fingers move of their own accord, naturally interlocking.
We walk into the kirk that way, slipping into one of the back pews, and even when the service starts, we stay that way, our joined hands resting between us.
We sing a few songs and listen to the eulogy, given by Brian’s son.
Throughout it all, Jacob sits still, his spine straight. His grip on my hand is firm, occasionally tightening at the words said.
“We’ll miss you, Dad,” the speaker says. “You taught us, all of us, so much, but I wonder how many more lessons you had to give. How much more we could have learned if we’d only had more time.”
I blink, my eyes misty, and quickly realize I’m not the only one. A man in the pew across from us retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket, and next to me, Jacob removes his glasses.
“You all right?” I ask quietly.
He wipes at his eyes with his free hand. “Yeah,” he says. He picks his glasses back up, trying to clean them one-handed with the edge of his jacket, but isn’t able to fully manage it.
I pull my hand out of his grasp to give him better range of motion, but he reaches back for it immediately, gently interlacing our fingers again.
My gaze swings to his.
“I’m not,” he says, his voice a whisper. “I’m not okay right now. But I will be.”
And something about that admission makes me move closer to him, closing the little space between us, the length of his thigh now touching mine.
I’ve gotten so used to hearing that someone is fine, to saying that I’m just fine, but from the beginning Jacob has pushed past that, asking for the truth and giving it in return.
For the rest of the service, he leaves his glasses in his lap and his hand in mine, only breaking away when it’s time for him to lead the procession to the burial grounds.
—
The hymn the family requested is beautiful, and it’s one I’ve heard before.
We weren’t regular church attenders, but for a while my mother and I went to a small Tamil church near our house.
It was nice to meet other people like me when I was a child, to find friends who not only shared the same culture, but also knew what it felt like to belong to a religious minority within that culture.
But some people at that church hadn’t liked that my mom was divorced and a single mother, and we started going less frequently once they made those opinions known.
A shiver travels over my arms, and I look up at the overcast sky. The rain’s let up now, the air cool and misty, and I stand near the back, watching the burial process until it’s over and the notes of “Amazing Grace” begin to play.
Just like before, the music vibrates through me, as if every bone, every cell in my body has come alive, and as I look around, I see it’s a collective experience. The way the sound carries on the wind, moving through the crowd, starting with Jacob and transforming all of us.
The wind whips through his hair. I can’t quite make out his expression from this distance, but I wonder if he knows what a gift he has, what a gift he’s providing to everyone here. To me.
The song comes to an end, and after a quick benediction and a reminder from the family about the reception at their home, we’re released.
I see Elsie and Iain make their way over to Jacob, shaking his hand, talking to him for a bit, but as soon as they’re done, Jacob’s head snaps up, scanning the crowd, only stopping when he finds me.
“Hi,” he says, making his way over.
“Hi.” I tilt my head up to take in his expression. His warm brown eyes are clear and bright, and his face is relaxed, his full lips not curved up or pulled tight, but simply at rest. “How are you feeling?” I ask him.
“Good,” he says, lifting his bag higher on his arm. “Better.”
“Are you sure? Because you’re done now, so we don’t have to go anywhere. To the reception or anything. We can just go back.”
“I already told Elsie I’d be there, but if you want to go back—”
“No,” I say. “I’m coming with you.”
We leave the church grounds, following the general direction of the crowd. The house where the reception is being held is a short drive away, and Jacob tells me that Iain and Elsie have offered to take us there.
“Brian only had the one son,” Elsie tells us when we arrive at the reception. “He lives in London, so we had thought we’d host the purvey at the inn, but he said he wanted to arrange all of it. He rented this place for the week.” She looks at it, assessing. “First time I’m seeing it.”
“Should’ve had it at the inn,” Iain mutters.
Jacob’s lips quirk at that, and I hold back a smile. There’s something about Iain’s surliness that I’m starting to find endearing, and Jacob appears to feel the same way.
We’ve barely taken three steps inside the house when a child runs toward us, barreling for Iain, wrapping his arms around Iain’s knees.
“Grandad!” the boy cries.
And for the first time today, I see Iain crack a smile.
A woman rushes over, taking responsibility for the child and introducing herself as Iain and Elsie’s daughter.
And the next hour is a blur. We’re offered some food and drink, and various members of the family approach us, complimenting Jacob’s playing, asking us if we’re new to town, and telling us stories about Brian.
“We’re just visiting,” Jacob tells someone, when we’re asked again.
“Yes,” Elsie adds. “They had some car trouble. Not a great thing for them, but I’m glad it meant they could be here.”
“Car trouble?” the man replies. “Why isn’t Callum taking care of that? Callum?”
From across the room, Callum turns, a tall bottle of amber liquid in his hand. “Need a refill?” he asks.
“No,” the man says. “But can you come over here?”
Callum joins us a moment later, bottle still in hand.
“Callum, this is Jacob. You might have seen him playing at the service? And his girlfriend, Neelu,” Elsie says.
My face grows hot. “We’ve met,” I say quickly. “Callum’s been helping us with everything.”
Next to me, Jacob shifts the glass tumbler he’s holding from one hand to the other. I don’t look up to check his expression, but I catch Callum watching us, his eyes flitting from Jacob to me.
“I don’t know how much I’ve been helping,” Callum says. “Considering I can’t do anything at the moment.”
“No update on the parts, then?” Jacob asks.