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Page 45
Colin doesn’t know if he could do that. He doesn’t think he could ever give Lucy up.
He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Maggie responds, her voice deep with sadness. “You’ll get there. You’ll find that point. Maybe it will be the first time she’s gone for more than a month. Maybe it will be that time she comes home for an hour and then is gone again for days. Or maybe she’ll get her way and you’ll do her dirty work for her.”
He can hardly process what she’s saying, but forces himself to speak anyway. “Did he disappear for good?”
Her eyes close, and a few tears escape. “I don’t know.”
“But when did you last see him?”
“Pretty soon after he came back. There were stories, always have been. I didn’t figure out till later that the dead around here are bound by the gates. I . . . stopped looking.” She straightens, shaking her head and reaching for a tissue in the front pocket of her scrubs. “I don’t know what takes more strength. Staying through it or letting him go. I don’t know. I just don’t.”
A phone rings somewhere and the bubble pops; the bleak light seems to give way again to bright fluorescent and echoing silence.
She walks past him, returning to nurse mode and telling him to take care, but he stops her with a hug, thanking her, squeezing her tight.
The entire way to Hillcrest Cemetery, Colin reminds himself that seeing Lucy’s tombstone is not the same thing as seeing Lucy. But he’s got a lot to talk out, and right now, she’s the only one he knows will understand it all.
He parks and steps onto a trail that leads through stretches of manicured lawn, which, in the coming months, will shift from sleeping brown to vibrant and green. He looks down a familiar narrow path through a thatch of bare, spindly trees. The graves that way lie under an enormous oak tree; the earth is covered with acorns in the fall and dappled sunshine in the summer. Even when the sun is shining and the grass is brilliant and alive, Colin feels a strange vacuum there. He hasn’t been down that trail—the one that leads to his parents’ and sister’s graves—in more than two years.
But the pull to find Lucy is different; it’s a hot urgency in his chest. Following the map, he continues straight and turns at a fork, to a plot sectioned off from the others and surrounded by an iron fence. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find, but his heart beats heavier in his chest with each step, his boots making squelching sounds in the soggy ground.
He matches the markers to the map as he goes: Mary Jorgey Stevenson, loving wife, mother, sister. 1923–1984 Jeremiah Hansen, our father. 1901–1976
Harry Hawkins, cherished son. 1975–1987
Names, words, dates. Entire lives summed up in a few
lines. And then, in a wide plot encircled with a crooked ornate gate, is a single headstone. It seems strange to see her alone, set away from the other graves. But he realizes the spaces next to her must be empty, waiting for her parents. He stands, hands clenched into fists at his sides, eyes moving over the simple script, the delicate flowers etched deep into polished granite. His fingers itch to touch the letters of her name, to see if they feel as real as she did, to see if there’s any of her left here at all.
“Hey,” he says to the slab of stone. “‘Lucia Rain Gray. 1981 to1998. Beloved daughter and friend.’” He feels irrationally angry at the generic memorial on her tombstone, letting out a few choice curse words before glancing behind him. Still alone, though he’s sure he could be heard from clear across the hillside. “Seriously? I think they could have done better than that.”
He shoves his frozen hands deep into his pockets and looks out over the other graves. The cemetery seems to stretch on for miles. There are no trees, no buildings, nothing to stop the wind from tearing through this side, blowing dried flowers down the hillside and away from the intended recipients. It’s brutal and cold but eerily silent. Colin sits down on the damp, scratchy grass covering her grave.
“There was a dance last night,” he says. “Jay took Amanda.” He smiles, knowing exactly how Lucy would react. “I’d been planning on asking you, but . . .” He picks up a stone and turns it over in his hand. The bottom is wet and looks like shiny onyx, but the top is dry and almost white in the light. It’s strange how water can make a simple rock look like a gem on one side and like a slab of concrete on the other. Just like the lake.
“This is my first time on this side of the cemetery, and yeah, it’s creepy. You know my parents are right over there? How weird is that? I had a family plot already waiting for me when they buried you.” Colin shakes his head, and a chill makes its way beneath the layers of his clothes. “They weren’t kidding about cemeteries being creepy. You’d think they’d feel full of ghosts and death, but they just feel empty. That’s the weirdest part, to be in a place that feels completely hollow and deserted. Why would anyone stick around here? What’s there to see? No wonder you decided to come back on a trail with trees and water and . . .” He trails off again, eyes lifting to the ominous white sky. There’s a patch right above where the clouds have drifted apart, and it seems like a vortex where he can imagine souls are sucked up and away.
“Is it strange that I’m glad I was the one who saw him . . . ? I mean, I don’t remember any of it, and I know this sounds all kinds of wrong, but I like that I saw him take you. I want to feel like him getting caught that night made a difference. The universe owes you, Lucy. You deserve to come back.”
He clears his throat, taking a much-needed breath to soothe the knot in his stomach. “So, I realize I’m talking to myself. You’re not here, in the dust and the grass and the air, because if you were, you would have figured out how to create a body from all of that. I know where you are, though. Is it weird that I think these people in this cemetery are really gone but can’t accept that you are? Like, I’ve never said a word at my mom’s grave, because what’s the point? She left a long time ago. You know I hardly remember her face?” He shrugs, tossing the rock to the ground. “But not you. I remember every one of your smiles, and I spent probably a half hour last night trying to picture the expression you make when you’re braiding your hair. I know how you grip a pencil and that you cross your right leg over your left and almost never the other way around. And I know where you are, Lucy. I’ve never felt like anyone was waiting for me before, not my sister or my mom or my dad. It’s only ever been you.”
He stares down at the dead grass near his legs and picks out a single blade. The root is tender and green even if the exposed section is dried and yellow. Beneath the ground, it was still alive.
“I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to figure out how this happened, and I think I understand it now. I shouldn’t be here. Dot’s told me that enough times—joked that I have nine lives—but I never thought about it that much, you know? I should have died with my family—and at least a dozen times after that. Even the quarry didn’t scare me. When I fell and broke my arm? For the first time ever, I thought, that’s it. This is the end. But it wasn’t. You’d been watching me, waiting, and I think that thought was enough to finally bring you here. If it wasn’t over for me, it’s not over for you either. We’re connected in a way that no one else is. I didn’t let the man who killed you get away with murder, and you came back because you knew how much I’d lost.”
He drops the blade of grass and runs his hand over the other yellowed blades, still firmly rooted in the soil. “I guess what I’m saying is that I hope you’re waiting for me, Lucy. Because this time, I’m taking you through the gate, not the other way around.”
Chapter 35 HER
LUCY TAKES A BREATH AND BLOWS IT OUT, HER eyes opening to the bright yellow glare of the infirmary hallway.
No voices come from any of the rooms, and panic seizes her immediately; she’s disappeared again.
How long has it been?
She stands, moving silently toward the closest doorway. When she peeks in the room, she finds Colin asleep on his side. Her relief is a warm, tangible thing. A tangle of tubes dives down underneath the blankets, and only a tuft of hair is visible outside the bundle. She feels like she can finally breathe again, knowing he’s well enough to be here and no longer at the hospital.
He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Maggie responds, her voice deep with sadness. “You’ll get there. You’ll find that point. Maybe it will be the first time she’s gone for more than a month. Maybe it will be that time she comes home for an hour and then is gone again for days. Or maybe she’ll get her way and you’ll do her dirty work for her.”
He can hardly process what she’s saying, but forces himself to speak anyway. “Did he disappear for good?”
Her eyes close, and a few tears escape. “I don’t know.”
“But when did you last see him?”
“Pretty soon after he came back. There were stories, always have been. I didn’t figure out till later that the dead around here are bound by the gates. I . . . stopped looking.” She straightens, shaking her head and reaching for a tissue in the front pocket of her scrubs. “I don’t know what takes more strength. Staying through it or letting him go. I don’t know. I just don’t.”
A phone rings somewhere and the bubble pops; the bleak light seems to give way again to bright fluorescent and echoing silence.
She walks past him, returning to nurse mode and telling him to take care, but he stops her with a hug, thanking her, squeezing her tight.
The entire way to Hillcrest Cemetery, Colin reminds himself that seeing Lucy’s tombstone is not the same thing as seeing Lucy. But he’s got a lot to talk out, and right now, she’s the only one he knows will understand it all.
He parks and steps onto a trail that leads through stretches of manicured lawn, which, in the coming months, will shift from sleeping brown to vibrant and green. He looks down a familiar narrow path through a thatch of bare, spindly trees. The graves that way lie under an enormous oak tree; the earth is covered with acorns in the fall and dappled sunshine in the summer. Even when the sun is shining and the grass is brilliant and alive, Colin feels a strange vacuum there. He hasn’t been down that trail—the one that leads to his parents’ and sister’s graves—in more than two years.
But the pull to find Lucy is different; it’s a hot urgency in his chest. Following the map, he continues straight and turns at a fork, to a plot sectioned off from the others and surrounded by an iron fence. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find, but his heart beats heavier in his chest with each step, his boots making squelching sounds in the soggy ground.
He matches the markers to the map as he goes: Mary Jorgey Stevenson, loving wife, mother, sister. 1923–1984 Jeremiah Hansen, our father. 1901–1976
Harry Hawkins, cherished son. 1975–1987
Names, words, dates. Entire lives summed up in a few
lines. And then, in a wide plot encircled with a crooked ornate gate, is a single headstone. It seems strange to see her alone, set away from the other graves. But he realizes the spaces next to her must be empty, waiting for her parents. He stands, hands clenched into fists at his sides, eyes moving over the simple script, the delicate flowers etched deep into polished granite. His fingers itch to touch the letters of her name, to see if they feel as real as she did, to see if there’s any of her left here at all.
“Hey,” he says to the slab of stone. “‘Lucia Rain Gray. 1981 to1998. Beloved daughter and friend.’” He feels irrationally angry at the generic memorial on her tombstone, letting out a few choice curse words before glancing behind him. Still alone, though he’s sure he could be heard from clear across the hillside. “Seriously? I think they could have done better than that.”
He shoves his frozen hands deep into his pockets and looks out over the other graves. The cemetery seems to stretch on for miles. There are no trees, no buildings, nothing to stop the wind from tearing through this side, blowing dried flowers down the hillside and away from the intended recipients. It’s brutal and cold but eerily silent. Colin sits down on the damp, scratchy grass covering her grave.
“There was a dance last night,” he says. “Jay took Amanda.” He smiles, knowing exactly how Lucy would react. “I’d been planning on asking you, but . . .” He picks up a stone and turns it over in his hand. The bottom is wet and looks like shiny onyx, but the top is dry and almost white in the light. It’s strange how water can make a simple rock look like a gem on one side and like a slab of concrete on the other. Just like the lake.
“This is my first time on this side of the cemetery, and yeah, it’s creepy. You know my parents are right over there? How weird is that? I had a family plot already waiting for me when they buried you.” Colin shakes his head, and a chill makes its way beneath the layers of his clothes. “They weren’t kidding about cemeteries being creepy. You’d think they’d feel full of ghosts and death, but they just feel empty. That’s the weirdest part, to be in a place that feels completely hollow and deserted. Why would anyone stick around here? What’s there to see? No wonder you decided to come back on a trail with trees and water and . . .” He trails off again, eyes lifting to the ominous white sky. There’s a patch right above where the clouds have drifted apart, and it seems like a vortex where he can imagine souls are sucked up and away.
“Is it strange that I’m glad I was the one who saw him . . . ? I mean, I don’t remember any of it, and I know this sounds all kinds of wrong, but I like that I saw him take you. I want to feel like him getting caught that night made a difference. The universe owes you, Lucy. You deserve to come back.”
He clears his throat, taking a much-needed breath to soothe the knot in his stomach. “So, I realize I’m talking to myself. You’re not here, in the dust and the grass and the air, because if you were, you would have figured out how to create a body from all of that. I know where you are, though. Is it weird that I think these people in this cemetery are really gone but can’t accept that you are? Like, I’ve never said a word at my mom’s grave, because what’s the point? She left a long time ago. You know I hardly remember her face?” He shrugs, tossing the rock to the ground. “But not you. I remember every one of your smiles, and I spent probably a half hour last night trying to picture the expression you make when you’re braiding your hair. I know how you grip a pencil and that you cross your right leg over your left and almost never the other way around. And I know where you are, Lucy. I’ve never felt like anyone was waiting for me before, not my sister or my mom or my dad. It’s only ever been you.”
He stares down at the dead grass near his legs and picks out a single blade. The root is tender and green even if the exposed section is dried and yellow. Beneath the ground, it was still alive.
“I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to figure out how this happened, and I think I understand it now. I shouldn’t be here. Dot’s told me that enough times—joked that I have nine lives—but I never thought about it that much, you know? I should have died with my family—and at least a dozen times after that. Even the quarry didn’t scare me. When I fell and broke my arm? For the first time ever, I thought, that’s it. This is the end. But it wasn’t. You’d been watching me, waiting, and I think that thought was enough to finally bring you here. If it wasn’t over for me, it’s not over for you either. We’re connected in a way that no one else is. I didn’t let the man who killed you get away with murder, and you came back because you knew how much I’d lost.”
He drops the blade of grass and runs his hand over the other yellowed blades, still firmly rooted in the soil. “I guess what I’m saying is that I hope you’re waiting for me, Lucy. Because this time, I’m taking you through the gate, not the other way around.”
Chapter 35 HER
LUCY TAKES A BREATH AND BLOWS IT OUT, HER eyes opening to the bright yellow glare of the infirmary hallway.
No voices come from any of the rooms, and panic seizes her immediately; she’s disappeared again.
How long has it been?
She stands, moving silently toward the closest doorway. When she peeks in the room, she finds Colin asleep on his side. Her relief is a warm, tangible thing. A tangle of tubes dives down underneath the blankets, and only a tuft of hair is visible outside the bundle. She feels like she can finally breathe again, knowing he’s well enough to be here and no longer at the hospital.
