Disposition of Remains Page 30

  I had planned my demise to perfection, every last detail—and it went off without a hitch. Wilbur took Sandro and I back to our home in Ash Fork, Arizona. Irma even made her first trip away from Havasupai for the occasion. I said goodbye to my loved ones one by one, then peacefully went to sleep, only to awaken in my new realm.

  Wilbur hadn’t forgotten our conversation of more than twenty-one years prior, but since we were never legally married, I had to burden my son with the chore of scattering my ashes. After my cremation, Sandro and Wilbur took me first to Havasupai.

  If you have cancer, it turns out, they won’t accept any of your organs for donation.

  Even though I would miss my son in the flesh tremendously, I was eager to join my parents in the beautiful blue-green waters. I hadn’t spoken to my mother in decades. When I would see my grandfather in my dreams—while I was still living—I would sometimes see my mother dancing happily with her people, but she’d never spoken to me.

  Years ago, when I’d asked Irma why that was, she’d explained, “The spirits of your ancestors are here to give you guidance. Your mother feels that she spent enough time telling you what to do in life, and now it’s her time to just be quiet.”

  Wilbur and Irma stood with Sandro and released part of me into Havasu Falls to forever be with my family. All at once, I could feel the thrill of my first kiss with Wilbur there; I could feel the presence of my grandfather; I could feel the love between my mother and father; and I could feel the spirits of the elders going through me.

  The next day, Wilbur and Sandro boarded a plane and took my tiny urn to Florence. It was adorned with the chain that I had purchased in Florence with the charm that Sister Constance had given me years before from the Ognissanti. The Medaglia Miracolosa, or Miraculous Medal, that represented the special graces I’d received through the intercession of Mary at the hour of my death.

  Before she died, Sister Constance had asked Sister Josephine to carry out my wishes if need be. Sister Josephine was now in her nineties.

  We arrived just as the sun’s light had begun to wane from the windows of the Ognissanti—Wilbur and Sandro, and me in my urn. Sandro asked Wilbur if he could speak to Sister Josephine alone. He approached her with my urn in hand.

  “Sister Josephine.”

  “Ah, yes, Sandro, my son. So good to see you again. How are you?” she asked as her eyes dropped down to his hands and she saw me. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Sister Josephine. My mother died peacefully and content. She was ready to go. I’ve brought her to you so place her by Botticelli.”

  “Yes,” she agreed with a gentle nod. “Let me first close the doors.”

  She locked up the Ognissanti to visitors, then reached out her hands to Sandro. He handed me over to Sister Josephine and watched as she gingerly placed my urn atop The Master’s marble gravestone.

  “Sister Josephine?”

  “Yes, Sandro.”

  “My mother and Sister Constance were very close.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Sister Constance told her something and made her promise never to tell you.”

  “Really?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “My mother really felt that you should know, but she didn’t want to break her promise.” Sandro said nervously. “But I know she would want me to tell you the secret. She knew what it would mean for you to know.”

  “Oh? What is it?”

  “You see, Sister Constance was your biological mother,” poor Sandro said gingerly, then cringed, waiting for her to throw herself on the floor in grief due to the blasphemy of it all.

  “Yes, I know,” she replied with a chuckle.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, I’ve always known. Everyone here knew. You really can’t keep something like that a secret,” she laughed. “She raised me like I was her own, and I was. There was nothing to be gained by ruining what she thought was her little secret. She is with God now and I believe that He understands her.”

  Now that my world was free from secrets, I could finally be at peace.

  CHAPTER 45

  And now my days are full. As soon as the last visitor leaves the Ognissanti, Sister Josephine places me upon The Master’s grave. I spend my nights with Botticelli, basking in the last shred of light peeking in through the vaulted windows of the Ognissanti.

  I also make time to appear in the dreams of my loved ones from the blue-green waters of Havasupai. I am more content in death than many are in life. It was time.

  Dedication

  This book, like any other, was an extremely collaborative effort. First of all, I want to give thanks to Teresa Zazueta-Garcia for spending countless nights reading and rereading my early drafts and for providing insight into the Native American world—preventing Stacia from being a “dumb Indian.”

  Thank you to my husband James, for letting me read my book aloud at inappropriate times and for being there for me every step of the way.

  Thank you to my father for being a good sport about his namesake character and giving me “constructive criticism.”

  Thank you to my story editor, Peter Hunziker, and to my copy editor, Avery Auer for such hard work and dedication and for putting up with the fact that I am not always a great listener.

  Thank you to Melissa Hess for always listening to me ramble endlessly about this and everything else for the last 30 years.