“Talk about what, asshole? How you cheated on me?” I clicked on his messages, so he could see I’d read them, and then I left it that way.
Dick.
Pausing at the bottom of the hill, I glanced back up at the gravesite, where my grandma was now buried next to her husband, reunited once more. I had barely known my grandfather and had no real memories of the man. He’d passedwhen I was only four. But by all accounts, he was a great guy, and I was happy my grandmother would be back with him. She deserved it.
A little to the right, I caught a glimpse of my parents’ gravestones. I stared at them, trying to decide if I should go up there and say a few words.
But what would I say? Now wasn’t the time. I needed peace. Not to dig up more old memories.
And just as I decided to go, all the hairs on my neck rose at once followed by a shiver that worked its way down my spine from vertebra to vertebra. Just like at the funeral home.
I was being watched.
Pivoting on my right foot, I slowly scanned the cemetery. Maybe this time I could pinpoint who thought they could spy on me without me knowing.
There. I caught them.
Between two large tombstones and under the branches of one of the massive trees that dotted the graveyard, he stood with his thick arms crossed, stretching tight the long-sleeve black, white, and gold flannel shirt that he had rolled up to his elbows. He had big aviator-style sunglasses obscuring much of his face and a plain black ballcap pulled low to hide his features. All I could see were his bearded jaw and the long light-brown hair pulled back down his neck.
That and the sheer musculature of him. He was jacked-thick biceps and, just visible under the rolled sleeves, huge corded forearm muscles.
He didn’t move when I zeroed in on him. Didn’t duck for cover or slide out of view. He let himself be seen.
Who the hell are you?
I definitely did not know anyone with that sort of body and size, not in this town.
Nearly fifteen years and puberty changes people, though. It’s possible I knew him. Once. But not now.
I ignored the stupid, baser part of me that wanted to add thoughts about getting to know him. Today was not the day for that.
After a few moments of staring at one another, long enough for him to show that he was letting himself be seen, he turned and casually walked to a black truck parked behind him. He slid behind tinted windows and then was gone.
Tinted and lifted. Just like the red truck from earlier that had cut me off and nearly killed me.
Was this the same guy watching me back at the funeral home? It stood to measure it was.
So who the hell was he? And why was he watching me of all people?
Sylvie
Gravel under the tires announced that I was finally back. Stifling a yawn, I carefully put the car in park before bending over the steering wheel and taking a minute purely for myself.
Today was a thoroughly draining day-one that had left me exhausted and in desperate need of a recharge. Sleeping in the car wasn’t going to do it. That was for sure. I needed real, actual rest, but it was far too early for that. The sun was still up, though it was setting now. However, in the early summer months, that took a long time. It would be hours before I could let sleep claim me.
The reception after the funeral had been nice, but I had ducked out as fast as I could without being rude. I needed to be by myself.
Now, standing next to the door of my car, staring up the wraparound porch, I found myself waiting for a light to spring on in the window, followed by my grandma pulling the door open and beaming from ear to ear at me. She always had a big smile for me.
I wish I’d come to see it more often.
Regret slid in through that momentary lapse in my defenses, a blade driving its cold metal home with a torturous twist at the end-an added reminder of the guilt. I could have come more often. I should have.
But Caidyn didn’t like coming here. So we didn’t come often.
I started to get irate at him again but stopped as a gentle breeze tugged at my hair, lifting my spirits with its caress. Its warmth felt like a reassuring hand on my shoulder, a reminder that everything was going to be okay.
Out back of the house, birds called, their songs floating on the currents of the breeze, tugging me out of the brief spiral I had started to go down. One bird in particular came and perched on the edge of the roof of the house, singing its song loud and clear for anyone to hear. I chose to think he was doing it for me.
“Hi, Grandma,” I said softly, whispering to the empty air. “Thank you for that.”
Standing straight, I headed around the car and toward the house.
Halfway there, the wind turned cold, and the birds fell silent. I took a deep breath in, and somewhere deep in the forest, an animal screamed. The shriek went on, lingering in the air like an unpleasant odor, never quite leaving my ears.
I shivered fitfully and hurried inside, glad to be out of the chill breeze that had come out of nowhere to go along with that cry. Looking out the kitchen window at the forest, I pondered that coincidence.
Stop it. You’re thinking way too deep.
Putting my stuff down, I flopped onto the couch, letting the cushions absorb my fall as my body stopped supporting itself. The impact blew air out and bounced the springs. Next to me,my grandmother’s journal flipped on edge and then fell to the floor, spine up.
I stared listlessly for a few moments and then picked it up. It had popped open on a page with a dark pen-filled image of a giant tree. It took up both pages. Smaller images or symbols were drawn around it. I didn’t recognize any of them. The tree looked familiar. It lacked a tire swing but …
Getting up, I went out the back door onto the porch and held the book up at eye height, comparing the drawing to the oak tree with its tire swing. Almost immediately, I could see they weren’t the same one. The tree in her journal was bigger. A lot bigger. I skimmed the forest line as well, but none of them matched either.
“Wonder where this tree is from?” I flipped back a page to see the last journal entry. It talked about the forest and the new noises my grandmother had heard from it but nothing more.
The wind picked up, and the tire swing hanging from the old oak tree creaked as it swayed back and forth. I wandered down off the deck and went over to it, sitting on the ancient rubber and letting myself sway in slow circles, much like I had when I was a kid. Before I moved away.
Before they took me away.
It was an unexpectedly hostile thought. Perhaps I wasn’t as done with therapy as I’d thought. I made a mental note to call and make an appointment when I got back to the city. Today was justripe with new trauma to discuss. Lucky me.
The wind in the forest called to me-a reminder of the warmth and comfort I had drawn from it as a child. My grandmother had said she felt it too, though she spoke about it also having left her. Had it come back? Could I still feel it?
I left the tire swing behind, walking toward the line of trees. As I neared, last season’s leaves crunched gently underfoot. Here and there, a twig snapped. The warm breeze guided me in, and, though I was certain I was imagining it, the mighty boughs of the trees above seemed to groan as they reached out for me to say hello like a long-lost friend.
The trees closed in as I entered, and I was immediately lost in their presence. Tall and mighty, the old forest was just as comforting now as it was back then. Eyes half-lidded, I wandered into this new world, my fingertips running across bark and feeling its texture as well as the life contained within. Its pulse.
I recalled the last time I had experienced that feeling, happy to hear that the loss of it must have been temporary. Hopefully, my grandmother described its return in another journal entry.
For me, it was the day my parents told me we were leaving. That they had sold the house, and we were moving four hours away. To a big city, where my parents would find work and support me.
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