We Are the Light(2)

I also admire how you led the funeral yourself without the help of a minister or rabbi or priest. I’m not sure I would have been able to do that, even though Darcy’s funeral was just staged for appearances and her casket was obviously empty.

If you were worried about missing Darcy’s funeral, please don’t be. Like I said above, it wasn’t real. And I’m not sure anyone but me even noticed your absence at all the others.

Anyway, in the video you screened at your wife’s funeral—as you will certainly remember—Leandra was practicing for a solo she was to perform at a Christmas-themed show and the song she was playing really made me believe that I had to tell you about my numinous experience. It seemed like a sign. Proof that you and I were in this together and that I wasn’t going insane.

You’ll remember that the song was “Angels We Have Heard on High.”

I was surprised at how such a small woman could handle such a big instrument. And I marveled at the ethereal sounds your wife massaged out with her wonderful bow work. It was miraculous watching Leandra playing at her own funeral and I almost ran up to the pulpit right then and there. It was like God had come down from heaven and commanded me to tell you the good news about the tragedy, which was strange because I’m not religious. I’m not entirely certain that I even believe in God.

I didn’t run up to the pulpit, of course, but sat on my hands. And then Leandra’s version of “Angels We Have Heard on High” played over and over again in my brain, producing a sense of ecstasy. My body was right there in the pew, but my soul—or psyche—was somewhere high above, marveling at the early morning sunlight streaming through the stained-glass depictions of saints.

I don’t remember anything else until I was standing at the back of the crowd that had gathered by Leandra’s open grave. Darcy’s best friend, Jill, was holding my hand. I was wearing dark sunglasses when my soul slipped back into my body. And you were crying violently with a hand on your wife’s white casket. It was like your black suit was heavy armor, because you were hunched over in a way that aged you, making you look more like ninety-eight than seventy-eight. You couldn’t catch your breath, so it became impossible for you to speak, let alone conclude the funeral. No one knew what to do because there was no priest or minister or rabbi to take the lead. And you wouldn’t let anyone else help you. You kept waving—and even literally pushing—people away. Then you started saying, “The service is over. Go home. Please just leave me alone.” Everyone was feeling cautious and unsure until Robin Withers—the town’s head librarian, whose husband, Steve, was also killed, in case you don’t know her—put a hand on the casket, crossed herself, kissed you on the cheek, and then gracefully departed. That seemed to calm you down. So everyone followed Robin’s good lead, including Jill and me, who were the last two people to exit.

But when I made it to Jill’s truck, I looked back and you were still crying all alone, only there were two men nearby smoking cigarettes next to a backhoe. They had on shark-colored jumpsuits, black gloves, and beanie hats. And their dead eyes were watching you.

Jill tried to stop me, but I broke free of her arms and strode over to you. You were crying so hard I thought maybe you were dying, but I told you about Darcy having wings now and my seeing your Leandra and all of the others rise from the lifeless pools of blood, back at the Majestic Theater. And I described for you their collective graceful ascent toward the heavens. Their white feathers sparkling like opals. The steady pulse of flapping. The dignity and glory and compensation. I don’t know how much you heard through your sobbing. I’m happy to give you a more detailed report whenever we resume our Friday-night sessions, which is what this letter is in service of. I’m very much open to being questioned.

I miss sitting on the worn leather seat and staring at your large black glasses. I miss the little forest of totem pole cacti by the windows and the “phallic energy” those strange green plants would supply us. I miss seeing the deep wrinkles in your face, which always reassured me, because they appeared hard-won—like they had been etched by the accumulation of great wisdom. But mostly I miss the healing energy that always flowed so naturally between us.

Bobby the cop says I’m not allowed to knock on your door anymore, which I have stopped doing, if you haven’t noticed. But psyche says I must keep trying to reconnect with you in one way or another. Psyche says it’s vital. That your very life might depend on it. Darcy suggested writing letters, as a safe compromise, saying, “What harm can a letter do? No one was ever hurt by words on a piece of paper. If it’s too much for Karl, he can simply refold the paper, slip it back into the envelope, and read it later.” She also said I was a pretty clever correspondent. We used to send letters when we were in college, since we attended different universities back in the early nineties. And I have always loved writing, so I thought, why not?

I don’t know if you remember, but early on—when you first started analyzing me—you… well, you looked deep into my eyes for what felt like fifteen minutes and then you said, “I love you, Lucas.” It really made me uncomfortable at the time. I even went home and googled What to do when your therapist says I love you. That was back before I understood the difference between an analyst and a therapist. Pretty much everything I found on the internet said I should immediately stop seeing you, because your saying “I love you” was unethical and boundary-crossing. And I almost did stop coming to analysis, mostly because I was afraid. Other than Darcy, no one had ever said “I love you” to me before. Not with sincerity. But then, as we spent two hours together every Friday night, I started to get better and I began to understand what you meant when you said your soul could love my soul because it’s everyone’s soul’s purpose to love, just like it’s the job of our lungs and nose to breathe; and our mouths to chew and taste; and our feet to walk. As we banked more and more Friday nights together, I started to believe that you actually did love me—not in a sexual way or even a friend way. You loved me the way the best of a human being naturally loves the best of any and every other human being once you remove all the toxic interference.