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Usually, if she did say anything to me after school, it was sarcastic or biting, but one day, she followed me out and said, “You’re hanging around with nerds and losers. If you stop, the other girls might invite you to something.” She didn’t wait for me to reply. She kept walking to catch up with her friends.
Did I hear right? I wondered. From her tone, it sounded as if she was trying to give me good advice, looking out for my interests. What was she up to now? Had Mr. and Mrs. March come down on her for not being friendlier to me? Had she been promised something if she was? I couldn’t imagine ever trusting her or believing her, and yet there was a part of me that wanted to do just that.
All I should want to do is hate her, I thought. It was easier to hate her when she was so aggressive and arrogant and mean. I hated her for being rich and pretty and popular with her friends, too. However, somehow, no matter how I tried to fight it back, I was beginning to pity her. In her mind, she was losing her father and had already lost her mother. Maybe she was becoming more of an orphan like me.
With all that I was being given materially as well as emotionally now, it was sometimes hard to remember that I was an orphan. One afternoon, whether she had intended it or not, Mrs. March reminded me. As usual, Grover was there to take me home at the end of the school day, but when he opened the rear door for me, I saw Mrs. March sitting there smiling. I was so surprised that I didn’t move.
“Get in, silly,” she said.
I did, and Grover closed the door. Mrs. March had said nothing the night before or at breakfast to indicate that she would be with Grover. I first thought she was on her way back to the mansion and had timed it so she could detour with the limousine to the school, but that wasn’t it.
“I’m taking you to see something,” she said.
“Where?”
“You’ll see very soon. How was your day?”
I showed her a math test I had taken. I had gotten a ninety-eight, and I had an A on my english essay. She looked at it all and widened her smile.
“Mr. March has gotten to where he’s actually bragging about you. I heard him talking to Mrs. Duval yesterday. We’re all very proud of your accomplishments in so short a time, Sasha.”
“Thank you.”
I saw that we were not going in the direction of the mansion.
“Where are we going?” I asked again.
“To see a promise fulfilled,” she replied. “Is it true that you might actually be in the spring concert this year?”
“Mr. Denacio mentioned it, but he didn’t say for sure,” I replied.
She nodded but looked as if she knew something more. “It would be something for a first-year instrumental student to be included in the school’s senior orchestra. I knew the clarinet would come naturally to you.”
I had to admit that I didn’t think I would enjoy playing it as much as I had.
“You deserve your moments of happiness,” she told me. “That’s what today is about.”
She sat back, and we drove on. Soon it became obvious to me where we were heading, and the realization made me tremble in a way I hadn’t for some time. Minutes later, we turned into the cemetery and drove as far as we could before Mrs. March and I had to get out and walk the rest of the way to Mama’s grave. As we drew closer, I realized why she had brought me.
There on the tombstone was the inscription I had wanted. Under Mama’s name and dates, it read, “who showed her daughter a little bit of heaven.” And beneath that was the calligraphy for heaven. It looked just like Mama’s work hanging in the Gravediggers.
Mrs. March stood back and smiled as I stepped up to the stone and touched the engraved words. The engraving certainly made the tombstone special, but as I stood looking at it, I simply couldn’t imagine Mama lying below, shut up in the dark, cool earth. Most of the years we had been together, she had felt trapped, trapped by Daddy’s betrayals and failure to provide for us as well as he should have, trapped after he had deserted us, and then trapped by our terrible fate. She had certainly trapped herself with her drinking, and now death had trapped her. How could I free her?
“Is it like you wanted it?” Mrs. March asked. Without turning, I nodded. “I’ll wait for you in the car, Sasha,” she said, and walked away.
I felt my legs weaken and sat on Mama’s grave with my forehead just touching the cool headstone.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” I whispered. “I haven’t forgotten you. I’ll never forget you, no matter how much they give me or do for me, no matter where I go and what I become. You will always be with me.”
I thought I was going to sit there and cry, but I didn’t. Instead, I tightened up inside with a resolve that made me feel stronger, harder. I took some deep breaths, and then I kissed the tombstone, rose, and started back to the car.
When I got in, Mrs. March said, “I was hoping this would please you and not make you sad, Sasha.”
“Yes, I’m pleased. Thank you, Mrs. March.”
She stared at me a moment, looking a bit hurt. What did she expect me to call her, “Mother”?
“Let’s go home, Grover,” she said, and we drove out of the cemetery.
