Chapter 15 - The Next Time My Father Went Into a Funeral Home, He Walked In
Three years later, Richard Dawson was:
sixty-four.
Alive.
Annoying.
Still convinced thermostats should never be set above:
sixty-eight.
Retired from day-to-day leadership at Dawson Restoration.
Not because Monica almost killed:
him.
Because he was ready.
He remained:
board chair
for a transition period.
Then stepped back further.
I was COO.
Not CEO.
Our chief executive was Marcus Flynn, an outside hire who had run a regional industrial-services company.
Dad liked:
him.
Mostly because Marcus told him:
no.
Healthy governance.
The North Laurel money issue was:
closed.
Some restitution.
Some insurance recovery.
Some permanent loss.
Companies survive imperfect endings too.
Dad sold the house he had shared with:
Monica.
Bought a smaller place near:
me.
Not next door.
I had boundaries.
He joined a golf club.
Hated:
golf.
Went anyway because retired men apparently require:
scheduled complaining.
Our relationship never returned to:
before.
Good.
Before had included:
pride,
assumptions,
unanswered calls.
We built something:
better.
One rule:
verify.
If Dad said:
“Claire told me—”
someone could ask:
“Did she?”
If I said:
“Dad probably means—”
stop.
Call:
Dad.
No translating.
No gatekeepers.
No emotionally convenient:
summaries.
Dad also created new estate and medical documents.
Clear.
Current.
Multiple copies.
Independent professionals knew:
where.
No broad indefinite POA without:
checks.
No cremation.
Definitely.
His instructions actually included:
I prefer burial. If anyone claims otherwise, ask Claire to remind you of 2026.
Dark.
Very Dad.
Then one spring afternoon, he asked me to:
drive him somewhere.
“Where?”
“Funeral home.”
I stared.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m picking a plot.”
“Take Marcus.”
“He’ll pick something cheap.”
“Good.”
Dad smiled.
“I want your opinion.”
Against every instinct in my body, I:
went.
Different funeral home.
Different town.
Bright office.
No body bags.
No identification room.
We walked outside to:
the cemetery.
Dad chose a spot near:
Mom.
Not Monica.
His first wife.
My mother.
He stood there a while.
Then said:
“I should’ve come after you.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
Not cemetery.
The months before:
the fake death.
“When you quit Dawson.”
“Yes.”
“I kept thinking you’d call first.”
“So did I.”
“Idiots.”
“Correct.”
Then:
“I’m sorry.”
I looked toward:
him.
He continued.
“For letting Monica speak for me.”
“For thinking because I loved her, she couldn’t be manipulating us.”
“For hiding things because I thought you had enough problems.”
“For not telling you Peter’s money situation sooner.”
“For giving somebody authority just because it made my life easier.”
I nodded.
Then said:
“My turn?”
“No.”
“Dad.”
He sighed.
“Fine.”
“I’m sorry I let one email decide who you were.”
“I’m sorry I ignored your voicemail.”
“I’m sorry I preferred being wounded to being uncertain.”
Dad looked at:
me.
“That’s annoyingly self-aware.”
“Therapy.”
“Expensive?”
“Very.”
He nodded.
“Worth it?”
“Yes.”
We stood beside:
Mom’s grave.
Quiet.
Then he said:
“You know the strangest part?”
“What?”
“I remember hearing you in that funeral room.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“Before you opened the bag.”
“I was awake enough to hear voices.”
“Couldn’t move much.”
“I heard Monica say I was dead.”
“Then I heard you.”
“What did I say?”
Dad smiled.
“You said, ‘Then why is my dead father knocking?’”
I laughed.
“Very dignified.”
“Terrible funeral etiquette.”
Then he became serious.
“I knew you’d open it.”
That hurt.
Because for months before that room, I had not opened:
anything.
Not his email explanation.
Not the possibility Monica lied.
Not my own pride.
But when it mattered most, I opened:
the bag.
I said:
“I almost didn’t come.”
Dad looked toward:
me.
“I know.”
“How?”
“Monica told me before I blacked out that you wouldn’t.”
My stomach turned even after:
three years.
“What exactly?”
“She said, ‘Claire is done with you. By the time she hears, it’ll already be finished.’”
Finished.
That was the wager.
Not only that doctors would fail.
Not only that transport workers would follow:
paperwork.
Not only that a funeral home would trust:
documents.
Monica wagered that a father and daughter had become so estranged neither would interrupt:
the process.
She nearly won.
That was the part I carried forward.
Not:
trust no one.
Not:
check every body bag.
Something simpler.
When someone you love suddenly becomes unreachable through a wall of explanations provided by another person, do not automatically assume the wall is:
the truth.
Call.
Verify.
Show up.
Ask the uncomfortable question.
Dad eventually died many years later.
Not that afternoon.
Not inside a sealed bag.
And not before we had enough ordinary time together for the funeral-home story to become something we could sometimes:
laugh about.
When the real day came, I did exactly what his written instructions said.
I identified:
him.
Properly.
No movement.
No knock.
No fear.
Just my father.
Gone this time.
I stood beside him and said the goodbye Monica had almost stolen years earlier.
Then I zipped the bag myself.
May you like
Not because I had to.
Because this time, nobody else was deciding when I was ready to close it.
