In January of the following year, I noticed a name in the obituaries that seemed familiar.

Adela Guadalupe Piñeda
Age 79
Born: Jalisco, Mexico
Died of heart failure

   So that's what she'd been pointing to when she gestured her ailments to me. Skim, skim, skim . . .

Survivors: Daughters: Nellie . . . Barbara . . .
Sons: James . . . John . . . Enrique, Jr.
12 Grandchildren, two great-grandchildren

Viewing & Services: Whitehurst-Mueller Mortuary

Adela Guadalupe. How did they get Santa out of that? Did someone in her family think she was a saint?

    I got out my phone number list and dialed Nellie's number. "This number has been disconnected or is no longer in service . . ."

    I didn't know Nellie's last name, so looking in the phone book wouldn't help. What to do.

    Educators call them teachable moments, but parents look for them too. I knew my children didn't love Mrs. Piñeda, but she was the first person they'd known who died. This would be an opportunity to introduce them to the death industry, the rituals we follow, the protocol, and do it before they had to face it with a loved one.

    "Who wants to go with me to the Mortuary to see Mrs. Piñeda?" I asked, after showing my family the obituary. I tried to sound the same as when I asked, "Who wants to go to Foster's for ice cream?" I looked at my younger son, Oliver. He didn't speak. Instead, his stricken eyes darted back and forth, part of the head that shook from side to side in small jerks. I had phrased the question badly.

    "Who is willing to go to the Mortuary with me to see Mrs. Piñeda?"

    "I'll go," Joel said tentatively, after taking a deep breath.

    The following evening found us on the way to Whitehurst-Mueller. The atmosphere was tense, like waiting for the results of your first driver's test. Joel breathed shallowly for several minutes, then took a long, shaky breath.

    "You okay?"

    "Uh huh."

    "It shouldn't be too bad. She's probably fixed up pretty nicely. They usually do a good job. I haven't seen too many bodies laid out, but . . ." Joel interrupted.

    "What does 'laid out' mean?"

    "It means the body is prepared and lying in the casket."

    "How do they prepare it?"

    "They take all the blood out and inflate the tissue with fluid. That's what I was going to tell you, the skin is usually a little more yellow than it used to be. At least in the bodies that I've seen." We came to a stop at a red light and I glanced at Joel. The color had drained from his face.

    "Uh, okay." I continued. "She'll be in a casket. Do you know what a casket is?" He nodded. The light turned green and we began moving again.

    "Tell me what a casket is." I prodded.

    "It's a box made out of wood and it's big enough for a person to fit in it."

    "That's right, only it isn't always made of wood. Some are metal. Most of them are lined inside with cushiony fabric and a pillow."  

The car was silent. After a few minutes I asked, "Anything else you want to know?" He shook his head. He'd probably heard enough for now.

    Inside, odors engulfed us, the smells of sanitized-death and flowers-carnations, lilies, roses. We roamed through the maze of roped off areas, following the signs to the right viewing room. It was like making your way into a ride at Disneyland, only at the end there weren't any pirates, twirling teacups, or children from many nations singing the same song. Just a dead body in a casket.

    When we found Mrs. Piñeda's viewing room, our steps got slower and smaller. I took Joel's hand. A man and woman blocked our view into the casket, then seeing us, moved to let us nearer, sniffing and dabbing their red eyes as they backed away. We approached and peered into the casket. Mrs. Piñeda's thick white hair was styled neatly into a bun and she wasn't wearing her glasses. Her abdomen looked slim and narrow, not the barrel shape that I remembered. I stared at her face intently, searching for familiarity. Joel hadn't moved a muscle. I leaned down toward him and whispered, "Does that look like her?"

    "No." We stared into the casket again.  

    "That isn't her, is it?"

    "No, Mom. It's not Mrs. Piñeda."

    We eased our way out of the room, passing the remembrance book that we, fortunately, had neglected to sign. Walking more rapidly down the hallway maze, I began to giggle. I covered my mouth with my hand until we made our way outside. Then I burst out laughing. Joel watched me, with yellow-light caution in his eyes. I continued to laugh as we headed toward the parking lot, with Joel staring at me all the way.

    A grieving couple rounded the corner of the building looking somber and sad. As they passed, I turned my head to the side and put my hand over my face as if grief-stricken. I hoped my shaking, laugh-containing shoulders would appear to be controlled sobs. It just seemed inappropriate to laugh in a mortuary. I couldn't help it. What sort of teachable moment did this turn out to be? What kind of mother does this to her child? Nothing to do on a Tuesday night? Bring the family on down to Whitehurst-Mueller Mortuary, where you can wander the halls and browse through the caskets. [10]

    In the car I turned to Joel. "Are you okay? Are you traumatized?

    "No." He looked for my reaction.

    "It's funny, Mom." He laughed uneasily and I burst out laughing again. His look told me: I'm not worried about the Mortuary, Mrs. Piñeda, dead bodies, or even death itself, but I am a little worried about you, Mom. So went his introduction to death.
The next day I stopped by Nellie's house before work. She answered the door looking sullen and distracted.

    "Is your mother. . ." I wanted to say "alive," but instead I said, "home?"

    "She's still asleep. I have to get her up soon. We're going to my Aunt's funeral at 9:30."

    "Does your Aunt also have a daughter named Nellie and a son named John?"

    "Yes." She looked at me.

    "We've seen your Aunt . . ." I told her the story. She laughed weakly. More heartily later. I know she told her mother, because the next time I saw Mrs. Piñeda, she patted my arm and said with a twinkle in her eye, "Thank you for coming to see me." Then she laughed.

    "Yeah, we went to all the trouble of going to Whitehurst-Mueller to see you and you had the nerve not to be there." I teased. She laughed and patted my arm again. [11]

    Had I known this would be the last time I would see her, I would have asked Mrs. Piñeda why everyone called her Santa. I might have even asked her what her first name really was. But I didn't, and to this day I still don't know.

    Six months later, I saw Nellie when I was out walking. She told me her mother had recently passed away. The "real" Mrs. Piñeda had been cremated and there had been no services. [12] We didn't have an opportunity to say goodbye, to visit and view, so to speak. I don't think it mattered, though. I think she felt we had already "paid our respects."

    Rest In Peace, Mrs. Piñeda. . . Both of you.