By Rosemarie DiCristo
You wouldn’t forget the date of your dad’s death any more than you’d forget your own.
January 3, 1962. The worst day of my life. And only two months later, we’re going to Disneyland.
“Swell way to mourn,” I muttered.
Mom flinched like I’d punched her in the gut, but it was my kid sister Susie, lugging two suitcases down the stairs, who shouted, “I cry for him every night, Linda, and I know you do, too.”
“Yeah. I sure do. But this is too soon.”
Maybe she thought I meant too soon for Disneyland, because Susie replied, “It’s been open seven years.”
“So?”
“So, on the day it opened, Dad promised to take us.”
Yes, when I was five, and she was three. She didn’t have to say the rest: that Dad, an auto mechanic, saved forever for this trip but never saved enough. We were only going now because a cop friend of Dad’s arranged it. Because of the way Dad died.
“Besides, only rich people ride airplanes. And Walt Disney’s supposed to meet us. Aren’t you excited?”
My voice was stone cold. “No.”
This time, Mom answered, her voice tight with angry tears. “We’ve discussed this enough. Your dad would want—”
“Don’t you dare say that. And how could we want it, now?”
“Linda. You are not ruining this for your sister.”
“It’s already ruined. He should be with us!”
Mom’s voice brooked no argument. “Going is honoring your dad.”
“Yes. Because Dad died a hero. Or so the newspapers said.”
He was driving home on the Bronx River Parkway when the car in front of him skidded off the road. Dad stopped to find that the driver, Angelo Frankel, had had a heart attack. So, Dad did what Dad always did: laid his hands on the man, prayed his healing prayer, and Mr. Frankel was one hundred percent okay.
It’s something our people can do. We keep it quiet, of course. Sometimes even the person helped doesn’t know what happened. But between the four of us, we’ve extended the lives of twenty-four people.
Helped? Extended? Most people would call us healers, but I’ve stopped using that word because, when Dad stepped back from Mr. Frankel’s car, he was hit by a speeding Buick.
Even if Mom, Susie, and I had been there, there’s no healing prayer for that.
“Hero?” My voice was ice. “No. That man died for real last month.”
“That man,” Mom emphasized, “lived long enough to see his first grandbaby born.”
“Mr. Frankel had a brain aneurysm, right? Too bad Dad wasn’t there then, or maybe he’d have postponed Mr. Frankel’s death until his grandbaby graduated college. Or if I’d been there, laid on my hands and muttered the prayer… What? Postponed until the kid married?”
“That’s disrespectful and flippant. Mr. Frankel told your dad how important it was for him to meet his grandbaby. Your father would’ve laid his hands on him anyway, but that gave him a special reason, and Angelo Frankel became a believer. He called us miracle workers and invited us to see that precious grandbaby…”
“Okay, sure, we can heal. Temporarily. But we can’t prevent death. We postpone it, and only neat, clean medical deaths. Heart attacks. Cancer. Maybe even the plague. Not gunshots or fires or train crashes or your own dad being hit by a car. So what does postponing do?”
Mom’s eyes screamed that my questions were making the pain in her soul ten thousand times worse, but still, I stared hard at her and asked again, “Why postpone, if we’re all gonna die anyway?”
She stared at me, all tears, no anger. “If you weren’t such a child, you’d realize how important time is. We ‘postponed’ your grandmother so she could see you and Susie born. We ‘postponed’ Aunt Mary so she could see the Pirates beat the Yankees two years ago. And wouldn’t you want one more day with your father?”
“Day? I’d settle for a minute. And in that minute, I’d hold him so tight, we’d both think I’d never let go. I’d nestle into him, feel his scratchy beard, smell his Old Spice. Until he’s taken away. Because, Mom, all we’re good for is postponing. And even in that, we failed Dad. Heroes? Miracle workers? No. Frauds. Aunt Mary died the day after the World Series ended, so big whoop. And Gran? Sure, she saw me and Susie. But she died when I was two and Susie was six months. We don’t remember her. Postponing is useless.”
Susie’s lips flattened. She was about to blow. And part of me wanted her to. “Don’t you know anything, Linda? We’re all gonna die.”
I snapped back so harshly I’m surprised my vocal cords didn’t break. “Didn’t I just say—”
“And we’ll all go to Heaven.”
I stopped. Swallowed.
“Heaven,” Susie repeated. “For ever and ever.”
With Gran. And Dad. Aunt Mary. Angelo Frankel, too.
Susie continued, “Death isn’t the bad part. It’s the separation until.”
I held out my hands. “But how do you bear the separation until?”
“By loving like crazy the ones left behind?”
“Well, if I can, any way I can, I’ll postpone you two a million times,” Mom quipped, although her words ended in a sob. “I don’t want to lose my babies for a long, long time.”
“Postponing means living, Linda,” Susie murmured. “Dad would want us to live.”
My words started on a sob. “Then I guess we’ve got a plane to catch.”
No, you definitely don’t forget the date of your dad’s death, or your own.
Your own…
March 1, 1962.
American Airlines Flight 1. New York to Los Angeles.
Not one of the biggest air crashes ever, but big enough.
About two minutes after taking off from Idlewild, we nose-dived straight into Jamaica Bay.
Not one of us could postpone that. No one survived.
I wouldn’t want to.
When I ran through those pearly gates, I went straight into my daddy’s arms.
This story was very personal; the POV was perfect. I cried. Awesome Tuesday start.
Oh, Rosie!! Some, sweet day, huh? ((hugs))