Septembers never used to be like this.
Notes On A Grave by Lauren Frankel
At least I'm not wearing slutty tank tops and sniffing glue, she said and I'd been momentarily stunned. Do kids really still sniff glue?
Septembers never used to be like this - and you'd think we might deserve a little relief after the string of heat waves we suffered this summer. Just when one week of feverish temperatures and choking humidity seemed too much, a run of three, four, then five weeks would prove that greater miseries were still possible, and in fact likely in Gideon Meadows. Making matters worse, we were forbidden from using water for any non-essential purpose, so the green spaces and sprawling verdant lawns that had formerly crowned our suburban community swiftly turned into a kind of rough stubble - as lifeless and dry as the cicada husks that fell from the trees and littered the sidewalks.
Neighbors had begun to talk about escape casually, in line at the coffee shop or waiting to buy stamps at the post office. Plans that families had drawn up years earlier after the collapse of the Twin Towers, involving road maps highlighting the quickest routes to Canada, were unearthed from kitchen drawers and glove compartments and then spoken of lightly, almost as though they were a joke. I felt jittery as well. At some point, I began to fill old plastic milk containers with water from the tap - when Callie laughed at the rows of bottled water stacked on the kitchen floor, I told her, "Don't laugh, you might end up thanking me." Having recently turned fourteen, she rolled her eyes at me and snorted heavily.
She was still mad that I hadn't repaired the A/C after it stopped running in early August. The cost of fixing it was almost as much as replacing the whole system, and I had been so sure that the worst was almost over I'd decided to wait until next year to spend the money. But I'd underestimated the savage excesses of August. Even after strategically positioning electric fans around the house the temperature remained unbearable. When Callie wandered from room to room late at night, complaining that she couldn't sleep because the heat had gotten inside her, I told her: think cool thoughts. Remember when you were little and we lay in the snow, waving our arms and legs to make angels in the park?
No, Callie said, she couldn't remember that at all, and even if she could magically transform her thoughts into a solid ice cube she would still be too hot.
When I couldn't sleep I counted down the days to September. A decent September would bring cold snaps and new cardigans; it would be crisp as an apple with the skin breaking sweetly against my teeth. Crunch of leaves underfoot, air whisking through the trees, a chrysanthemum's crushed dusty scent. To me, even the word had a silvery white sound. September. Like moth wings beating against the cold metal screen of a door.
But now September has finally arrived, surly and aggressive - an ugly month lacking any common courtesy.
In the parking lot of Gideon Meadows High School, I sit in my Oldsmobile with the windows rolled down, fanning myself with a parking ticket while the other parents wait sealed inside their cars. I scan the crowd of teenagers swarming through the metal doors, but I don't see Callie. Every student seems drenched in sweat from scalp to shoulder, and I watch as a girl wipes mascara clots from her eyelashes in between drags on her friend's cigarette. I think of Lou, the homeless man who collapsed in the library lobby yesterday. He was a local character who I'd often seen standing in front of the town hall, puffing theatrically on a cigarette, arm flung out towards passing traffic, gabbling excitedly to himself. Helena, one of the librarians, was in having her teeth cleaned this morning when she told me about it. "He was wearing that horrible woolly hat of his and he just tipped over in front of the circulation desk. Flat on the floor. As soon as we realized we called 911 and Bob, the reference librarian, did CPR. I was worried he might refuse to get in the ambulance because sometimes they do." Helena gave me a look that was both meaningful and ominous before continuing. "But he was completely knocked out, so there wasn't any problem. Imagine wearing that terrible heavy jacket and hat on days like these, Rebecca."
"Terrible," I echoed, tilting the light towards her mouth.
Lou had a rough face, wide purple lips, and he often wore stained and tattered suits that hung from him awkwardly. They looked like the kind of thing a dapper gentleman of an earlier era might wear, only his were creased and sour spoiling the effect. I wondered what I would've done if I'd been there. I had a feeling that rather than rushing forward to help I would've tried to fade into the crowd, secretly repelled by the thought of having to put my mouth against his. Someone who's had a hard life like that, you can always see it in their mouth - drug abuse, neglect, illness - the mouth reveals everything. I was curious about what Helena had actually done, but I didn't want to pry. I patted her shoulder. Her tongue was pink and healthy, her teeth were holding up nicely for her age. I told her that I didn't see any cavities, but the dentist would check her X-rays just in case.
I squint and finally spot Callie leaving school. She carries her green backpack in one hand and seems to walk more slowly than the other students. Her long ashy hair is matted against her face and neck, while her clothes billow out around her small frame. I notice the t-shirt she's wearing and a wave of annoyance passes through me. Airbrushed across the front is Jimi Hendrix, inexplicably riding a snowboard - she bought it from a thrift store last week and has insisted on wearing it every day since school began. Last night when I offered to wash it, she refused, worried that the paint might flake off. I told her it wouldn't be long before the school called to ask why I wasn't able to provide her with adequate clothing. But she just stared at me like I was talking to her from behind glass. At least I'm not wearing slutty tank tops and sniffing glue, she said and I'd been momentarily stunned. Do kids really still sniff glue? But she had already slipped from the room.
Callie slams the car door and slumps into the passenger seat without a word.
"Hard day?" I ask, shifting the car into reverse.
"Doesn't matter."
"It matters to me," I say. "Tell me one thing that happened today."
"I went to school. It was hot. I learned . . . nothing." She sticks her fingers out the window as if to catch the breeze.
"Is Ella still thinking about trying out for cheerleading?"
"Yup."
"And what about you? Do you think you might try out too?"
Callie snorts loudly, so there is no doubt that she thinks I'm a fool. I take a deep breath and start again.
"Hon, I was thinking maybe I could hand wash your shirt with some Woolite tonight."
"Hmmm. . .maybe."
"How about yes? It makes me sick to think you're wearing something all full of germs and dirt from God knows where." I look in my rear view mirror and see a jeep full of teenagers following close on my tail.
"I don't mind it."
"Well you should. I'm only saying this for your own good, Callie - you're starting to smell."
"Everyone smells - it's hot."
I slow the car down and the jeep begins to beep at us. I have the perverse urge to smile and wave.
Callie has slumped down further in her seat.
"So when do you propose we wash it? When it starts rotting off your body?"
"You're so . . ." She shakes her head. "Forget it."
I suppress the urge to ask what she thinks I am. It couldn't be pleasant. Even though I've helped raise her since she was born, Callie has never been easy with me. A few months ago, I could still joke her out of her moods, but now she shrugs disdainfully and refuses to answer. As her legal guardian there must be something I can do - some way of slowing her descent into this squalid, passive persona - but when I try to think of what I draw a blank.
"Callie, I meant to remind you about your letter. Have you started it yet?"
"No. Not yet." She bites her bottom lip.
"Well don't forget. It needs to be done by tomorrow."
"I know, Rebecca!"
"What is your problem?" I ask, maneuvering the car into a tight space between two SUVs at the garden center.
Callie slams the car door and strides towards the entrance. She doesn't look back and moves with a swift grace, arms swinging, as though invigorated by the prospect of getting away from me.
"You'll write the letter when you get home," I mutter. She shouldn't need reminding, she's been writing them every year since she was old enough to hold a crayon.
As we pass through the garden center's glass doors the temperature cools. The tang of fertilizer hangs in the moist air, and overhead, rows of ceiling fans slowly rotate. There are large red and white signs plastered to the walls, proclaiming massive sales. Dusty terracotta pots are stacked on a table just inside the entrance, and Callie runs her finger over them as she passes. I pause to examine a pale pink orchid with yellow spots, marked down to $7.99. Even indoor plants aren't selling. The orchid seems so pretty and delicate, its head bobbing lightly on the table display, but I don't trust myself to keep it. I've recently given up on myself as a gardener. Last summer I tried to grow tomatoes in pots on the patio. I picked the little red mites off their leaves, and watered and fertilized them carefully. But the leaves began turning yellow by early June. First I gave them nitrogen, then I treated them with fungicide powders, but the yellow kept spreading. The small fruits that managed to develop were spotted with dark rot and I had to throw them in the garbage disposal.
I trail after Callie, our footsteps clucking sharply on the cement floor as we pass aisles of seeds in paper envelopes. I remember squeezing the seed packages with my mother when I was a child - the satisfying click, the bumpiness of the seeds. The feeling that so much potential was contained in a thin paper envelope. But my mother gave me a false sense of future possibilities; she could grow anything, I could not.
When we enter the greenhouse at the back of the store a fine mist of pollen washes over me and my nose begins to twitch. I rub at my eyes and see Callie ducking away into a maze of greenery just as I begin to sneeze.
"Can I help you, Ma'am?"
An overweight man wearing glasses and a striped apron comes toward me.
"Oh!" I say, my throat thick with mucus. "Yes!" I stumble back, knocking into a soft ferny branch. "I was looking for something to plant in a cemetery."
He ignores my clumsiness, as though he is used to watching customers falling into the vegetation, and nods, waiting.
"A plant that won't need much care. The cemetery's a little ways away, so I can't get up there too often." I shrug hopelessly. "And everything else I've left died."
The man touches the bridge of his glasses quickly, and I see his watery green eyes behind the glass. "Okay. Do you think you might want flowers or an evergreen planting?"
"Um, flowers, I guess. I've already tried geraniums and impatiens." I smile, weak with the pollen. "No luck."
"Well, those aren't perennial. You might want to try garden roses. It's kind of late in the season but roses are real hardy. They won't mind cold as much when winter comes."
I follow him to a small row of brightly colored roses which are about as demure as an African dashiki. They are tangerine, gold, vermillion, and plum. He stands close behind me, breathing.
"Thank you very much!" I hear myself saying too loudly. "These will be fine!" The man gives me a look and then shuffles away.
I reach out to touch the serrated edge of a leaf. I always thought there was something tidy about flowers on a grave - but now I'm not so sure. The wrong flower could look gaudy - as bad as those graves littered with sodden teddy bears or sports jerseys. Joyce would certainly laugh to see me deciding between gold and tangerine roses for her pink granite grave. She never even liked flowers. When she moved into my apartment she made fun of the pots of African violets I tried to grow on the windowsills. She thought violets were an old lady flower (and we were just nineteen). "Hey Grandma," she'd cackle at me, "where's my chicken soup?"
The thick roots of the roses are covered in burlap and I clear my throat again, trying not to think of where those roots may grow. It's not a good idea to imagine the people you know as they must be after years in their coffins. You have to remind yourself that the person you knew is not the body in the earth. All the same, it makes me want to be cremated so that no one will have to picture me underground.
I am about to give up on the roses when Callie comes up behind me. "What do hyacinths look like?" she asks.
"Hyacinths? They're like lilacs I think. But they come up in the spring."
"Oh," Callie says. "You're getting roses?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"Yeah, that's fine."
"What color do you think your mom would like?"
She tugs the hem of her shirt, and purses her lips in a moue of distaste. "Maybe white," she says, pointing at a creamy bush I hadn't yet seen.
"White. That's great," I say, lifting up the bush. "It'll go with the stone." The leaves brush against my arms and the heavy perfume rushes straight to my head. "There's something peaceful about white roses. It's what I'd choose for my own grave . . . Not that I expect you to plant flowers for me when I go." I sneeze twice, loudly.
Callie stares at me without smiling. "Bless you."
We head towards the cash register and I suddenly feel like I have to get this out. "Honey, you know if something happened to me I'd want to be cremated." I place the rosebush on the conveyor belt and glance at Callie. "There's a blue book in my underwear drawer where I've written all my final wishes."
"Shhh,"Callie hisses. "Do you have to be so loud?"
"What?" I say. "I'm not doing anything wrong."
She rolls her eyes and begins playing with her hair, twisting strands around her fingers and examining the split ends. When she takes care of it, Callie has beautiful hair, just like Joyce's. She's like her mother in so many ways, but I don't really know her the way I knew Joyce.
"Callie," I begin, "do you like flowers?"
"Don't bother," she mutters under her breath. "I don't want anything on my grave."
"Oh, hon! I didn't mean that." I reach for her arm but she draws away. "I was just curious about what you like."
A staticky peak of hair sticks out above her ear and I resist the impulse to smooth it down, slipping my hand into my pocket.
"I prefer trees," she mumbles.
"Really? What trees do you like?"
"None in particular - just trees."
"They sure live a lot longer than flowers," I offer.
Callie sighs. "I don't like them because of that. I like them because they don't go around trying to make everything cheerful and perfect."
She looks at me in such a superior way that I can't help myself. "Well, good for trees."
I wouldn't call it a pilgrimage, but we've made the drive to Varrick Hills Cemetery for the past nine years. We go on Joyce's birthday and on the day she passed away. I don't mind the drive and I would go more often if I could. It's Callie who's started resisting. She makes excuses. Last time she said she had a science test coming up. I told her not to be ridiculous, she could study in the car. She brought the heavy textbook along and held it on her lap, but wouldn't open it the entire trip. She closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. When I asked her how she'd get any studying done like that, she claimed reading made her carsick.
"I'll quiz you," I offered.
"No thanks."
The next week she slipped a piece of paper into my tray of bills and letters. Her science test, marked with a red zero. She had left whole sections blank, as though the effort of making a guess was too much for her.
Callie was five when Joyce died and we moved from the city to Gideon Meadows. After the funeral, Callie had climbed into relatives' laps and chattered away, happy as a clam. Joyce's aunt had even taken me aside and told me what a blessing it was that Callie was so young and couldn't really absorb what had happened. I actually believed this which made it more of a shock when Callie began to act out.
At first she just wanted to drink from her baby bottle again. That was fine. I understood that she was looking for comfort wherever she could get it. We'd had the same conversation a number of times: Callie would ask where her mother was, and I would explain what death meant, then she would smile a little bit, and say that she knew her mother was dead but when she was coming back. I had to rest a lot. I would lock myself in the bathroom and press my mouth against a towel so that she couldn't hear me sobbing.
Next she began to play dead. I went into her room one morning, calling for her to wake up, and she was lifeless on the bed, arms crossed stiffly over her chest, mouth agape, eyes shut. She had arranged her stuffed elephant, Pinky, by her feet, like a sentry. It gave me such a shock that I cried out and quickly felt for her pulse. "I'm dead," she whispered. This soon became routine: I had to dress her in bed each morning, her arms and legs limp as a doll's. "You're not dead, Cal," I said gently. But she wouldn't answer because dead people couldn't talk. Her kindergarten teacher had to call me up in the first week because Callie was lying on the floor of the cafeteria. I carried her to the car and drove home. The school referred us to a child psychologist, and continued to call me to retrieve her every time she collapsed into a heap on the floor. She almost seemed to enjoy it - sprawling out across the blue rug in the story corner or in the coat closet while the other children stood around in a half-circle, watching her.
It was the psychologist's idea that I spend more time having 'fun' with Callie. The unspoken implication being that I was insufficiently attentive. "Show her some of the nice things about living around here. Take her to a kid's museum or a fun fair," the psychologist coaxed. One of our first forays was to a natural history museum in a nearby city: this turned out to be the second worst day of my life.
The museum had a faded mural painted on the inner wall in colors from the seventies. Gray dinosaurs meandered dispiritedly through green vegetation towards sandy orange plains. Four tall dinosaur skeletons stood on a raised platform beneath the glass atrium, and we gawped up at them. There was a smell of carpet cleaner and diapers; the clatter of children echoed through the room.
"I remember mommy took me here when I was a baby," Callie said.
I knew this wasn't true, but I didn't correct her.
Callie pointed at the bigger and smaller skeletons. "There's a baby one, and there's a mommy one."
"No," I said wearily. "They're just different types of dinosaurs. Some were big and some were small."
"And they can't breathe," Callie said.
"That's right," I agreed. "They're not alive anymore."
Afterwards, as we walked back to the train station, Callie had more questions.
"What if they wake up?"
"Who?"
"The dinosaurs."
"No. They can't wake up. If you're dead, you never wake up."
"When will you die?" she asked.
I felt my breath catch. I was only twenty-five, the same as Joyce had been. I listened to my high heeled boots clicking against the pavement and touched the knot where the beige trench coat was tied tightly at my waist. Both boots and coat had belonged to Joyce.
"I probably won't die until I'm really old and you're all grown up."
Callie thought about this for a moment. "What if you do something bad?"
"People don't die because they've done something bad. Your mommy never did anything bad."
"If the dinosaurs do wake up they might bite people," Callie said. "They're mean."
"Mmm." I glanced down the street. There were fallen leaves on the sidewalk and the debris in the gutters lifted in the breeze. Everything was falling apart. I put my hand in my coat pocket and fingered the half-roll of peppermint candies that Joyce had begun and never finished.
Clouds had blotted out the sun and I was in a sullen mood by the time we got to the station. I felt a pain racing behind my eyes, but I managed to buy a cup of tea and settle Callie onto a bench in the waiting room. When I think back to how self-absorbed and unaware I was that afternoon I'm ashamed.
Callie soon began to nag me. She was too hot. She wanted to wait outside. Her red woolen coat and matching beret were making her itch. Fine! I threw away my cup of tea and trudged after her onto the platform.
It wasn't crowded. Small clusters of people leaned against the wind, their eyes riveted to a point in the distance where the train would eventually appear. Callie swung her arms back and forth, humming a song I didn't recognize. We watched a flock of black birds rise cross the sky, and then Callie wandered towards the newspaper vending machine until I snapped at her. "Stay close!" She returned to my side and whispered, "You're mean."
I heard the train rumbling in the distance and as I reached down for her hand, she slipped out of my grip and then wove behind me. I twisted around as she raised her hand and deftly knocked her hat to the ground, an angry grin on her lips. I gave her a dirty look and reached down to snatch it up. This was when Callie took her opportunity. She sped forward before I had even raised my head, and when I was upright again I saw the red blur, rushing towards the edge of the platform and the oncoming train.
I watched her pause at the rim of the platform, and as I shouted her name in a short sharp burst, she tilted forward. Callie was teetering on the edge, her legs uncertain, ready to plunge down to the tracks just ahead of the train. A full-lunged whistle pierced the air. My whole body shook as I ran towards her. If I couldn't stop her, I knew that I would follow. I would not face the police and the ambulances, the hospital or the coffin. Not again.
When I felt the hood of her coat in my fist, a sudden cold awareness slammed me hard between the ribs. Hot stars swarmed behind my eyes, and my hand became like someone else's hand - I could no longer feel it. Callie's eyes, normally blue, were strangely dark and full of fury. A moment later the train was in the station.
We were still crouched together on the platform when it departed. My hands were wrapped around her arms and when she tried to shake me off I held on tighter, knowing that I was hurting her.
As the train finally disappeared on the horizon, I loosened my grip. Callie flapped her hands in the air and then, without looking at me, shouted, "You made us miss the train, Fart!"
I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I began to cry and Callie watched me with the same open curiosity that she had shown when staring into the glass eyes of the stuffed leopards and grizzly bears at the museum.
That night, I called Joyce's younger brother, Michael, who was in his final year at Yale. I had known him since we were kids, and still thought of him as the lisping little brother who wet the bed and tied Joyce's underpants to a tree branch, but I was afraid to call Joyce's parents; if they knew what had happened they might demand custody of their granddaughter. Maybe they should've demanded custody, but I wasn't ready to think about that yet.
Michael told me he couldn't 'process' what I was saying, but he promised to visit the following weekend. When he arrived, he was brisk and vigorous, grabbing Callie and telling her that we were going to write letters to her mother that day. "We can tie them to balloons and let them go up up up in the sky," he crowed.
Callie seemed interested in this idea and selected a purple crayon to write with. When I tried to peek over her shoulder, she curled her arm protectively around the paper.
I pulled Michael aside in the kitchen. "You're sure this is a good idea?"
Michael licked his lips, and shifted in his black converse sneakers. His curly hair was messy, as though he'd just woken up, and there was still green sleep in the corners of his eyes. He seemed very young to me.
"Just trust me Rebecca. It's a good idea."
"But I thought we weren't doing the whole heaven thing."
Michael put his hand on my arm. "Maybe that was a mistake."
We let our letters go up in the sky, and after that, we left them twice a year beneath a heart-shaped stone on Joyce's grave. Callie was slowly recovering, and I was sure that it was more than her visits to psychologist that had helped. In fact, writing letters to Joyce became my own steady habit. When I picked up pen and paper and confessed my thoughts to her it was like a psychic barrier fell away and I was able to meet her again on the page.
On the morning of the ninth anniversary of Joyce's death, I wake early and put the rosebush and my shovel in the trunk of the car. Callie sleeps late. I feel a brief uneasiness as I slip into her darkened room and stand over her bed.
"Can I get you some eggs, hon?"
Callie groans and rolls away from me. Her tangled hair sticks to her pillow case.
"What's wrong?"
Callie pulls the blanket tightly over her ear. "I can't move. My stomach hurts."
Cautiously, I move my hand to her forehead. Her skin is cold and grainy; small pimples, like a layer of sand, lie just beneath the surface. Her breathing becomes shallow, fast and suspicious. I quickly withdraw my hand.
"Maybe you're hungry."
"I'm not hungry at all."
"Do you have your period?"
Callie flinches; she's always been secretive about her periods.
"No!"
"Will you take some aspirin if I bring them to you?"
"Whatever."
I arrange a plate for her: three chocolate chip cookies, two aspirin, and a glass of water. If she eats the cookies, she's not really sick.
Callie is sitting up in bed wearing the Jimi Hendrix shirt. There is a brownish smear on the sleeve that gives me a little shiver of disgust.
"Take these and we'll see how you're doing. The traffic shouldn't be too bad even if we leave after ten."
"But I'm sick! How can we drive all that way when I might barf in the car?"
"I said we'll see how you're doing."
"Fine, it's your car."
"When you feel like throwing up I'll pull over."
"Oh, wow, you'll pull over. Thanks a lot."
I leave her then and stand outside the door waiting. When I hear the soft crunch of cookies, I know she'll be all right.
An hour later, Callie comes downstairs in jeans and her Hendrix t-shirt. There are dark spots on her shoulders where her wet hair has soaked the fabric. She must know it isn't appropriate for today. When she was little, I would dress her in church clothes for our trips, and she would smooth out her skirt and sit very carefully to avoid getting wrinkles. Now, she ignores my stare and swaggers past, giving off a distinct smell of patchouli.
"Are you wearing patchouli?"
Callie shrugs, yawns, and pours herself a bowl of sugar pops, sloshing the milk so that it splashes onto her shirt. She sees me watching and wipes the spot carelessly with the back of her hand.
"You should have more protein," I say.
"Milk is protein."
She begins to crunch loudly. In a purposefully noisy way. Croinch-croinch-croinch: like a horse at its feed.
"Stomach feeling better?"
"Mmm."
"Callie, this time of year isn't easy for me either. But it's an important part of the process."
Half-chewed cereal falls out of her mouth when she speaks. "I'm not in any process," she says.
The car ride is slow and hot. Callie listens to her iPod, safely sealing herself off from conversation. She does not mention her nausea.
As we get closer to our destination, Callie closes her eyes and lets her head drop against her chest.
"Sit up, hon."
She complies but her face goes slack.
The roads are narrower in Varrick Hills. Heavy trees curve over our path, cutting out the sunlight. As we pull into the graveled driveway, my legs start tingling - like the muscles have fallen asleep. I rub them vigorously before opening the car door.
"Alrighty, Callie. Let's give your mom her roses."
In the trunk of the car the rosebush has wilted. The leaves are warm and glaucous; a few white petals remain on the trunk floor.
I wrinkle my nose and try not to cough.
Callie stretches her arms over her head and bends down to touch her toes.
"Could you give me a hand here?" I ask, grasping the shovel with one hand.
The summer sun has burnt the grass to straw, and the bright light gives the graves a hard glary focus. The air is thick with dry dirt and the hum of insects.
Callie takes the shovel from me.
"You know, she wouldn't have wanted me to come if I was sick."
"Oh, Callie," I sigh. "I'm sorry you feel so bad."
As we walk through the cemetery, the grass feels spongy and gives beneath my heels. I step carefully over new graves where the earth is fresh and dark. It's strange to watch how graves change as time passes. At first there is the new black dirt, clumped in a perfect rectangle. Then the soil dries out and sinks a little, while blades of grass begin to sprout. When the grass eventually forms a smooth blanket, the green is darker around the edges, leaving an outline of the hole for several years. Then one day, the grass is uniform and the earth levels out and the grave is finally settled, like it has always belonged there. This is how Joyce's grave looks.
I place the bush on the ground beside her headstone. Nearby, someone has left a metal bucket full of hydrangea, Queen's Anne's lace and delphinium.
Callie squeezes her elbows and looks at the stone. Her face is haggard, pale, as though a film of dust has settled on her skin. In this light, her eyes appear ringed with bluish crescents. I wonder whether I have made a terrible mistake. Maybe she is genuinely sick.
"Hon, do you want to sit down for a minute? You don't look so good."
She glares at me. "I've been telling you."
"I know. I made a mistake. I'm sorry."
She kneels, and then sits cross-legged in the grass.
"Put your head between your legs."
I hesitate for a moment and then gently rest my hand on her back, rubbing in small circles. "I'll take you home. Or maybe we can stop at a restaurant and get you some tea. I hope it's not the flu."
"What about the roses?" she murmurs between her legs.
I glance at the bush. "Forget it."
"No," she says wearily. "I can wait."
"Are you sure? We can go right now."
"Yeah. I'll be okay."
"Maybe you should sit in the shade."
I lead Callie to a tree close to the car. She sits down quickly and rests her face against her knees. With the t-shirt billowing out around her she looks like a very small child. I touch her hair. "You'll be okay. I'll be right back. Give me five minutes." I begin to leave, but then turn back. "I forgot your letter."
She moves slowly to extract the small folded note from her pocket. I take it from her. "Shout if you need me," I say.
The earth comes up easily under my metal shovel, and I suddenly begin to feel queasy as well. I have to stop for a second and take a deep breath. I glance back to the tree where Callie still has her head against her knees. I slide the rosebush haphazardly into the hole and begin to replace the earth quickly, patting the surface with my bare hands.
I take a step back to survey my work. The flowers look fine, but I wonder if they make the grave seem lopsided, being on the left-hand side. I pull my letters out of my bag and brush my finger along the edge of Callie's note. I glance at her quickly to make sure she can't see. Then I unfold the paper.
Her name is at the top. Below that she's written: Algebra I - Mrs. Hantz
1. 2x+3xy=58
x=2
What does y equal?
4+6y=58
58-4=54
6y=54
6y/6=54/6 y=9
The paper is numbered up to eight, but Callie has only completed three of the problems.
I see her in the distance, and she stares back at me for a second before getting up from the ground and slouching back to the car.
Friday, 6 June, 2008
In Short stories
- The Rose Tango by Mieko Kanai
- In Search of Tommie by Zoe Wicomb
- From Round Here: Lays of a Sicilian Life Told to Andrei Navrozov. By Manlio Orobello
- The Wake by Zoe Green
- Milgram by Tommy Wallach
- Jersey Tiger by Maggie Bevan
- Woman at Window by Alex Sheal
- Aldeia da Luz by C. D. Rose
- Bourgeois by Mikey Cuddihy
- Troy and Me by Drew Gummerson
- History Lesson by Tony Peake
- Mufti Day by Katy Darby
- Frank by Mercedes Helnwein
- Notes On A Grave by Lauren Frankel
- The Poison Factory Conference by Divya Ghelani
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