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Was it wrong, to consider that time in the treehouse as sacred as the sunrise service they attended Easter morning?
She hoped not, because it kept coming back into her head as she stood next to her mother on the lawn outside their church. They’d set up an altar for the pastors. Behind it was a cemetery, a field of headstones planted on a carpet of green grass. Paved pathways wound among them. Hints of the sun were already evident in the sky’s rose and gray tones.
Brick stood on Les’s left. Thomas was on the other side of their mother, aligned with Marcus and Daralyn. Rory sat in his chair at his wife’s side, her hand on his shoulder, his clasped over it.
“Good morning,” Reverend Mueller said. Father Antonucci, their Catholic pastor, stood at his right, the town’s Methodist pastor, Father Royal, at his left. Father Antonucci looked a little tired, since he’d celebrated the Easter Vigil and Mass, but the smile and warmth he exuded was genuine, appreciative of the many community members who’d left their beds to greet the dawn.
A decade ago, the Baptist church pastor, Reverend West, had passed away suddenly from a heart attack. There was no assistant pastor, and though other church members could step in to provide sermon material while a new pastor was being chosen, Easter was a different matter. Because Fairhope was such a close community, they’d asked Father Antonucci and Father Royal if either of them would be willing to offer a sunrise service, a one-time thing.
They’d decided to do it together and hold it here, behind the Catholic church. While a small church, it had the biggest outside lawn area, plus the east-facing cemetery and forest backdrop made it a serene spot.
The event had been so well-received by the whole town, there’d been a resulting uptick in attendance at all three churches. As such, when the new Baptist pastor, Reverend Mueller, was installed, he and Fathers Antonucci and Royal decided to make it an annual tradition.
“Good morning,” Reverend Mueller said. He was in his thirties, with thin blond hair and kind blue eyes. “He is risen.”
“He is risen,” a wave of voices responded.
Les blinked back unexpected tears. Emotions gripped her, painful and bittersweet.
Brick touched her back, a question. She nodded, confirming she was all right. But as Reverend Mueller started the service, the emphasis on rebirth, renewal and resurrection kept her mind linked to what had brought her home. Including the wound her heart and soul still carried, the shadow of Llanzo’s death, his mother’s heartbreak.
She couldn’t be a good doctor, here or anywhere, if her mind was clouded and dogged by a guilt that sliced her open every time it turned in that direction. Right now, when she couldn’t find sufficient distraction, those feelings were a black hole, the gravity of it pulling her in. As long as they did that, she couldn’t even consider what moving forward as a medical student would look like.
She could leave school, come home. Work in the community in another way. Help her mother, help Rory and Daralyn at the store. Before entering medical school, she had gushed to Dr. Spring about her desire to work in his medical practice and primary care clinic. His warm but qualified response made more sense now.
“I would welcome you here with open arms, Les. But if things change, don’t deny yourself the chance to pursue other opportunities. Just keep me informed.”
She hadn’t seen him in this assembly today, but since it was one of the largest town get-togethers, just behind the Christmas and Fall Harvest festivals, it was very likely they wouldn’t cross paths. She could avoid the “how are things going” question.
She noticed Rory glancing at her. Her expression must be strained, and Brick’s protective body language was reinforcing it. When she offered a reassuring smile, her brother gave her a considering look but nodded back. He returned his gaze to the front.
Father Antonucci was taking his turn at the altar. Gripping Brick’s hand at her waist, Les resolved to keep herself in the here and now.
After the service concluded, it was time for another Easter tradition—visiting her father’s grave. The church cemetery had been filled some time ago, the most recent headstones dating to the early 1900s. Her father was buried in Fairhope Memorial Garden, a couple miles away.
Marcus held the passenger door for Elaine so she could get into his convertible Mercedes. Thomas got into the back, while Brick and Les rode with Rory and Daralyn in Rory’s hand-control operated van.
They didn’t say much on the short ride. Daralyn rested a hand on Rory’s thigh as he drove. Higher up, because the only sensation Rory had in his legs was toward the tops of his thighs. She touched him where he could feel it.
Les knew the comfort of that. Her hand was firmly clasped in Brick’s, resting on the seat between them. After another glance at her, he shifted to put that hand around her shoulder again. As she molded herself naturally to his side, she caught Rory’s glance in the rearview mirror, but he didn’t tease her.
She was fine. Everything was fine. Even if her stomach got tighter as they pulled into the cemetery.
Rory parked behind the Mercedes. Thomas was holding the door open for his mother. Elaine had brought a bouquet of early spring blooms from her flower garden. The cut stems had been carefully wrapped in a wet towel so there’d be no wilting. Daralyn had done the same with flowers from her own garden.
After Rory came down his ramp, Brick helped pack it away and closed the van door. The family reunited at the cemetery entrance, flanked by lilac bushes. They stayed close together, even as Elaine took the lead, holding Thomas’s arm with Marcus just behind. They walked without much conversation along the paved walking path. Old oaks, crepe myrtles, dogwoods and red bud trees were generously scattered across the grounds, most of them budding or flowering, bringing the scents of early spring.
She and Brick followed the procession, her hand folded in the crook of his elbow. The handful of years since her father’s passing wasn’t enough to dispel the sharpness of the ache, all the memories that crowded in. They invited in thoughts of more recent losses.
A family plot caught her attention, bringing her to an uncertain halt. Ethel Taylor, a mother who’d passed in her fifties. Her husband Joseph died in his seventies. They’d had six children, three who’d died young. Very young. Two before their first birthday, one just after his second.
Llanzo would likely be buried somewhere like this. A hundred years from now, someone would walk by, see the name. Like her looking at the headstones now, they’d feel sad a child died, but could they imagine everything his death had meant, all that it had touched and destroyed?
Her shoulders began to shake. Oh God, not here. Not now. Today wasn’t about that. But all she could think about was Llanzo’s name on a tombstone like this, his mother standing before it each Easter…
Her knees buckled.
But Brick had her, moving her to a nearby contemplation bench and easing her down on it. He pressed a firm hand to her shoulder. “It’s okay. Take a breath, doc. Don’t move.”
