Chapter Thirty-Three

Tessa

Da’s funeral is held in our church—the one made of gray stone that I used to tell Nana looked like a castle.

“In a way, it is,” she told me.

I never asked her why she said that because my first communion was later that day.

I didn’t talk to Nana about the saints much after that.

She’d often ask if I wanted to sit with her at her altar, the way I used to, and pray to the saints and to the Blessed Mother, but I always said no.

Something held me back after my first communion.

Now I know what it was.

How had I blanked the altercation with the altar boy out of my mind? I haven’t had a chance to talk to my therapist about it. I’ve been busy dealing with Dad’s passing.

Our next session will be a big one.

Mom, Eva, and I sit in the front pew along with Dad’s brother, Uncle Josh, and Mom’s two siblings, Uncle Miggie and Aunt Lily. In my hand, I clutch a small silk bag holding the pearl from the night Ben and I ate at Union Oyster House. Somehow, it helps.

I don’t want to look at the black lacquer casket covered with the white pall and sitting near the altar, but I can’t force my gaze away. Da is in that coffin. My da.

Except not my da.

Only his body.

His body that’s been filled with embalming fluid and dressed in his Sunday best.

I swallow back the nausea.

I nearly lost it during the entrance procession. Why a Catholic funeral has to be such an event is beyond me. I need to say goodbye in my own way.

The priest, Father Johnson, offers scriptural readings and prayers and then gives a short homily about my father. For the first time in forever, I listen to the words spoken in a church.

“We gather here today to remember and celebrate the life of Daniel Logan, devoted husband to Carlotta, loving father to Teresa and Eva, and brother to Joshua. When we mourn the loss of a loved one, it is our faith that provides solace and guidance. Dan’s life was a demonstration of the strength of his faith, and his journey was marked by love, devotion, and unwavering belief in the teachings of our Lord.”

I don’t know Father Johnson. I’ve never seen him before, but he seems to know my father well. As a child, I often heard him say to my mother, “It’s in God’s hands now, Carly.” He’d give his pain and suffering over to God so easily.

Something I can’t do. Don’t want to do.

Murmurs of Amen surround me, but I can’t bring myself to say the word.

“I’d like to invite Dan’s brother, Josh, up to say a few further words.”

My uncle, who looks a lot like my father—same brown hair and blue eyes—rises and walks to the altar.

“Thank you, Father.” He looks at us in the front row. “Carly, Tessa, Eva, family and friends. Today, we gather here to remember my dear brother, Dan, a man of unwavering faith and a source of inspiration for all who knew him. As we reflect on his life, I can’t help but recall some of the wonderful and humorous moments we shared together.

“You see, growing up with Dan wasn’t just about learning the catechism. It was also about learning the art of mischief. Dan had a unique talent for finding adventure in the most unexpected places. I remember one time, when we were kids, we decided to sneak into the church pantry and sample some of the communion wafers. We thought we were being discreet, but Father Doug caught us red-handed. He gave us a lecture we’d never forget about respect for the Eucharist. Dan, being Dan, turned it into a life lesson about the importance of our faith.”

My uncle’s words hit me with the force of a blow to the head. I remember that story. Da told me about it before my first communion. I never thought about it again after…

I never thought much about my first communion again.

Not until now.

What if I had remembered what happened with the altar boy? What if I’d told Mommy and Da? Would Da have lost his faith? Or would he have put it in God’s hands? Would he have confronted the altar boy? Would he have—

My uncle’s voice interrupts my racing mind.

“As we mourn his passing, we remember Dan not just as a devout man but as a loving husband, father, brother, a loyal friend, and someone who could find joy and laughter even in the most challenging moments. He showed us that faith isn’t just about seriousness. It’s about finding joy in the journey, even when the road is rocky.

Those words. It’s almost as if Da is saying them to me. I can even hear his voice inside me.

It’s about finding joy in the journey, angel, even when the road is rocky.

“May his soul rest in eternal peace. Amen.”

“Amen.”

This time I say it, and I remember Da for how he was. His humor, his faith, his love for me, Mommy, and Eva. Even for Nana. She was Mommy’s mother, not his, but he loved her so much.

Communion follows.

It’s been ages since I took communion. Not since high school. And now that I recall what happened before my first communion? I don’t want to have anything to do with it.

But the Eucharist meant a lot to Da. He always said it reminded him that though he was imperfect, he was still able to commune with God by taking a meal with Him.

So I walk to the altar, following Mommy, and I take the wafer and the wine.

For Da.

I do it for Da.

I’m forever grateful when the service is over.

Except now comes the most difficult part.

Watching as my father is lowered into the ground.