‘A pretty good first day’

Dad’s Funeral, Part 5
Visitation, Friday evening


Awkward.

Luke had just told me that he never told his mom that her husband’s long-lost daughter was coming to his funeral.

“Well, I’ll let you handle that,” I said, and he walked away to meet her.

I turned around to look at all the photos they had displayed of Dad.

I stood there looking at pictures of a doting father cradling babies that weren’t me, and a smiling grandfather playing with kids that weren’t my son.

Such a good man, everyone’s told me. Loving, caring, funny. Yes, the pictures seemed to prove as much.

“Damn it, Dad. Why couldn’t we have gotten this right?” I thought.

“Misty?”

I turned around.

“Yes,” I answered.

“I’m Joanne, David’s wife,” she said.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” I said. And I meant it.

“Did you come all this way just for the funeral?” she asked.

She looked stunned.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “He would be glad you’re here.”

About that time, my father’s wife had to turn around and talk to more well-wishers as the line started to lengthen again at the funeral visitation on this Friday evening. I quietly slipped to the side.

“Whoa, that was weird,” Luke said as he approached me.

“Why?” I asked.

“I never got to tell her you were here,” he said.

“What … how?”

“I went to talk to her, and she saw you standing there and asked, ‘Is that Misty?’” he explained. “I told her yes, and I asked her how she knew, and she said she’s seen pictures of you.”

I don’t know if she meant pictures I sent to Dad when I was little, or with the graduation invitation I never heard anything back from, or recently when he and I had become Facebook friends.

One thing was sure, though. I wouldn’t get any of those answers during this most tragic and hectic of weekends for her.

And many answers to all our questions will never be revealed, since the one we needed to talk to would be buried in less than 24 hours.

I hated that most for Charlie, my father’s brother. Of everyone, I think he was the most shocked and confused and hurt about me and my absence in his family’s life.

You see, I thought he had known about me my whole life. Come to find out, he didn’t know until recently.

“I think I’m the only one who didn’t know,” he would tell me later.

As the chapel cleared of those who knew and loved Big Dave, I made my way toward the back, where the family was gathering their things.

I gave more hugs, and we said we’d see each other in the morning.

Joanne gave me a smile, as if she just realized we never really got to finish talking earlier.

“Misty,” she said.

“Joanne, I’m so sorry for your loss. And I’m so sorry we are meeting under these circumstances,” I said.

“He would be so glad you’re here,” she told me again.

“I don’t think we’ll really have time to talk tomorrow,” I told her.

“No, I know we won’t. Don’t take that personally, but tomorrow will be rough,” she said.

“I understand. And tomorrow isn’t about me,” I said. “It’s about you and Luke, and for those of you who knew him and are hurting.”

“That’s very giving of you,” she said.

I hugged her and turned to face Luke.

“Well, it was a pretty good first day,” he said as we hugged.

Not too bad. But tomorrow will be rough.

To be continued …

‘A pretty good first day’

Dad’s Funeral, Part 5
Visitation, Friday evening


Awkward.

Luke had just told me that he never told his mom that her husband’s long-lost daughter was coming to his funeral.

“Well, I’ll let you handle that,” I said, and he walked away to meet her.

I turned around to look at all the photos they had displayed of Dad.

I stood there looking at pictures of a doting father cradling babies that weren’t me, and a smiling grandfather playing with kids that weren’t my son.

Such a good man, everyone’s told me. Loving, caring, funny. Yes, the pictures seemed to prove as much.

“Damn it, Dad. Why couldn’t we have gotten this right?” I thought.

“Misty?”

I turned around.

“Yes,” I answered.

“I’m Joanne, David’s wife,” she said.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” I said. And I meant it.

“Did you come all this way just for the funeral?” she asked.

She looked stunned.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “He would be glad you’re here.”

About that time, my father’s wife had to turn around and talk to more well-wishers as the line started to lengthen again at the funeral visitation on this Friday evening. I quietly slipped to the side.

“Whoa, that was weird,” Luke said as he approached me.

“Why?” I asked.

“I never got to tell her you were here,” he said.

“What … how?”

“I went to talk to her, and she saw you standing there and asked, ‘Is that Misty?’” he explained. “I told her yes, and I asked her how she knew, and she said she’s seen pictures of you.”

I don’t know if she meant pictures I sent to Dad when I was little, or with the graduation invitation I never heard anything back from, or recently when he and I had become Facebook friends.

One thing was sure, though. I wouldn’t get any of those answers during this most tragic and hectic of weekends for her.

And many answers to all our questions will never be revealed, since the one we needed to talk to would be buried in less than 24 hours.

I hated that most for Charlie, my father’s brother. Of everyone, I think he was the most shocked and confused and hurt about me and my absence in his family’s life.

You see, I thought he had known about me my whole life. Come to find out, he didn’t know until recently.

“I think I’m the only one who didn’t know,” he would tell me later.

As the chapel cleared of those who knew and loved Big Dave, I made my way toward the back, where the family was gathering their things.

I gave more hugs, and we said we’d see each other in the morning.

Joanne gave me a smile, as if she just realized we never really got to finish talking earlier.

“Misty,” she said.

“Joanne, I’m so sorry for your loss. And I’m so sorry we are meeting under these circumstances,” I said.

“He would be so glad you’re here,” she told me again.

“I don’t think we’ll really have time to talk tomorrow,” I told her.

“No, I know we won’t. Don’t take that personally, but tomorrow will be rough,” she said.

“I understand. And tomorrow isn’t about me,” I said. “It’s about you and Luke, and for those of you who knew him and are hurting.”

“That’s very giving of you,” she said.

I hugged her and turned to face Luke.

“Well, it was a pretty good first day,” he said as we hugged.

Not too bad. But tomorrow will be rough.

To be continued …

Hugs, tears and fears

Dad’s Funeral, Part 4
Visitation, Friday evening

I walked across the parking lot and let the uniformed guards open the door to the funeral chapel for me.

Inside, I noticed another guard standing beside my father’s casket. One would be there every time I looked over the next two days.

Dad was a lieutenant at a prison. He probably didn’t get much lip, I reasoned. He was a meaty 6-foot-4 man, and many who had written get-well wishes on his hospital website referred to him as “Big Dave.”

I got that gene.

It took me a while before I even realized that it was a closed casket, because I couldn’t make myself go toward the front for a while.

I dropped my purse in a pew and looked around for familiar faces. I found a few, and spent my time making small talk with many of them before making my way toward the unfamiliar ones.

I was standing in what would continue to be a decent-sized line of well-wishers when I made eye contact with Tawna, my friend from high school.

She was also my first cousin, but we didn’t speak about that.

She smiled and came to my side. We talked, and I was happy for her yet pissed that she had not seemed to age one day since high school and four kids.

I didn’t get that gene.

I noticed as we made our way toward the casket that she was intentionally staying with me. A tour guide on my trip to Bizarreville, if you will.

Whatever it was, it made me feel better.

“This is Misty,” she said as we approached her mom and dad. I had seen her mom many times over the years at school functions and in the community, but never her dad.

Charlie, my dad’s brother, reached down and gave me one of the biggest hugs I’ve ever gotten.

Two thoughts popped into my head as I also wondered if he’d ever let me go: Is this what Dad hugged like? Am I getting makeup all over the shoulder of his white shirt?

Charlie held me in that bear hug as he seemingly said everything he wanted to say in one shot, just in case there weren’t any more hugs.

“If you need absolutely anything to help you through all this, you just let me know,” he whispered. “Blood, DNA tests … I will be here to help you any way I can.”

Whoa.

In that moment, I fully appreciated that that would forever be THE weirdest “nice to meet you” conversation I will ever have.

I thanked him, confirmed I had indeed left a makeup smudge on his shoulder, and moved a step left to hug my father’s son.

Luke and I had talked many times since January 2007, when I found him on MySpace and asked him one simple question: “Is David Frailley your father?”

“Well...first of all...yes...David Frailley is my father. And secondly, and this is going to sound really crazy....I was just thinking about you,” he wrote in the opening lines of what turned into some really great communication for a while.

From my understanding, it would be a few years, though, before he would tell our dad that we had talked.

But here we were on this day, Friday, 3 ½ years later, standing beside our father’s casket.

“So nice to finally ‘meet’ you,” we both said as I got another great hug.

By the time our embrace had broken, my father’s wife had walked to talk to someone a few feet away.

“Is that your mom?” I asked.

“It is,” he said awkwardly.

We both smiled nervous smiles, and I could tell something was terribly wrong.

“Luke, what’s going on?”

“Well, I never really got around to telling Mom you were going to be here.”

To be continued …

Hugs, tears and fears

Dad’s Funeral, Part 4
Visitation, Friday evening

I walked across the parking lot and let the uniformed guards open the door to the funeral chapel for me.

Inside, I noticed another guard standing beside my father’s casket. One would be there every time I looked over the next two days.

Dad was a lieutenant at a prison. He probably didn’t get much lip, I reasoned. He was a meaty 6-foot-4 man, and many who had written get-well wishes on his hospital website referred to him as “Big Dave.”

I got that gene.

It took me a while before I even realized that it was a closed casket, because I couldn’t make myself go toward the front for a while.

I dropped my purse in a pew and looked around for familiar faces. I found a few, and spent my time making small talk with many of them before making my way toward the unfamiliar ones.

I was standing in what would continue to be a decent-sized line of well-wishers when I made eye contact with Tawna, my friend from high school.

She was also my first cousin, but we didn’t speak about that.

She smiled and came to my side. We talked, and I was happy for her yet pissed that she had not seemed to age one day since high school and four kids.

I didn’t get that gene.

I noticed as we made our way toward the casket that she was intentionally staying with me. A tour guide on my trip to Bizarreville, if you will.

Whatever it was, it made me feel better.

“This is Misty,” she said as we approached her mom and dad. I had seen her mom many times over the years at school functions and in the community, but never her dad.

Charlie, my dad’s brother, reached down and gave me one of the biggest hugs I’ve ever gotten.

Two thoughts popped into my head as I also wondered if he’d ever let me go: Is this what Dad hugged like? Am I getting makeup all over the shoulder of his white shirt?

Charlie held me in that bear hug as he seemingly said everything he wanted to say in one shot, just in case there weren’t any more hugs.

“If you need absolutely anything to help you through all this, you just let me know,” he whispered. “Blood, DNA tests … I will be here to help you any way I can.”

Whoa.

In that moment, I fully appreciated that that would forever be THE weirdest “nice to meet you” conversation I will ever have.

I thanked him, confirmed I had indeed left a makeup smudge on his shoulder, and moved a step left to hug my father’s son.

Luke and I had talked many times since January 2007, when I found him on MySpace and asked him one simple question: “Is David Frailley your father?”

“Well...first of all...yes...David Frailley is my father. And secondly, and this is going to sound really crazy....I was just thinking about you,” he wrote in the opening lines of what turned into some really great communication for a while.

From my understanding, it would be a few years, though, before he would tell our dad that we had talked.

But here we were on this day, Friday, 3 ½ years later, standing beside our father’s casket.

“So nice to finally ‘meet’ you,” we both said as I got another great hug.

By the time our embrace had broken, my father’s wife had walked to talk to someone a few feet away.

“Is that your mom?” I asked.

“It is,” he said awkwardly.

We both smiled nervous smiles, and I could tell something was terribly wrong.

“Luke, what’s going on?”

“Well, I never really got around to telling Mom you were going to be here.”

To be continued …

Our first and last meeting

Dad’s Funeral, Part 3
Heading to visitation, Friday afternoon

On the 10-mile drive from Mom’s in Livermore, Ky., to the funeral home in Calhoun, I got more nervous the closer I got.

I passed my high school, the one and only in our county. It was there, in November 1993, that I met my father for the first time in the parking lot after my basketball scrimmage. I was 17.

And it was there, midcourt during halftime of a boys basketball game just two months later, that I would see him for the last time.

We spoke briefly about why he had stood me up for the Get to Know Each Other Dinner we had planned during our initial meeting two months before, and then we were on our way.

Sixteen-and-a-half years ago, and I never saw him again.

What a shame, I thought, as I pulled into the funeral home parking lot on Friday afternoon.

I sat in the back of the lot, watching people park their cars and walk inside to comfort the family and pay their respects.

All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. And my stomach still hurt.

Why was this happening? Why was I here? Why in the hell had he not made more of an effort?

Holy shit, I COULDN’T BREATHE.

From the time I had learned of Dad’s motorcycle crash until his death a little over a week later, I prayed for a happy ending.

Maybe he would need an organ transplant, I thought. And being as I’m his only blood child (his son is adopted), they’d have to contact me.

And I’d come to the rescue and give him a kidney or whatever, and he’d recover and thank me and love me and be my son’s Granddaddy, and we’d all live happily ever after.

Or his son would get the email I sent him in the final two days of our dad’s life and accept my offer to travel to Nashville and talk to him to help wake him from his coma.

Can you imagine? I save his life with a part of my body or be the voice that snaps him from his coma?

Well, that’s the way it would go if I were writing that book.

But this wasn't a book, and I sure as heck didn't write it.

He was dead. No tidy, heroic endings here.

Deep breath. I’m going in.

To be continued …

Our first and last meeting

Dad’s Funeral, Part 3
Heading to visitation, Friday afternoon

On the 10-mile drive from Mom’s in Livermore, Ky., to the funeral home in Calhoun, I got more nervous the closer I got.

I passed my high school, the one and only in our county. It was there, in November 1993, that I met my father for the first time in the parking lot after my basketball scrimmage. I was 17.

And it was there, midcourt during halftime of a boys basketball game just two months later, that I would see him for the last time.

We spoke briefly about why he had stood me up for the Get to Know Each Other Dinner we had planned during our initial meeting two months before, and then we were on our way.

Sixteen-and-a-half years ago, and I never saw him again.

What a shame, I thought, as I pulled into the funeral home parking lot on Friday afternoon.

I sat in the back of the lot, watching people park their cars and walk inside to comfort the family and pay their respects.

All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. And my stomach still hurt.

Why was this happening? Why was I here? Why in the hell had he not made more of an effort?

Holy shit, I COULDN’T BREATHE.

From the time I had learned of Dad’s motorcycle crash until his death a little over a week later, I prayed for a happy ending.

Maybe he would need an organ transplant, I thought. And being as I’m his only blood child (his son is adopted), they’d have to contact me.

And I’d come to the rescue and give him a kidney or whatever, and he’d recover and thank me and love me and be my son’s Granddaddy, and we’d all live happily ever after.

Or his son would get the email I sent him in the final two days of our dad’s life and accept my offer to travel to Nashville and talk to him to help wake him from his coma.

Can you imagine? I save his life with a part of my body or be the voice that snaps him from his coma?

Well, that’s the way it would go if I were writing that book.

But this wasn't a book, and I sure as heck didn't write it.

He was dead. No tidy, heroic endings here.

Deep breath. I’m going in.

To be continued …

Conclusions on a country road

Dad’s Funeral, Part 2
Friday, mid-afternoon

After driving nine hours home to Kentucky from Michigan by myself on Thursday, I was exhausted.

Let's be honest: I've been exhausted since I was in Kentucky just a month ago. And really, I feel like I haven't slept well in years.

On this day, Friday, I had woken up several times in the morning but welcomed the chance to go back to sleep when I realized that today was visitation day at the funeral home for the father I barely knew.

I continued this wake-up-then-be-overcome-by-dread-then-nearly-panic-and-finally-fall-back-asleep pattern until Mom came into my room to tell me it was noon.

I rolled over and picked up my phone. I had missed a call from Candace and text messages from Tifany and Tara.

Funny, I'm 34 years old. I've made many friends since moving away to college and then in my 11 years in Michigan.

Yet three friends from childhood were the ones checking in on me on this most grueling and awkward of days.

During lunch, between Mom’s “crunch, chew, chews,” I looked at Friday's local newspaper. That contributed significantly to the aforementioned irritability and sadness.

After such a great phone conversation with my dad’s son on Wednesday night, I had held a smidge of hope that Dad's obit was reprinted on this day after the one that ran Thursday failed to mention me as a survivor.

No such luck.

And then I made the mistake of reading my horoscope.

"It's one of those days when the people you try to please the most are likely to be the least appreciative of your gestures. You can't be all things to all people, so don't even try."

Well, son of a bitch.

All the way home, I had wondered what exactly my purpose was for driving nearly 600 miles for this funeral, beyond the unlikely chance for closure.

"If I don’t know what I'm looking for, how will I know when I've found it?" I posted to my Facebook while driving down I-75.

I came to a few conclusions over the next few hours of that drive.

One: The peace, if any, found this weekend may not be my own.

Crap.

Come on, God. Could I really be driving 600 miles for someone else's peace? Please don't let that be the case. After 34 years, don't I deserve the peace?

Two: I don't want anyone to go to the funeral home with me. I've had plenty of offers from family and friends, but I don't want to go there with a group of supporters. I don't want to turn this into a production about me. This is not about me.

This visitation and funeral are for Dad’s "real" family. The ones who have known him and loved him all their lives, and who are hurting and mourning. The last thing they need is the long-lost daughter showing up and stealing the spotlight.

Wait, is there a spotlight at a funeral? Well, if so, I don't want it on me.

Yet, I would take a little acknowledgement. I didn't get it all my life. I didn’t get it in Dad’s obit. And I can pretty much expect I won't get it in the funeral service on Saturday, either.

Sigh. What the hell am I doing here?

And that horoscope? Jesus. What if it's about my dad's wife? What if I'm somehow subconsciously hoping to make her feel better in all this, and yet she turns out to be the one who is "least appreciative of my gestures?"

Plus, who at the funeral home will know I'm his daughter? Who won’t? How much more awkward could this be?

My stomach hurts.

But I have to go get ready. Visitation starts in two hours.

To be continued …