The Roses on Ilene’s Casket

“There’s one more thing,” Stan said, and his voice changed a little. “Ilene’s plan includes a spray of red roses for the casket. On her sheet it says from the grandchildren. I ordered it from the florist on Davenport Street like the plan said, and they brought it over this morning.”

“From the grandchildren,” I repeated.

“Nobody has paid for it yet,” Stan said. “I wasn’t going to say anything to the kids. I figured I’d ask Lowell this afternoon. But I thought you might want to know.”

Erin, Mark and Jodi are our three. Erin is 32, Mark is 30, and Jodi is 27, and every one of them loved their Grandma Ilene the way you love a woman who once made you scrub a pan twice and then let you lick the frosting bowl.

“Can you hold those roses for me until this afternoon?” I asked.

“They’re not going anywhere,” Stan said. “Take your time on that road. It’s coming down pretty good up here.”

After I hung up, I checked in the man for his lab draw and the mother with the feverish toddler, because that is the job and the job does not stop when your heart does.

Then I went in the back room and looked at my phone.

The kids had a group text going. They had started it Sunday night when Lowell called them, and I was on it because Erin always added me to everything.

Mark had written on Monday: “We should do flowers from the three of us. Grandma would want that. Can everybody chip in?” Then nothing for a whole day.

Jodi had answered Tuesday morning: “I’m in but can it wait till Friday? Car payment came out and I’m at $41 till payday. Sorry. I hate this.”

Erin had written: “I’m on doubles through Thursday. I’ll call a florist on my break. Somebody remind me.” Then nothing. I knew what a double at the hospital in Wausau looked like. She would not get a break.

Mark had added one more line: “Furnace guy says the heat exchanger is cracked. $3,800. I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure out the flowers.”

I sat on the break room chair and read those messages twice.

My three kids, grown and scattered and stretched thin, every one of them trying to do right by their grandmother and every one of them coming up short by a few days and a few dollars.

I went to my supervisor, Kim, and asked for the afternoon off. She took one look at my face and said, “Go. I’ll cover the desk myself.”

I didn’t tell the kids where I was going. I don’t know exactly why.

I think I didn’t want any of them to feel bad about the flowers, and I didn’t want to explain what their grandmother had written on that planning sheet.

It is 80 miles from Medford to Rhinelander, and in February it feels like more.

I took Highway 64 east to Merrill with the heater on high and the radio on the Wausau station, and then I turned north on 51.

The plows had been out since dawn. There was a county truck ahead of me for a good ten miles throwing sand, and I didn’t try to pass.

The pines on both sides of the road were heavy with snow, and every few miles there was a tavern with three pickups parked out front.

I had driven that road more times than I could count. I drove it as a young wife with Erin in a car seat, and later with all three kids fighting in the back.