“Hey, Wiggles,” he said, as he did every year when he passed. “Still got the best view in the house, man.”
He squinted toward the horizon, but the distant skyscrapers of downtown were obstructed by thick fog and rain, which drenched him as he plowed on to the newer section.
He cut over the flat stones, sorry for walking on any graves and all, but this wasn’t a day for meandering.
He slowed when he passed the super creepy giant sculpture of two angels and a massive headstone for Letitia Burns, who lived for three days in 1878.Beloved daughter of John and Ida Burns, and sister of Mathilda.
He’d seen this over-the-top monument more than a dozen times, but it hit different today. Jeez. Ababyhad died. He’d never really thought about that before. But then, the last time he was here? He never dreamed he’d have one coming in the not-too-distant future.
This time little Letitia waspersonal.
Powering on, his sneakers squelched against the muddy ground, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Rain had turned the grass into a sponge, soaking through the bottoms of his jeans, but he barely felt it.
He sucked in a lungful of the scent of pine needles and wet stone, the kind of smell that stuck in your nose and made you feel like you were breathing in the past. It fit.
This wasn’t a choice, he told himself when a tiny, unfamiliar voice whispered in his head that this was a dumb idea.
It was a magnetic pull he couldn’t resist any more than he could resist taking his next breath of rain-scented air. This was a ritual he never let himself break, no matter how much it wrecked him.
Because if he skipped it, if he let one year pass without folding in half in front of that headstone, it would mean he was forgetting her. And Jonah couldn’t let that happen. Not after fifteen years. Not after spending just as many years without her as he had with her.
Half his life with Mom. Half his life without.
There was no doubt which was the better half.
He came around the big section of the Lafayette family who must have been burying their dead here for six generations. A minute later, he found Mom’s headstone without really looking for it.
Honestly, this trip was muscle memory at this point.
The grass had been cut and it looked like recently laid flowers had shriveled next to the simple gray headstone.
Meredith? Probably. She came out here pretty often and made sure it was tidy. Dad did, too. And Aunt Emily, his mother’s sister. Others might show up today, if anyone remembered the date.
But no one was around now, not at this hour. It was why he always came the minute they opened, so he could beat the crowd.
Very slowly, he shook back his soaking wet hair and lowered himself to the ground in front of the stone, finally letting his gaze settle on her name.
Melissa Anne Lawson.
He let out a slow breath and wiped the rain from her name with the sleeve of his jean jacket. It was pointless, but he did it anyway.
“Hey, Mom.”
His voice came out rough, barely audible over the soft patter of rain. He crouched, pressing his palms against the damp earth, and stared at the headstone like it might blink back at him. Like it might tell him what the hell he was supposed to do next.
Instead, silence. Just him, the rain, and a growing pit in his stomach.
He reached into his backpack and pulled out the sandwich he’d just made, wrapped in a paper towel.
“Got me a Mrs. Lawson special,” he said with a wry smile. “BLT with burnt bacon—no mean feat on that wretched cooktop in my van. Three thick slices of tomato, or, as you called it ‘To-maht’ with no O.” He grinned at the memory of her goofiness. “Got a swipe of mayo mixed with a splash of Tabasco because you knew I liked a little kick on my sammy.”
He stared at the wet stone but all he could see was that pretty lady behind the wheel of her SUV. She’d be rushing from work after she finished reporting on some fire or town council meeting, turning her world upside down and backwards so she could pick him up from football practice.
He lifted the sandwich in a half-hearted toast, silently thanking her for caring about him so much.
“Not as good as yours,” he said after the first bite. “Remember, you always had one in the car but wouldn’t let me eat until I changed my shirt because you ‘weren’t about to let sweat ruin a perfectly good sandwich.’” He sniffed, rubbing at his nose. “I used to think that was annoying. Now I’d give anything to hear you say it again.”
The rain picked up, soaking into his jean jacket, dribbling down the collar of his T-shirt. He pulled out a bottle of lemonade—sadly, not the tart kind she made from scratch—but it was lemonade, and she always had that for him.
