A sleeping pill helps you sleep; it doesn’t guarantee you’ll wake up refreshed. Rick had given Karen two pills of a sedative bearing the inspired name Halcion. A half-hour after the first she was still awake; the second rewarded her with four hours of sleep and four hours of hangover. But if she saw the morning through a fog, the ruins of last night’s horror glared through that fog like a thousand-watt bulb. Reflexively she closed her eyes against the cruel light, but it shone that much brighter. She noted that Alan’s half of the bed was still made. As she washed her hands, she caught the image of a face in the bathroom mirror. She tried to push it from her, and a hand rose up in defense. She turned from it and went downstairs. Through the open study door she saw Alan sitting in the armchair, still dressed in the green scrub suit he had worn in the operating room.  His face was ashen from lack of sleep.

“Have you been here all night?” she asked, leaning against the doorjamb.

“I didn’t think I was going to get any sleep, so why keep you awake?”

Alan had refused a sedative. Reality would be waiting, with icy patience, for him to come out of his stupor, and he’d be no better prepared for it. On his way to the study he revisited his summons from the operating room. How had Rick put it? Alan, come to the second floor right away. Something’s happened. How had Rick expected him to interpret “something”? Besides, Alan had no patients on the second floor. He had entered the stairwell from the air-conditioned operating floor oblivious to the heat. On the contrary, halfway down he had felt the first chill of a nameless fear. Like a plane descending through the clouds, he was leaving the crystal beauty of the stratosphere for the overcast reality of the world in which he lived and breathed. And in that world it was revealed to him, through a medium of communication accessible only to parents, that catastrophe awaited him, and that his daughter was its victim.

A growing chasm separated the events of the succeeding minutes from his ability to recollect. Sitting in the dark, he thought of the dreams that had impelled him to this very sanctuary. With a wry smile, he recalled that dreams are expressions of the unconscious mind, and the conscious mind does not readily allow them entry. That is why dreams can be hard to recall. So it was with last night’s terrible moment of truth; already his mind was burying it.

But he did remember clearly the petite woman in house-staff uniform who had stood before them. Looking at them out of compassionate eyes, she had said, “I’m Cathy Cross, resident. I wish this could wait, but it can’t. Your daughter’s a young person—”

“Our daughter is dead,” Karen had sobbed bitterly.

“Yes,” Doctor Cross’s gentle tone conveyed her respect for their feelings, “yet even now she has something priceless to give, perhaps to someone else her age, a gift of life.”

Alan envied Cathy her sensitivity. She was asking permission to harvest such organs and tissues as could be transplanted to living patients. In his emotional semiconsciousness, he had answered as if he were play-acting a reversal of the accustomed roles. An almost-forgotten conversation returned. If I died, would you let them cut me up? Eden had asked innocently. He had told her it was a horrible question. Now he had to answer it. Choosing the words he would have liked to put into the mouths of all bereaved families, he had said, “As long as there’s anyone alive who can benefit, I know that’s what our daughter would have wanted.”

Karen had consented with a nod, and Doctor Cross had accepted gratefully.

Hours later the effect of his endorphins, those miraculous narcotics the brain produces for just this sort of emergency, had worn off. The ease with which he had agreed to the dissection of his daughter’s body momentarily horrified him. Still, he knew he had done the right thing, and he thanked his instinct for guiding him. But the disposition of those memories, far from giving him the peace he craved, only cleared the stage for the most monstrous revelation of all. Never again would Eden set foot in this house or in his life.

His thoughts were interrupted by Karen’s appearance at the door. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.” They sat on adjacent sides of the table, neither looking at the other, neither saying a word. The refrigerator shut off, and the silence became even denser. Her cup drained, Karen sat staring in front of her, tears rolling down her cheeks. Alan looked at her helplessly, his eyes dry and burning. What could he offer her, he whose resources were as depleted as hers? He envied her the catharsis of crying. Tears refused to come to his aid, as if to punish him. Only Karen’s bitter observation rescued him from yet another battle with his conscience. “It didn’t have to happen,” she said, listlessly shaking her head. “They gave her penicillin.” She poured more coffee and straightened up. “There are things to take care of. Like Eden’s body.”

Eden’s. What happened to Edie?

The Averys were not church members. And like so many whose lives seemed to stretch to infinity before them, they had left the practical details of death for some other time.

“I think cremation is preferable to a burial,” Alan said. “How do you feel about that?”

“I agree. We can put off disposing of the ashes till we’ve had time to collect our thoughts. Right now, I don’t know how I could deal with it.”

“How about a memorial service?”

“Absolutely. But I don’t know who’d conduct it. Do you?”

Alan sighed. “Not offhand. Let’s both think. Meanwhile, there are people we need to call. We don’t want some of the relatives reading about it in the papers. You go ahead, call yours; then I’ll call mine. After that we have to decide on friends and acquaintances.”

“Who’s going to tell Josh?”

Alan shook his head. “He’s going to take it hard. I’d just as soon leave it to the Rabins.”

Eventually Karen called Esther, who lost no time coming over.

“Poor Debbie. She’s going to be heartbroken. She never had another friend like Edie. . . . And Josh. I don’t even dare to think how he’s going to take it. Do you know, Edie meant more to him than anyone in the world? It was so heartwarming to see them together. Love just radiated from them. I don’t know whether they even knew it themselves, but I felt it.”

Karen was weeping. “I feel so guilty. I tried to discourage her from getting too attached. It was an insult to him, to you, and to her. How could I do such a thing?”

Esther put a comforting hand on her arm. “You did what a concerned mother does instinctively. There’s not a thing to feel guilty about. It didn’t stop them.”

“Esther, will you tell him? I can’t.”

“Yes. He may want to come home right away. You’ll understand if he does, won’t you?”

“Of course. And he’s welcome here. I may need his shoulder to cry on.” For the first time since the previous evening she allowed herself a smile.

“And he yours.”

“You know, Esther, we’re so totally unprepared, and all of a sudden we have to make decisions. We‘re having her body cremated ― at least that’s taken care of. But we also want to have a memorial service, and we have no church connection at all.”

“But you want something Christian?”

“It doesn’t really matter. We have nothing against Christianity, but we haven’t observed any religion all these years and it seems hypocritical, and humiliating, to go to them now. Still, I want something a bit spiritual. Are there ministers who’ll do a service without talking about coming back to God or anything like that?”

“There’s someone in Max’s lab we could talk to. They’re Unitarian Universalists.”

“What kind of religion is that?” Alan asked. “What do they believe in?”

“Mostly human beings, the way I understand it,” Esther said. “They don’t argue with other religions; their stock-in-trade seems to be tolerance. If you want to believe in God, it’s OK with them, but you’re also accepted if you don’t. They value people above all. They’re more concerned with this world than the hereafter. That’s about what I remember.”

“Can you do a single occasion with one of their ministers, or do you have to sign up for their church?” Alan asked. “Do the have ministers?”

“You’d have to speak with them. Would you like me to try to get a contact for you?”

Alan looked at Karen, who nodded. “Yes, please,” she said. “It can’t hurt to talk. And thanks ever so much. Even if it doesn’t work out, it’s so good of you to help.”

“Help? Karen, don’t you realize this is our loss too?”

Esther embraced them both and turned to go. “I’d better make my calls from home, but I’ll be back this afternoon. Will you be here?”

“I can’t think of any place to go. And thanks again for everything.”

Alan called the hospital and ordered the body released as soon as the autopsy was done. He then called a funeral director to arrange for the cremation. After that, there seemed to be no urgency about doing anything. For now he was uninterested in the autopsy findings.

It was past noon and they realized they had not had a bite to eat. Karen opened a can of soup and made a sandwich for each. They ate in silence.

A half hour later Esther called. “May I come over? I have something for you.”

“Any time. The door’s open.”

Debbie came over with Esther, red-eyed and sobbing. She embraced each of the Averys. It would have been hard to tell who was consoling whom.

“What’s that you’re carrying?” Karen asked.

“It’s a casserole. Warm it up for dinner. You shouldn’t have to spend time cooking. In Jewish tradition the bereaved family sits shiva ― that means seven. For seven days the community takes care of their needs so they can mourn without distraction. I’ve called a bunch of friends ― not all Jews, by the way ― and we’ll have at least one thing for you every day. And if anything should go wrong, we want you to come over to our house.”

Karen and Alan were overwhelmed. “But we’re not even Jewish!” he said.

Esther was prepared. “Dear Alan, what people feel when they lose a loved one goes back long before Judaism was invented. Our tradition simply encodes a behavior to meet a need.”

“Thank you, Esther, thank you,” Karen said, tears again welling in her eyes. “What a wonderful thing to have friends like you.”

“There’s something else,” Esther went on. “I spoke with Max. He’d like to come over tonight if you’re not too exhausted. He asked about the Unitarian Universalist minister, and I have a telephone number. I didn’t know whether I should have her call you, or whether that would be taking too much out of your hands. So perhaps you’d like to call her.”

“Her?” Alan asked in mild surprise.

“Yes. Her name is Sandra Meld.”

“Alan,” Karen said, “there’s nothing wrong with a female minister. A woman is just as capable of spiritual leadership as a man. Perhaps Edie would even have preferred it that way.”

Alan bowed his head. “I’m sorry, you’re perfectly right. I’ll call her.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The Reverend Sandra Meld was barely five feet tall, moderately overweight, with short, curly gray hair, wearing a summer print dress, yellow jacket, and yellow sandals. A white subcompact was parked at the curb, even though there was room in the driveway.

“Mrs. Avery ?” she asked as Karen opened the door.

Karen noted the soft eyes and the sympathetic lift of the eyebrows. “I’m Karen Avery.”

“Sandra Meld. I received a call from your husband last night—”

“Yes, please come in. I’ll get him.”

Karen motioned her to the living room. Alan entered and shook Sandra’s hand.

“Thank you for coming. Is there anything we can get you?”

“A drink of water perhaps. It’s already hot outside.”

Returning with a glass, Karen said, “I feel we’re exploiting you, Mrs. Meld. We’re not members of your church, and out of the blue we’re asking for something we haven’t earned. I mean, if we’d been members all along we’d be entitled to services when we need them.”

Sandra looked for a coaster and, finding none, placed her glass on a newspaper, where it promptly formed a wet ring.

“Mrs. Avery , and Doctor Avery , what you’re going through must be among the cruelest experiences nature visits on us. It was never meant for us to witness the deaths of our children. How I wish I could take away your pain! Our church demands no commitment from you; that would be unspeakable. You don’t need to earn our service; your grief alone entitles you to the best we can give. Please let us help.”

Karen was weeping silently, and Alan’s eyes too were moist. Sandra, though on the verge of tears herself, had mastered the control needed to function as helper. Her voice was steady.

“You’re very kind, Mrs. Meld,” Alan said. “It’s a relief to have someone to turn to.”

“The place of a church is to help meet people’s spiritual needs. I’d be honored to conduct a memorial service for your daughter.”

Karen and Alan sat in silence. They knew nothing about the church, or the faith, that Sandra represented, and they still wondered what obligations they would assume by accepting her offer. As though divining their question, she said, “I want to say again, categorically, that none of this places any obligation on you, other than the customary fees, which are quite modest. If you have questions about our church, I encourage you only to ask, but not make decisions. Those should wait till much later. Now, would you like time to think? I’ll be in the office all afternoon, and I’ll give you my home number too. My husband is used to my calls.”

Karen and Alan exchanged questioning looks and then nodded. “We’d like you to do it.”

“Then let us set a date and place. Our church holds two hundred, but a smaller group would be quite comfortable. If you prefer another place, that’s no problem. People who aren’t used to churches sometimes do. Take time to think about that. . . . Now, I’d like very much to learn about your daughter, her life, her interests, her friends, whatever you feel’s important. Also, everyone calls me by my first name. It’s another of our habits. People with other backgrounds sometimes have trouble with that at first, so please don’t feel obligated.”

They spoke for two hours, at first hesitatingly, then with more ease and using first names. With a smile Karen recalled the time she had caught Eden sitting in the darkness of her room after Josh had walked her home. Sandra asked about Josh too, nodding continuously as the Averys told of the attachment between the two teenagers.

The choice of place proved more difficult, because they didn’t know how many would attend. Family ― even from out of town ― and friends seemed nowhere near enough to fill even a small church. Sandra reminded them that there might be a turnout of students from her school. It was settled; the service would be at the church.

Announcing her intention to call them after she had gone over some ideas for the service, Sandra got up to leave, but Karen prevailed on her to share lunch with them.

“I haven’t done any cooking since Edie died, but we have casserole left from last night. Esther Rabin made it. The Rabins are friends of ours, the children practically grew up together. That’s how Edie met Josh. Do you know about the Jewish custom of shiva?”

“Karen,” Alan said. “Sandra is a minister. You can bet she knows—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Karen said, blushing, “I’m not quite with it. Please forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Sandra said. “Shiva’s a wonderful custom. One of the best examples of a supportive, caring community that I know. And you see, it doesn’t matter that you’re not Jewish. That’s religion at its best, without the exclusionary, judgmental aspects. I hope I’ll get to meet them at the service.”

“I guarantee you will ― all four.”