Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
30
Isabelle
Jericho sleeps long and hard. That afternoon I walk out to the chapel on the grounds. It’s a cool, overcast day as I make my way along the path, feeling like the weeks leading up to Christian’s murder are always cool and overcast. At least they have been for the last three years.
I pick wildflowers on my way, finding bunches in blues and yellows. By the time I get to the cemetery I have enough for four small bouquets. I lay one at Kimberly’s grave, one at Nellie’s and take a third to Zoë’s. After arranging the flowers in the little pot before her name, I spend a few minutes thinking about her. Her short, sad life. Her terrible death. I think about her two brothers and how they couldn’t save her. I see Jericho’s hopeless face. The pain in his eyes.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” I tell her, remembering the sensation of someone being there with me in the cellar when I found the letter. The cool presence of something no longer of this world. As I think it, goosebumps rise along my body and a shiver has me hugging my arms to myself. It’s not frightening though. It’s her. Maybe she’s left the cellar now that the secret is out. Maybe she can rest.
A lump forms in my throat and tears warm my eyes. I brush away dirt from the Z of her name and shift my gaze to the name on the stone beside hers. The one with the residue of what I know is Jericho’s blood. Her father.
How can she rest with him so nearby?
But Jericho will take care of that. As early as tomorrow morning. Someone is coming to erase his name from the stone once his remains are removed from the crypt so that Zoë can finally rest.
I take a deep breath and head toward the chapel. I have my own dead to remember now. And over the last three years I have created my own memorial ceremony. Carlton never cared about it even though when prodded by Julia he pretended to. I can’t blame him. He didn’t know Christian. Julia though, I think she cared. She even joined me at the cemetery a few times, telling me she understood when I told her about my ceremony. How I remembered him.
Like I had the other night, I spot a few old cigarette butts on the ground in front of the chapel. I don’t know why they stand out to me. It’s not that out of the ordinary for someone to smoke if they are working out here.
Ignoring it I go into the chapel and walk to the altar. The tabernacle lamp is lit but the others aren’t, so I set my last bouquet of flowers down, pick up the box of matches and start lighting them. I open the shoulder bag I brought with me and take out my small, framed photo of Christian and me. I study his face, see how the smile lights up his eyes. It was taken a few years before my parents’ accident. I was only twelve.
We had taken a road trip to Miami. It was one of our few family vacations and I know how long my parents had to save for it. We stayed at roadside motels as we went, and I still remember the little bottles of shampoo I’d only use a little bit of so I could bring them home. We’d had so much fun, though. All of us laughing and happy. So happy.
My eyes fill up at the memory. They’re all gone now. Every one of them. How life turns on a dime.
I set the photo down on the altar and arrange the bouquet of flowers before it. I take a small tea light out of my bag and light that too, placing it right in front of the picture before taking a seat on the front pew. I ignore Draca’s book, ignore his name engraved on the large stone at the center aisle, and instead focus on Christian. Saying the prayers I know for him. Asking God to give him peace. To give them all peace.
I never felt their presence after they died. Not my mother or father. Not Christian. I thought I would. I think you should be able to feel your loved ones after they depart this world. It would be a kindness to those of us left behind.
But I don’t linger on the thought. Instead, I take out my own sort of diary. A notebook I kept after Christian died. I had already started forgetting so many things after mom and dad’s passing, only realizing that fact when I’d look through old family albums, trying to remember where or when a photo was taken. After Christian was killed, I wrote down everything I could remember about him. From the way he’d mess up my hair and call me a chicken when it came to scary movies, to the way he’d hog the bathroom on the rare nights he had a date. How I’d make fun of him for spending so much time on his hair.