Ethan slept for a little while.
I kept one hand on his shoulder and watched the door.
Laura's mother had closed her eyes too, though I wasn't sure she was asleep.
The funeral director remained across the room.
After a few minutes, he came over and spoke quietly.
“Michael, may I sit here?”
I nodded toward the empty chair.
He sat down.
For a moment, he looked at Ethan.
“He's had a very difficult day.”
“Yes,” I said. “He has.”
The funeral director folded his hands.
“I want you to know that the arrangements were made according to the information provided to us.”
I understood why he was telling me.
He wanted me to know that he had followed the required process.
I wasn't accusing him of doing otherwise.
“I understand.”
“When you raised your concern earlier, I didn't know what else to tell you.”
“You told me what you understood.”
He looked relieved, but only a little.
“I hope the medical team can give you a clear explanation.”
“So do I.”
He glanced toward the door.
“Until then, we have to let them finish.”
I nodded.
That was the part I understood best now.
I couldn't make the assessment go faster by watching the door.
I couldn't make the answer clearer by asking the same question again.
I could only wait for the people responsible for the examination to finish their work.
Still, I needed to talk.
Not because I expected the funeral director to solve anything, but because the thoughts inside my head had become difficult to carry alone.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Of course.”
“When I mentioned Laura's hand this morning, did you think I was imagining it?”
He considered the question.
“No. I thought you were noticing something that had an explanation related to the preparations.”
“And you still think that?”
“I can't determine what it means medically. That's not my role.”
I appreciated that he didn't pretend otherwise.
He continued.
“I know the explanation I gave you seemed reasonable at the time. But the medical team needs to assess the present concerns independently.”
I looked down at Ethan.
“I should have asked more questions.”
The funeral director was quiet for a moment.
“You were grieving your wife.”
“So was everybody else.”
“Yes,” he said. “But you were also trying to take care of your son.”
I wanted to argue that I should have noticed something.
I wanted to hold myself responsible for every uncertainty.
But I knew that wasn't fair.
I had relied on the doctors' confirmation because I believed they had the necessary knowledge.
I had relied on the funeral director because I believed he understood the arrangements.
I had done what most people would do when faced with a death they couldn't explain themselves.
I had trusted the professionals.
The fact that we were now seeking another assessment did not automatically mean someone had acted carelessly.
It meant the situation required more examination.
I had to keep those things separate.
“I don't want anyone blamed without knowing what happened,” I said.
“Neither do I.”
“I just want the truth.”
He nodded.
“That's what everyone needs.”
He stood and returned to his place.
I watched him go.
Then I looked at the clock.
Time had become strange.
I couldn't tell whether the afternoon was moving quickly or slowly.
Every time I checked, the hands seemed to have advanced farther than I expected.
Ethan stirred.
I brushed his hair away from his forehead.
He opened his eyes.
“Did I sleep long?”
“Not very long.”
“Did they find anything?”
I hesitated.
“They're still working.”
He sat up and looked around.
His grandmother opened her eyes and reached for him.
He accepted her embrace, then moved back beside me.
“Dad, I remember something.”
I turned toward him.
“What is it?”
“When Mommy called my name, I was listening to everybody.”
He spoke slowly, as if trying to make sure I understood.
“There were lots of people talking, but I knew it was her.”
I didn't interrupt.
“I thought she was calling me from somewhere nearby.”
He looked at the floor.
“Then everybody kept saying goodbye.”
I felt a chill move through me.
I couldn't know whether the voice he remembered had any connection to the medical finding.
I couldn't tell him that it did.
But I could hear how clearly he remembered the experience.
“Did you tell anyone then?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I tried to tell you.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
“I know.”
“I didn't want you to be sadder.”
I looked at him.
“Ethan, you never have to keep something important from me just because you think it might upset me.”
He studied my face.
“Even if it's bad?”
“Even then.”
He nodded slowly.
I held his hand.
I couldn't change the fact that he had felt alone with his concern.
But I could make sure he understood that telling me had been the right thing to do.
The funeral director glanced toward us but didn't approach.
Laura's mother reached over and placed her hand on Ethan's shoulder.
For a few moments, we sat together without speaking.
I thought about the many things I had said to Ethan during the past three days.
I had told him that his mother was gone.
I had told him that he could cry.
I had told him that he could ask questions.
But I had also tried to make the situation understandable before I was ready to admit how little I understood myself.
That was my mistake.
I had confused comforting him with explaining everything.
Sometimes those were different things.
I looked at the door.
Whatever the medical team found, I would need to listen carefully.
I would need to let them explain what they knew and what they did not know.
And I would need to help Ethan understand the difference between a question and an answer.
For now, the question remained open.
The assessment continued.
We waited.
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: When Ethan Asked Me to Remember His Mother’s Voice, I Realized How Much I Had Been Trying Not to Remember
My Son Asked Me to Question the One Thing I Thought I Had Already Accepted
Part 14 of 24
