Chapter Five ~ Fiona
God bless my dad and his twisted sense of humour.
He always joked about having a proper Irish wake when he died, but I’m sure when he said it, he assumed he’d be much older than sixty-three.
Wakes are a celebration of life, a time to honour the dead and what was hopefully a long, full life.
My dad’s life was a full one, there’s no doubt about that, but long?
Longer than some, certainly, but not nearly long enough.
In a perfect world, he and my mum would have had another couple of decades together, a chance to revel in their golden years, do more travelling, and simply be with each other. Instead, his death is a tragedy, a life taken too soon, a hole in the lives of those who knew and loved him.
When Dad found out his cancer was terminal, he planned his own wake with help from his childhood best friend, Thomas.
Dad initially told Mum he only wanted a small service with immediate family, because he didn’t want to put us through the agony of a visitation, funeral, and reception.
Mum argued that as difficult as it would be, Dad deserved all those things, so they settled on a variation of an Irish wake, to be held in our house, and to be catered so Mum wouldn’t have to cook.
When Thomas arrived from Ireland the day after I got home, I laughed tearfully as he told me how Dad really got into the planning, and how Thomas had promised him he’d get the send-off he deserved.
So here we are, a week after Dad’s death, with most of the inhabitants of Honeywell Hollow filling our house.
When I was home a few months ago before Christmas, my parents hosted their annual open house and invited everyone they knew to drop in to enjoy food, drinks, and Mum’s elaborate holiday decorations.
Dad held court from his favourite armchair, telling stories and laughing with townspeople.
The atmosphere is much more sombre today, but I keep having flashbacks to that wonderful day.
I also keep looking for Dad around every corner and listening for his melodic voice and his boisterous laugh.
I keep glancing toward where his chair normally sits, although it’s been moved for the day.
In its place is a poster-sized picture of the man himself: one of his favourite author photos, taken on the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, his salt-and-pepper hair tousled, and his smiling face ruddy from the wind.
A table sits beside it, holding two bottles of Jameson whiskey and an array of shot glasses.
Platters of food cover every available surface, and music by various Irish artists, from the well-known like U2, The Cranberries, and Hozier, to an indie band Dad once saw in Galway, plays quietly from speakers in one corner.
“He’d have loved this.”
I turn to find Thomas standing behind me.
As per Dad’s request for a casual atmosphere during the wake, Thomas is wearing well-worn dark jeans and a charcoal grey cable-knit sweater.
I’ve seen several similar sweaters and flashes of green so far today, people’s way of honouring Dad’s heritage.
It’s a true testament to how much he meant to the people of this town that the older women, who usually see an event like this as a chance to put on their best black dresses and pearls, actually heeded Dad’s request and came in slacks or casual dresses.
“And just think, people haven’t even started getting up to tell stories about him yet,” I say, giving Thomas a weak smile. “That would be his favourite part.”
Thomas lays a hand on my shoulder. “How’re you holding up?”
“I don’t really know how to answer that, Uncle Tommy.”
My gaze shifts past him to the group of people assembled around Mum, who’s sitting in the middle of the couch. Rex is nestled in her lap, and she’s absently stroking his thick, dark hair. Her eyes are blank and glassy, and a vacant smile is plastered on her face as people speak to her.
On the day I arrived, once I cleared the house and finally coaxed Mum into bed, she settled in and didn’t want to move.
For the last two days, she only got out of bed for short periods, and that was just to pick at food, and speak to Nathan, Liam, and Thomas when they dropped by to check on her.
They were the only ones I let through the door, despite the steady stream of people coming to check on Mum or bring more food.
“I won’t lie and tell you this gets easier,” Thomas says now, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s going to hurt like hell for a long while. It’ll still hurt as time goes on, but you’ll learn to live with it.”
This is one of the first truly meaningful, honest things anyone has said to me today.
I’ve heard all kinds of platitudes: “He’s in a better place now” and “take comfort knowing his suffering has ended.” As grateful as I am that Dad is no longer suffering, as one of the people who loved him most, I can’t imagine a better place than here with his family.
I meet Thomas’s eyes. There’s sympathy there, along with a deep ache I’m sure is mirrored in my own eyes. “I’m sure you’ve heard this countless times in the last few days, but you were an amazing friend to him. He loved you a lot.”
Thomas swallows audibly, his eyes going misty.
“I loved him a whole lot too. Best mate I ever had.” We stand in silence, with Thomas’s hand still resting heavily on my shoulder, like an anchor tethering us both to this new reality.
After a few minutes, he takes a deep breath and straightens to his full height.
“Guess I’ll get the speeches going since no one else seems keen to go first. Not that I blame them. ”
He leans in and kisses my cheek. “I’ll be here for another few days, and I’ll drop in now and again to check on you and your ma.
In the meantime, don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.
And you’d better come visit me soon; the bartender at Leary’s has been asking about you again, and I need a rematch on our last game of snooker. ”
I watch as he crosses the room to stand beside the poster of Dad.
The hum of chatter slowly dies down as Thomas pours himself a shot of whiskey and holds it up toward the picture.
He murmurs something in Irish before downing the shot.
With a soft hiss, he sets the glass aside, laughing quietly and shaking his head.
More people crowd into the living room, filling the remaining seats, and standing wherever there’s free space.
I want to sit with Mum, but Liam and his girlfriend Joss are on one side of her, with Mrs. Teage on the other.
Liam catches my eye and points to his seat, indicating that he’ll give it to me, but I shake my head and motion for him to stay.
Mum is clutching his hand in one of hers, with her other arm wrapped around Rex, pressing him close to her body.
When Liam’s attention shifts away from me, I inch back into the doorway.
I tell myself I’m making room for more people, but the real reason is this position will make it easier if I need a quick escape.
Thomas takes a deep breath and releases it slowly through pursed lips.
“As some of you know, I’m Thomas Leary, Seamus’s best mate.
Although I’m sure most of you know his true best friend is sitting right there.
” He smiles softly as he makes a sweeping gesture toward Mum.
A few murmurs of approval go around the room before silence falls again.
“I grew up with Seamus back in Ireland...in case you couldn’t guess from the accent. ”
I love him for this. He’s trying hard to keep the mood light, which is what my dad wanted. The stiffness in his shoulders tells me it’s difficult to keep up the act.
Thomas clears his throat. He eyes the whiskey, then clasps his hands in front of him as if it takes physical effort to resist the temptation to indulge in an extra shot of liquid courage.
“It’s no secret Seamus was loved by everyone he came in contact with.
He was always popular in school, known for being kind, smart, funny, and willing to lend a helping hand or a listening ear.
We parted ways when he went off to travel the world, and I thought I’d never see him again until one day he walked into my family’s pub back home.
We picked up a conversation as if no time had passed at all, and he told me about his lovely new bride, the woman who’d finally convinced him to still those wandering feet of his. ..”
Thomas keeps speaking, but I’m distracted by low whispers coming from a few feet away.
I lean forward to see Mrs. Allan, one of our gossipy neighbours, talking to Mrs. Levy, who owns the deli downtown.
I attempt to tune them out and focus on Thomas, who’s now telling one of my favourite stories about the time he and my dad pretended to be tour guides in Cork and made a small fortune off a group of unsuspecting tourists—a story that ended up in one of my dad’s books years later.
“—missed her own grandmother’s funeral, you know,” Mrs. Allan whispers. “I’m surprised she even bothered to come back for Seamus’s.”
Mrs. Levy tuts. “It’s an absolute crime she wasn’t here for both of her parents these last few months. She always was a flighty one, but this is too much, even for her.”
“I’m sure it won’t be long before she breezes out of town again and leaves poor Mae all on her own,” Mrs. Allan says.
“Do you know...” Her voice drops further, and I can picture her beckoning Mrs. Levy closer, her eyes gleaming conspiratorially.
“I haven’t seen her shed a single tear since she’s been home. Not one! It’s positively shameful.”