Remembering Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

been scrubbed away by some people the police had recommended, but still, it was impossible to be there, to sleep there, without feeling Ray’s presence. Stuart, though, had no negative images attached to the town house. Besides, he told her, he would feel closest to Ray there.
    Laura and Emma had been staying in the vacant, above-garage apartment of some friends. As soon as Laura could get things organized, she planned to move Emma and herself out to the lake house. She’d told the Smithsonian and Johns Hopkins she would be taking some time off, sending them scrambling to find replacements for her. She would probably sell the town house. She could not imagine ever living there again.
    Nancy Charles, one of the geologists from the Smithsonian, stopped at Laura’s pew, leaning over to take her hand.
    “I’m so sorry,” Nancy said. “How are you doing?”
    “I’m okay.” Laura tried to smile.
    “You just lost your father, and now dear Ray. It’s not fair.”
    “No,” Laura agreed.
    “How’s Emma?” Nancy asked. “She’s not here, is she?”
    “She’s with a sitter.”
    “Do you need any help with her?”
    “No. Thanks, though,” Laura said. “It’s been rough on her, but she’s hanging in there.”
    John Robbins, a minister who’d worked with Ray in creating programs for the homeless, stepped into the pulpit, and Nancy whispered goodbye. John began to talk, and although Laura struggled to listen, her mind was still on Emma, who had refused to come to the service. All the energy Laura had put into doing everything “right” with Emma after Poppa’s death had drained her, and she had no reserves left to help her daughter cope with this new tragedy. She was angry at Ray for piling a second loss on Emma in such a short time. And, of course, she felt guilty for her anger.
    Emma had not uttered a single word in the four days since Ray’s death. A policewoman had spoken to her the day after it happened, her questioning gentle and sensitive. Emma had sucked her thumb, something she had not done in more than a year, as she stared blankly into the woman’s eyes. She’ll come around, the policewoman assured Laura. Laura should talk to her, she said. Draw Emma’s feelings about the trauma out in the open. But Laura could not get Emma to speak. Not through gentle coaxing, or sharing her own feelings, or even trickery. Emma had lost her voice.
    It was Emma she thought of now, through speaker after speaker, until Stuart finally stood to deliver his eulogy. She found it difficult to look at her brother-in-law as he took his place in the pulpit; his resemblance to Ray was striking. He had Ray’s bulky body, his large, soft chin, straight nose and wire-rimmed glasses. Nearly the only difference was that Stuart still had a full head of dark hair, while Ray had lost much of his.
    “Ray Darrow was a caring brother, a loving husband and father, a dedicated teacher, a volunteer committed to thehomeless, and a writer of uncommon talent,” Stuart said. “He was my only brother, my only family, and he was also my best friend. He was the sort of person you could tell anything to, and he wouldn’t judge you or criticize you. As most of you know, his primary concern was the welfare of others. He was a good man, and the good are often those that suffer the most. Depression had been his enemy all of his life, and he bore frustration poorly. He bore failure poorly. He bore his inability to help others poorly. He wrote a book, No Room at the Inn , a beautiful work of art and compassion he hoped would draw attention to the plight of the homeless and the poor, but no one would publish it. It was decidedly unglamorous. And finally he could take it no more.”
    Stuart bowed his head, and Laura could see that he was struggling for composure. She willed him to find it, even though she was losing it herself. Behind her, she heard sniffling.
    Stuart continued. “Those of you here who are committed to the same causes that so moved