Page 60 of Something Old

She cleared up her final bill at the main office, ended her lease, and let them know that Haul-it was coming. That was that. Grant felt . . . undone by the whole experience. He could only imagine how Madeline was feeling.

“I don’t want to go to the cemetery,” Madeline said as they headed toward it, their last planned stop before hitting the road for home.

“Oh . . .” At a loss for words yet again, Grant hated how he was failing to be the help and support he longed to be for her. He just had no clue what “help and support” looked like when someone had been through all that Madeline had.

“But I should,” she said dully, speaking toward the window and the blur of suburbia whizzing past. Grant was old enough to remember visits to the area they were driving through when it was all farmland and wide-open space. Now it was pretty much indistinguishable from Surrey, which had no visible distinction from Vancouver. So many lines and clear boundaries disintegrated with time. If that wasn’t a metaphor for life, Grant didn’t know what was.

“I don’t think there are any ‘shoulds’ in a situation like this.”

“I have to.”

Grant held his tongue and waited. She was obviously working out something for herself.

“I don’t want to go—but if I don’t, I’ll regret it.”

Grant nodded.

“I don’t talk about Lauren very much because I can’t,” Madeline said as if Grant had asked. “I haven’t come to peace with Lyle and Ronny’s deaths, but at least—at least they were my age. They had lived. Lauren—” Her voice broke. “It was just . . . Anyway. I’m going to try to talk about her more.”

“I’ll always love to hear anything you want to share, but you shouldn’t pressure yourself either.”

Madeline nodded, and they were silent until they pulled into the vast parking area. Grant shuddered at the sight of all those markers, row upon row of people who were dearly and desperately missed—or not. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked after he parked the truck and trailer, taking up three spaces.

“No, I’d like to be alone with them. I might be a while.”

“Take all the time you need.”

She climbed out of the truck and started to walk. It was going on four now, but the overcast sky made it seem later, and a dreary, drizzling rain had started.

Grant sat in the truck, opened the book he was halfway through on his phone, but mostly only pretended to read while trying not to watch Madeline through the rain-smeared windshield—or tried not to watch her too obviously, anyway. He wanted to give her privacy, but he also wanted to make sure she was faring all right.

For a time, he did get absorbed in the thriller he was reading—and he jolted with uneasy surprise when he glanced up and realized how much the light had faded. He checked the time, not because he was impatient or felt Madeline was taking too long. No, the furthest thing from that—because he was suddenly, inexplicably worried. How long did a person spend at a grave? Should he continue to leave her alone with her thoughts and memories? Or would she appreciate a warm hand to hold hers and another living body to quietly stand by her side in her sadness?

He scanned the rows of markers again, shivering as the truth that all humans live with, yet mostly avoid consciously thinking about, hit him. We all die. None of us get out of life alive. The last was a pat line, often said with dry, dark humor, but now it smashed like a hammer. He squinted into the growing shadows. Where was she? Why couldn’t he see her? She’d been right there, only twenty or so rows in, not that long ago. He rechecked his phone—okay, make that a while ago now.

Madeline had said she wanted to be alone. He’d respected that, but she’d had a good chunk of time, and now he felt he’d be a better friend by checking on her and making sure she still didn’t want company. If that was the case, he’d slip away again. But if something had changed, if she needed someone, he didn’t want to let her down.

Decided, he climbed out of the truck, hit the lock button, and pocketed the keys. Still unable to see her standing or walking anywhere, he strode with increasing speed in the direction he’d last glimpsed her. And then he spotted her and froze—then ran.

Madeline lay curled on her side on the wet ground, one folded arm forming a pillow for her head. Her other arm rested, slightly bent, on the plot in front of her, like she was sheltering someone lying in the same position she was.

Though Grant was mere feet from her now, Madeline was oblivious to him.

Grant read the marble slab near her head. Lauren. Beloved Daughter. Then his head jerked left—and he saw the resting spot of Lyle Hart, Lauren’s father, Madeline’s husband. A note, freshly written and still pristine, lay face-up by the stone.

L –

I’m sorry we didn’t recognize it every moment of every day, all of the time, but we had a beautiful life together. Thank you.

Love you always,

– M

Aching like he’d sustained a hard blow to his stomach, Grant glanced to his right and saw the old-fashioned double tombstone bearing Madeline’s parents’ names side by side. Beneath them, a bronze plaque held her sister’s details. She was Veronica in death, which, although he’d never met her, felt wrong to him. Madeline called her Ronny. She was Ronny.

It was one thing to know intellectually that everyone died one day and that everyone, inevitably, experienced loss. It was another thing entirely to feel it here, so physically. To see the cold stone markers in place of the warm, flesh and blood people Madeline had so loved. Her daughter. Her daughter.