Gravestone (23 page)

F
INN
WAS
SIXTEEN
YEARS
OLD
,
A
GOOD-LOOKING
BOY
. A
NICE
BOY
.

M
Y
HUSBAND
TOOK
A
VERY
PARTICULAR
INTEREST
IN
HIM
.

T
HIS
TROUBLED
ME
FOR
MANY
REASONS
.

I
SAW
THE
TINY
BIT
OF
FAME
THAT
MY
HUSBAND
WAS
GAINING
START
GOING
TO
HIS
HEAD
. I
BEGAN
TO
SEE
HIM
HAVE
THIS
POWER
OVER
THE
PEOPLE
. I
T
DISTURBED
ME
. T
HOSE
WHO
DIDN
’
T
REVERE
HIM
ALMOST
SEEMED
FEARFUL
OF
HIM
. I
NCLUDING
ME
.

O
F
COURSE
,
ONE
OF
THE
MOST
TROUBLING
THINGS
WAS
HIS
RELATIONSHIP
WITH
STAUNCH
. I
WASN
’
T
ALLOWED
IN
THEIR
CLIQUE
OR
THEIR
WORLD
. I
THOUGHT
“
BOYS
WILL
BE
BOYS
,”
BUT
IT
WAS
MORE
THAN
THAT
.

T
HEN
THIS
FIXATION
ON
F
INN
.

A
ND
THEN
—
THEN
EVERYTHING
STARTED
TO
COME
TO
A
NASTY
HEAD
.

H
E
STARTED
TO
DO
THINGS
TO
ME
THAT
I
DIDN
’
T
WANT
HIM
TO
. H
E
HAD
CHANGED
. H
E
WALKED
AND
TALKED
LIKE
A
TORMENTED
,
POSSESSED
MAN
. T
HIS
WAS
AROUND
THE
END
OF
THE
YEAR
,
AND
I
JUST
KNEW
SOMETHING
BIG
WAS
GOING
TO
HAPPEN
.

T
HEN
F
INN
DISAPPEARED
. A
ND
THE
REST
OF
THE
CHURCH
—
THE
REST
OF
THE
TOWN
—
WENT
ON
AS
NORMAL
. I
COULDN
’
T
—I
STILL
CAN
’
T
—
BELIEVE
IT
. E
VERYBODY
ELSE
I
TRIED
TO
TALK
TO
SHUT
ME
DOWN
. H
E
PUSHED
ME
FURTHER
AWAY
. A
ND
HE
CONTINUED
TO
HURT
ME
. I
KNOW
HE
DID
SOMETHING
TO
F
INN
. A
ND
TO
THE
OTHERS
.
AND
I’
M
AFRAID
THIS
IS
GOING
TO
CONTINUE
. W
E
HAVE
TO
DO
SOMETHING
.

I put the email down and feel my body trembling. I’m not cold. I’m terrified. I’m about to grab Midnight and put her on my lap when the door swings open, and I spring up, clasping the folder in my hand.

“You’re still up?” Mom asks, dusting off the light sprinkles on her coat.

I’m needing CPR, but I keep my mouth shut and just nod in a nonchalant way.

She looks wide-eyed and tired at the same time. She probably shouldn’t be driving. But that means she won’t notice the white ghost that’s her son.

“I’m going to change,” Mom tells me. “Are you hungry?”

As a matter of fact, I am. I could eat a boar.

I guess fear does that to you.

Learning something new every day.

50. All My Maybes

Maybe I don’t want to learn anymore.

Maybe I don’t want to try and fight.

Maybe I want to go to bed without a worry in my head or my heart.

Maybe I just want to forget about Jocelyn.

Maybe this pastor is a quack, but aren’t most of the pastors out there?

Maybe I should just throw the rest of those emails away and never think about them again.

Maybe I should realize that Jocelyn is gone and Uncle Robert is gone and Mom is basically gone, just like Dad, and I’m on my own.

Maybe I should bolt up my curiosity just like I bolted up that piece of wallboard in the bathroom cabinet downstairs.

Maybe the wind wouldn’t sound as menacing if I didn’t have a dozen other things to worry about.

Maybe I need to just stop, drop, and roll.

Maybe all my maybes will eventually start turning to gibberish.

Maybe I need some sleep.

Maybe it will come. 

51. Why We’re Talking

Jocelyn sits waiting in the chair, surrounded by a hundred other chairs. She’s alone, still wearing the black formal dress, still made up like a movie star.

She looks over at me and smiles.

I feel naked and silly. But I can’t hide or run or do anything else. Plus, all I want to do is go over and see her.

I find myself moving closer to her. There’s no sound in here other than the sound of my feet against the shiny, clean floor that reflects the sun from the glass windows around us.

I stop before getting to her.

She’s no longer just beautiful.

I can’t think of a word or a phrase.…

“Hi, Chris.”

Her voice doesn’t sound like an echo or a distant muffle. It sounds real and warm and whispers in my ear. “Sit, please.”

I rest in the bowl-like chair that faces her.

Jocelyn sits with one leg crossed over the other, looking so refined and elegant. She’s older in this—this
vision or dream or whatever it is—but she’s also the same. The eyes that look at me are the same ones that looked at me in that classroom and that hallway and that love we shared such a short and such a long time ago.

“We don’t have much time,” she says.

“Time—what is this? Am I really here? Are you?”

“How are you, Chris?”

I don’t worry about what I’m saying, not here, not looking into those eyes.

“Terrified,” I say. “Lost. And like totally just—sad.”

She nods.

I want to kiss her and grow old with her.

“The next few months are important for you. You need to know this.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t—that I wasn’t able to help you,” I say.

“Don’t apologize for something you didn’t do. That’s not why you’re here.”

“What is this place? Is this real?”

“Yes. What you see and what you feel are real. Very real. This is not a dream.”

“I’m sorry, Jocelyn.”

“Chris. A hundred sorrys won’t get me back.”

“What will?”

She smiles.

I remember everything about her and how short-lived everything was and how she kept warning me—how the whole world warned me—but how I just refused to understand.

“How could you understand, Chris?”

She can read my thoughts? In dreams, or nightmares, or visions, or whatever this is, I guess anything is possible.

“Can I run away with you?”

She shakes her head.

I hear something shaking above us and see a plane taking off.

“You need to listen carefully.”

“Jocelyn, help me to get out of Solitary.”

“That’s precisely why I’m here, Chris. Why we’re talking.”

“What do you mean?”

The adult Jocelyn doesn’t smile or give me any sense of security or hope in her expression.

“There are those you can still help. There is still time.”

“Time for what?” I ask.

“You have to stay in Solitary. You cannot leave.”