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Everything is a jumbled, chaotic mess.
“Hey, look...” She pulls her phone from her pocket, one hand still on my shoulder like she thinks I’ll run away. “I have to call work and let them know I’ll be late. Go change. Into something warm.”
I’m so relieved she’s not leaving that I do exactly as she says; I might even overkill, with a beanie, gloves, and the faux-fur-lined boots I got two years ago for Christmas.
When I come back out to the living room, my mom sits on the couch with her jacket folded over her lap. “Ready?” she asks, standing up.
I sniff again. “I don’t know. Maybe?”
“We’re taking a walk.” She throws the jacket on and zips it up to her chin.
“Is this where you take me into the woods and murder me so you can save some change on a single-bedroom apartment?”
“Too late for that; the lease has already been signed.”
She nudges me out the door with a smile and we head right onto the sidewalk. I don’t know where we’re going—I just assume we’re getting some fresh air—until we turn onto Richard Street and head toward a small cemetery a few blocks away.
I stop.
Over her shoulder, she says to me, “No. Come on. Let’s go.”
I haven’t been here since her funeral, even though her grave is only a few minutes’ walk from a place I am every single day. It kind of makes me feel bad. Like, just to consider how lonely I’ve been. She must be even lonelier.
I’m not someone who believes in heaven or hell, and I know my grandma isn’t here anymore, but I still feel ashamed that I haven’t come to visit her.
Selfish.How am I any better than Corrine if I avoid things that make me uncomfortable, too? I tiptoed around all the Holden stuff at the beginning because I didn’t want the conflict. I didn’t visit my grandmother I insisted I missed so much when she’s been just a moment away.
We wind our way through the graves and I’m careful not to step on anything that’s obviously the final resting site for someone, and stop in front of my grandma’s.
There are flowers here. Fresh ones. I glance at my mom, tears welling in my eyes again despite the cold. A wind blows her hair across her face.
“Do you come here?” I ask in a weak voice.
My grandma was well-liked and well-known around town, but someone would have to be pretty close with her to leave flowers. I can’t imagine any of her students did, since most of them are too young to fully understand why they weren’t going to the Easy Easel anymore.
“Every other Tuesday.”Tuesday. The day she died.She wipes at her nose. “Hey, Mom.”
I face the headstone and whisper, “H-hi.” Then I burst intonervous laughter. “This feels so stupid.”
“It helps me,” my mom says seriously.
“I need her to talk back.” I bite my bottom lip. “To tell me what to do.”
“You know who would do a really good job at that?”
I lean against her shoulder, my eyes scanning the smooth stone in front of us. “Atherapist, I know.”
“I could go with you, if you want. Or I could keep doing this. You could come here with me.” She lays her head against mine and wraps an arm around my back. “Whatever works for you. We’ll make it work for you.”
I don’t want to argue about money, about how that therapist visit could be groceries for the week. Not when I’m so low. Not when we’re in front of my grandma’s grave. She would scold the shit out of us if we argued about money in a graveyard.
It sounds like a setup to a joke, and the image of it has me laughing. “Grandma would make me go to therapy.”
“It wouldn’t even be a choice.”
“I... I want to talk.”
My mom pulls away and nods, her attention on my chilled face. “It doesn’t have to be a weekly thing. We’ll go at your pace.”
