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Paloma leans over the grave site; murmuring in her native Spanish, she clears the film of dirt with her fingers before placing the flowers just so. A handful of blooms plucked straight from her garden—bright blossoms of violet and gold that continue to flourish despite the onset of fall.
Her gaze solemn, mouth set, knees pushing into a patch of dried grass, as her long dark braid slips over her shoulder and sweeps the length of the simple, rectangular marker, before she grabs the braid, tames it, turning to me when I ask, “So, is this where he rests?” Regretting the way my words came out much louder than planned.
She shakes her head, eyes fixed on mine, surprising me when she says, “No.”
I cock my head, peer at the grave marker again, ensuring the mistake isn’t mine.
“This is where he was laid to rest. This is where we buried his body. But make no mistake, Daire, he no longer remains in this place.”
I do my best not to balk, but I’m pretty sure I did anyway. You’d think I’d be used to Paloma’s plainspoken ways, but really, it’s just so odd to hear a parent speak about her dead child’s body in such a frank and clinical way.
“Don’t make the mistake of confusing this place with your father.” Her eyes narrow, urging me to listen. “This is not where he lives. If you want to come here to visit, have a place to speak with him, commune with him—if you find that it helps, then by all means, go ahead. It’s perfectly understandable, and I would never move to stop you. But never forget that your father is everywhere. His soul’s been released, unbound from this earth, left to become one with the wind that blows through your hair, the dirt that shifts under your feet. He’s the rain in the storm cloud that hovers over those mountains beyond.” She extends a slim, elegant arm, gesturing toward the beautiful Sangre de Cristo Mountain range
—a wide sweep of navy and gray with a cap of white snow at the top. “He’s the bloom in every flower. He is one with the energy of the earth. He is everywhere you look. Which means you can speak to him here, just as easily as you can speak to him anywhere. And if you go very quiet and listen with care, you just might hear his reply.”
I swallow hard, still caught on the part about my dad being one with the wind, and the dirt, and the rain. Her words reminding me of the dream I had the first night I arrived. The one where I realized that I was an integral part of everything—and not long after that, my true love was dead.
I lean hard on my crutches, my gaze sweeping the length of the graveyard, still unused to the quiet humbleness of this place. In Los Angeles, the cemeteries are carefully planned, heeding strict zoning laws and consisting of wide, grassy, well tended knolls with the occasional pond near which to pause and reflect. They go by glossy Hollywood names like Forest Lawn Memorial Park—encouraging the illusion that your loved one isn’t really gone, but rather they’ve been recruited for some elite, afterlife golf tournament.
But this place is nothing like that—it’s raw and accessible, with no fancy, euphemistic name, no shiny marble mausoleums. It’s not pretending to be anything other than what it is—a place for common folks to bury their loved ones. Set right off the side of the highway, pretty much in the middle of nowhere—it seems random, unplanned, crowded with handmade crosses and markers that, at first look, all seem to clash.
But as shabby as it seemed at first glance, now I see that the graves are often visited and well kept. Marked with generous handfuls of flowers—some plastic, some real—set alongside freshly filled balloons grounded by rocks and left to sway in the wind. All of it making for so much color, so much comfort and love, I can’t help but feel oddly peaceful here. And it’s not long before I realize I’m in no hurry to leave.
“How did he die?” I ask, using my more or less unscathed leg to rub against the one with the cast. The plaster makes it itch, and I can’t wait to be rid of it. “Jennika would never tell me,” I add, when I see the way Paloma hesitates, averts her gaze.
“Why do you call her Jennika?” she asks, her voice soft, eyes returning to mine.
And though it would be just as easy to answer, “Because it’s her name,” I don’t. There’s no need for sarcasm. I know what she meant.
“She was barely seventeen when she had me—I raised her as much as she raised me. Also, I grew up surrounded by adults, which didn’t make for a whole lot of baby talk. Everyone called her Jennika, so one day when I really needed her attention, I called her that too. Of course I didn’t pronounce it correctly, but she got the drift. It was the first word I ever spoke, and it stuck.”
Paloma nods, a small smile sneaking onto her face.
“And now, your turn—what really happened to Django? Was it an accident like mine?” I gaze down at my bruised and battered self, which, thanks to Paloma’s careful ministrations and advanced healing knowledge, not to mention Chay’s having arrived on the scene mere seconds after the impact (just as I’d thought, Paloma had sent him to look for me), I was spared a grave in this place. Actually, I was spared a lot more than that. It was just two weeks ago, and I’m already up and about.
“It was an accident,” she says, her tone becoming earnest when she adds, “but it was nothing like yours.”
I squint. Nod. Wishing she’d hurry up and get to it. I’m dying to know the rest of the story. But I’m also beginning to realize that Paloma works on her own schedule. She is not one to be rushed.
She rises to her feet, brushes the dirt from her knees, and faces the mountains as though speaking to them and not me. “It happened in California—on a Los Angeles freeway. He was riding his motorcycle, on his way to pick up your mother, when the truck in front of him stopped short and the load of lead pipes it was carrying broke free of their restraints and plowed into him. He was thrown from his bike. Died instantly. Decapitation was listed as the official cause.”
She turns, her face bearing the expression of someone who’s told the story too many times. Someone who’s grown used to such grisly facts. Someone unlike me. Which is probably why my insides start to curl as my throat fills with bile.
Decapitation was the official cause.
The words swirl in my head, causing me to toss my crutches to the ground and crumple beside them. My arms wrapped tightly around my waist, as I duck my chin to my chest and fight to steady myself.
It’s only a moment’s delay before Paloma’s beside me. Her hands smoothing over my hair in a way that sends a wave of calm coursing through me, her breath cooing in my ear when she says, “Nieta, what is it? Please tell me.”
Two weeks ago I never would’ve obliged her.
Two weeks ago I fled from her, convinced she was far more enemy than ally.
But a lot’s happened since then.
I’m starting to accept that I’m living in a world most people couldn’t even begin to imagine.
That old saying—ignorance is bliss—finally makes sense.
