Page 63 of Even After This
After wandering the mall for who knows how long, I make it back to my car and sit lifeless in the front seat, staring out the window.
I walked into that store wanting to rid myself of my asinine crush on a Hollywood boy. I walked into that store seeking closure to a ridiculous dream.
I walked into that store wanting to shut down the ache in my soul over seeing Harlan with his ex-wife.
I knew. I just knew if I got my phone fixed and could change the picture and the ringtone, it would bury the evidence of my feelings for Harlan. Maybe it would bury the feelings themselves.
While I ponder calling the FBI for disastrous voicemail retrieval aid, my cell’s text alert dings. I grab my purse from the passenger seat and scramble for the phone. My heart stops at the words from Harlan staring at me on the screen.
Greatest message EVER. Thank you for making my day, sweetheart.
“I hate boy bands!” My yelling is heard by no one. I fall forward in defeat, gently banging my head against the top of the steering wheel.
Repeatedly.
15
“I’m sopissed youget to spend Chloe’s birthday with her.” Standing in front of the most unfathomable site on October twenty-fifth, I whisper the irrational words while tears stream down my face.
Placed in the ground before me are three plaques representing the three loves and losses of my life. I stretch my foot to rub off some dirt collected in the corner of Steve’s grave marker. When the soil doesn’t clear, I huff frustration and drop to my knees, ignoring the pain from the bruise I know I just caused. My attention focuses on clawing away the muck.
As soon as the plaque is once again clean, I settle on my haunches and rest my hands on my hips. I angle my head and shrug my cheek onto my shoulder, using my shirt to soak up the tears. Maneuvering to sit cross-legged, I lean forward and place two hands on the marker in front of me. “Hi.” My eyes cloud over, but I beat back the despair. “I know if you were here, you’d tell me I’m being ridiculous. But seriously, Steve, grief isn’t logical. And right now, I’m so mad at you because you three are together celebrating her, and I’m ... here.”
Twenty feet away, a peaceful creek manufactured by the cemetery runs through the back half of the property. The sound of two ducks quacking draws my attention away from my family, and I glance up. Each duck pecks at something in the water with aggression.
“Do you mind?” I admonish Donald and Daffy. “This is supposed to be a peaceful place.”
Lord help me, I’m a little more loony today than usual.
I anguished over choosing these plaques for Steve, Clayton, and Chloe. Should I put the kids together so I can talk to them at the same time? Should Steve be first because I pictured him leading them into heaven? Should all three be on one marker, or should they each get their own? It felt so final.
It was. So final.
Surveying my selections, I’m pleased. Steve’s bronze gravestone is in the middle, with Clayton’s and Chloe’s smaller ones flanking it. It’s perfect. I can lean down, place my cheek on Steve’s grave, and imagine it being his chest while my arms outstretch to grab hold of the children through their markers.
But now I’m sitting in my anger. My ridiculous, displaced anger, protecting me from the deep cavern of profound sadness.
“I wish you were here.” Something in my grief-filled brain wants to negotiate. Okay, I lost my husband. Could I just borrow him for a little bit to be the father of our children? “It’s like I wish you were here to help me deal with Chloe’s birthday, then I’ll send you back.” I shake my head. “She’s our child. It’s our loss.” My voice shakes. “But I’m the only parent who shoulders the burden. And today I’m beyond mad at you for not being here to share it with me.”
The ducks in front of me quack louder. It’s a toss-up whether they agree with me or think I’m warped.
I squeeze my eyes shut, wisps of hair tickling my face. Taking a deep breath, I gather the strength to study the small gravestone to my right.
Chloe Abigail Harper.
I lie down on my stomach, my body lined up with her grave, and my hands frame the name on her plaque. “Hi, sweetie.” The iceberg of grief bursts through the glassy water surface, and shards of emotions escape. The sobs of sorrow rack my body, and I rest my face in my palms. Each inhale is a gasp, and the metallic scent of the bronze marker fills my senses.
Several minutes pass, but once my breathing normalizes, I prop myself up on my forearms. “Happy birthday, Chloe Girl. I’m so very glad you were born.” A few tears drop to her birth date. My smile wobbles as I remember her pronunciation. “I brought you a bwoon, honey.”
I have no idea if five-year-old Chloe would have still liked pink balloons. But I honor the toddler I knew.
Pushing my body up, I lean back to grab the small Mylar balloon from my purse. They last longer than the latex ones. Despite my daughter not being here, I feel like a good mother by picking the higher-quality decoration. I shove the plastic stick in the ground above her marker, and the rose-colored ornament stands at attention.
Crawling over to the far end of my trio, I arrive at Clayton’s site. I stay on my knees but lean over and put my face right up to the engraved race car. My draping hair creates a cocoon of intimacy. “Hey, Speedy. I love you, buddy.” I picture him going in for a quick kiss on my cheek, then running away with giggles of pure joy.
I move back to the middle of the three graves and stretch to snag my purse again. Thankful I remembered Kleenex, I blow my nose and wipe off mascara remnants from my cheeks. Once I gain a little control, I sit with my feet on the ground, arms hugging my shins, chin resting on my knees.
Looking over, I notice the ducks have made peace with each other. They glide back and forth over the water.
