Born of Death: A Novel of After: Love, Sorrow., #2

By Gallagher Green

"Not a single one of us is related in any way. We aren't siblings, cousins, or parents to each other. But we all needed help in some way, so we helped each other. You're part of that now."

 

Mei is only seven-years-old when she finds everything in her life slipping away. Having Albinism has ostracized Mei from her peers and society. After being abandoned to die as an infant, she finds herself abandoned once again by the adoptive parents who were supposed to love her. But Mei has one person who loves her... until a car wreck takes them away too. This is when Mei decides she is better off alone. But she soon discovers life isn't as easy on the streets as she had hoped. With determination, Mei decides she will survive … or die trying.

 

Three years after Zoe's death, Sara can't stop thinking about her, and that day she lost the person she loved. Every day brings her renewed fear that she will lose someone else. To Madison, it feels like her and Sara's lives stopped with those words the police officer spoke at their door three years ago, leaving Madison wondering if they will ever be whole again. Though Emily just lost her mother to a car wreck, and her father a year before that, she fights to stay strong for Sara, the person she loves. But it is starting to feel too heavy. It feels like the cracks running through her are getting too deep. But everything changes when a broken little girl, with no options left, steps out of a thunderstorm and into her life.

 

This family, made up of friends, finds themselves with a new and unexpected struggle. The struggle of raising and protecting a child, a child that is far from average at that. But it is the challenge of keeping Mei safe with them, in keeping this odd new family together that makes life worth living again.

 

Tropes: Found Family, LGBTQ+ Family, Slice of Life, Adoption, Friendship.

 

Trigger Warnings: This story contains subjects of bullying, abandonment, homophobia (specifically: Lesbophobia), and suicide. I like my readers to be well informed of such topics ahead of time, because your well being is worth more than my novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Golden Art Publishing
• Release date: Nov 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223610021

Book preview

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Copyright © 2023 by Gallagher Green.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Golden Art Publishing at [e-mail]

Disclaimer:

This novel is a work of fiction. So, if you are reading this story and think, This is just like my life! It is just a weird coincidence. Though, I would be very happy for you, because these characters have a rather beautiful life; despite the trials. So all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Trigger Warnings:

This story contains subjects of bullying, abandonment, homophobia (specifically:

Lesbophobia), and suicide.

I like my readers to be well informed of such topics ahead of time, because your well being is worth more than my novel.

Contents

Preface

1.Lucy's Beads

2.A Journey Begins

3.Goodbyes

4.A Home in Darkness

5.A Veteran

6.Hunted and Homeless

7.Not Just Words

8.First Night

9.All for One

10.The Start of a Family

11.Aunt and Uncle

12.Moving Day

13.It’s Our Home

14.And Life Begins or Continues

15.No Secrets

16.Workday

17.Dressing Up

18.Visiting Lucy, and Friends

19.Little Piggy

20.Just The Three of Us

21.Vacation

22.Mom, Mum, Mother

23.Me and Mei

24.All At Once

25.Talking

26.Homestudy

27.In the Balance

28.Frank News

29.Safe

30.Judgement

31.Two Sides to Every Coin

32.It’s Just Sandwiches

33.The Day Before

34.It’s The Day

35.Complete

36.Honeymoon

37.Flowerbeds

38.Bride and Groom

39.The Beginning

40.Epilogue

Author's Note

Acknowledgments

About Author

Preface

This is a novel that is about being different. Though some of the best people in the world are different it doesn't mean it doesn't make life hard.

The character Mei is different in many ways. Mei has

Oculocutaneous albinism Type 1A (OCA1a), she also has many eccentricities that are hard to explain. I want to make it clear that these eccentricities have nothing to do with Mei's having albinism. There are many misconceptions and falsehoods around albinism, and in no way do I want to contribute and/or reinforce these misconceptions or falsehoods. Please view www.Albinism.org for more information about albinism.

This novel is for all of you who are different, that feel you don't have a place, or home. I hope you find solace in the pages of Born of Death, and a place in this world.

1

Lucy's Beads

Mei

I lie on the floor of my bedroom, picking at the crack between floorboards with a butter-knife. It is cold, the damp chilled wind of the storm seeping out from between the rough splintered boards like warm air seeping from a heater vent... At least, I guess so. We don't have heater vents.

I almost got you. Working the butter-knife slowly in the crack. Come on... I say to the emptiness, as the little blue glass bead rolls at the tip of the knife.

Finally, I get the knife’s blunt tip under the bead and gently lift it, careful not to let it fall off and back into the crack. As soon as it is high enough, I pinch with practiced fingers and roll onto my back, staring at the translucent glass as the light shines through it. I feel my eyes grow damp as I think of Lucy. She gave me this bead, and all the others.

She found out that I liked necklaces, so she would buy me beads and old costume jewelry at garage sales and second-hand shops so I could make my own. I have to finish this so I can show her, so she can see it...

I tense my muscles to sit up when I hear murmuring through the old floor. Lying still, I listen. They are arguing again. I know it is about me... because it always is. It isn't worth listening to. My mind is already spinning from everything else. I don't have time for this, and I don't give a damn about what James and Susan think about me.

They say they are my parents. They tell me to call them Mom and Dad since they have raised me from an infant. And I did for a long time, but not anymore.

How can I? They don't love me, I'm not their daughter... They are scared of me. They see me as the freak that shouldn't have lived, just like everyone else in the world... Everyone but Lucy. She loves me... She's the only one, and I love her.

I sit back down at my little desk, with the dim magnifying lamp shining over it. I move the lamp on its swinging arm closer; Lucy gave it to me, saying, You can't create beauty in the dark. I remember this as I softly stroke the black lamp, half expecting it to react like a cat.

How will I ever create beauty again? Because everything feels like darkness, I say softly as Lucy's words run through my mind, like a lost piece trying to find its place in me.

Carefully I slide the blue glass bead onto the string, the near silent tap of it coming to rest against the bead before it floods another memory into my head. That's the sound of progress. I smile as I think of Lucy's saying this as we would sit together at her kitchen table making necklaces. I slide the beads on one at a time, and one at a time, memories come to me of the time I spent with my only friend. It is like every tiny piece of glass contains a memory, like little magic balls.

The last one slides into place, and I carefully tie the thread ends to the clasp, making sure the knot is exactly as she taught me, so it will never slip loose. I hold it up towards the light bulb in the middle of the ceiling, and I watch the light shine through each glass bead in turn, every tiny reflection telling a story.

The necklace contains only the best of all my beads... You were supposed to create this with me... why? I say to the tiny balls of glass, feeling the little streams running down my cheeks as I wait for an answer from the beads, an answer that I know will never come.

I hear the tortured screams of the old stairs, the precursor of someone coming to my room; nothing happens silently in an old house. There is a gentle, cold knock at my door. How is it possible for a knock to sound cold? I wonder as the hinges creak as the door opens a few inches.

It's James. He doesn't even open the door enough for me to see him entirely. But I know this isn't the purpose of it, the purpose is to not have to look at me. Mei... he says with hesitation, we aren't going to be able to go to the funeral tomorrow... Sorry, and the door slowly closes. A simple message delivered, nothing more. But this simplicity isn’t simple at all. I stare at the door where no one is, my brain trying to comprehend the meaning of this. The feeling of repeated loss sweeps over me like a cold gust of wind; sudden, uncaring… cruel.

My legs go soft... I don't feel myself falling; I feel myself breaking.

The rough wood of the floorboards digs into my knees, but I don't feel it. My chest grows tight, tight, tighter... until the strings that make up my heart and soul break one at a time, like the strings of a piano that have been over-tightened.

I hug the necklace against my chest. Why... why? I beg, I plead to...

How could this happen? How can I lose the only person I have ever had? I sob, hunching into a little ball. My seven-year-old body tensing harder than steel as pain rips through me like claws. The tension is too much, the over-taut strings break in a cascade. With a snap, the final string breaks... and small glass beads stream onto the cold, hard floor.

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Soft tapping at the window brings reality back to me, and I realize it is raining out. I’m in a tight ball on the floor. The cold has soaked me through, as though the rain outside is inside my room as well.

I crawl over and sit against the wall next to the old cast iron radiator. A century of use has made its heat slow; at least, that’s what James says. But it is better than nothing, and no worse than the rest of the radiators in the old house.

As I sit in the near dark, I watch the big raindrops plop against the glass, only visible by the yellow light of the magnifying lamp. The overhead light is dim, its vague light no more than a wisp of yellow by the time it reaches my desk. The light seems old and tired, so I turn it off and let it sleep.

The clock says it is almost five in the morning. I move to the window and press my face to it, cupping my hands around my face to see out better. The rain makes the street lamps no more than orbs of light, the same light I imagine I would see from a lighthouse in thick fog, just points promising more in an unseen world. The sun will be up soon, I whisper, my eyes adjusting to the outside light, allowing me to see up the street a short ways; a street that is completely empty of people and life. The street and its absence of life feel friendly to me; I have always felt most at home where life isn’t present.

Carefully I go down the stairs, stepping in the right spots so the boards aren’t too loud. The downstairs is dark; I know it will be hours until Susan and James are up. The nightlight is on in the kitchen, like it always is, and in the fridge is a covered plate with the dinner I missed. Susan always sets my meals aside if I don’t come down. I don’t bother microwaving it, I just eat it cold.

It’s good, even cold, but that is something I can never fault Susan for. She has always been a good cook. She would even try to always make my favorites… Why did that ever have to change? Why does anything change? Why did I change? I wonder, staring at my plate.

It was Lucy that kept talking to me in the backyard as she took care of her flowers, when no one else would talk to me. I start thinking back to these memories as I eat; it seems that it is all my mind wants to do right now, remember what I can’t have.

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The sun shines bright as I sit under the big shade tree. I use my parasol to block the bits of sun shining through the leaves. You know, my daughter used to sit against shade trees reading, just like you, I hear Lucy say.

I look up from my book to see her carrying a tool tray full of gardening tools in one hand and dragging a garden hose with a watering wand attached in the other. Hi Lucy. I love this tree, I say, smiling as I lean my parasol aside and looking into its leaves above me.

There’s that smile, she says, beaming like she always does. And yes, it is a wonderful tree. Probably older than this entire city, she says, kneeling down next to the flowerbed.

Oh, look what I made! I say, suddenly remembering, and run over to her.

Don’t forget your parasol, I don’t want you to get a sunburn.

I have sunscreen on. I’ll be alright for a while, I say. Running over to her, I instantly feel the sun’s heat on my skin. See? I hold the necklace I made out.

That is lovely. I knew she would say this, whether it was a diamond necklace or one made of sticks, but it doesn’t matter because I can feel her words in my heart.

Mom had some beads from a broken necklace, so I made a new one out of it.

You did a very good job, she says, as she smiles, talking to me like people always talk to six-year-olds. But I don’t mind it, because no one ever talks to me in any way. You know, she continues, I used to make jewelry, and I still have some supplies somewhere. You should stop by, and I will teach you what I know.

Really!

Really! she says with a smile… Always smiling. Now, you better get your parasol if you are going to stay out here in the sun.

I know she is right and go grab my parasol from under the tree. When I return she is finishing the careful tending to a small plant that looks sick. What’s wrong with it?

Oh, it’s just having a hard time… Like we all do some days. She laughs softly.

I start pulling the little weeds that are starting up in the bed, as Lucy starts tending a large patch of plants with blue flowers. We work in silence, like we often do. Lucy has said it is one of the gifts of gardening, learning to sit and let the plants and earth talk.

I’m surprised you aren’t off playing with friends, since it’s summer break, she says, interrupting the plant that is talking to me, but she probably hadn’t heard it talking… he is quiet.

Well… I start to lie, but stop myself. I don’t have any friends. No one will talk to me, I say quietly, as I smooth out some dirt.

Why won’t the other kids talk to you?

It’s not just the kids, it’s everyone… even Mom and Dad seem to stay away from me.

Why would they do that? she asks with a little more heat to her voice.

They are scared of me… I say, grabbing a large weed hiding behind some plants. Just like everyone, since they know my secrets. I jerk the weed from the soil.

I see…

The rumors became truth, and my life became… death, I say, hitting the ball of dirt on the roots of the weed to knock the dirt back into the bed, like Lucy taught me to do. I hesitate, but I need to know. Did you hear the truth?

Yes… Yes I did. But you know, nothing in life is normal, normal doesn’t even exist. So just because most people start with life, doesn’t mean you can’t start with death.

You think so?

I can tell you my family isn’t ‘normal’ and we made it through just fine… You can’t let anyone keep you from your life.

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I look at the kitchen wall in front of me, a pale yellow monochrome created by the night light. I notice my skin is the same pale yellow as the light cast on it. Why are the other colors gone? I wonder, noticing the sickly look of the yellow.

The floor creaks, but not as loud as normal. The damp of the rain filled air outside has crept in, swelling the old wood just enough to quiet the aged protest against its enslavement… That’s what a house is, the enslavement of nature. Breaking the natural cycle of the tree, suspending it in a limbo between life and death.

The creaking stops at the edge of the kitchen. It’s Susan, I can tell by the lightness of her step and her hesitation. She used to drape herself over me from behind in a hug and kiss my forehead. Now she hesitates before crossing the threshold. I was just eating. It was good, thanks Susan… I say coldly, not out of anger, but out of the normalcy of our lives.

Oh, you knew I was here, she says nervously.

I heard you.

I see, she says, stepping into the kitchen. I close my eyes, knowing what she will do next. With the sharp click of the switch, the bright light seems to shine through my eyelids. Slowly opening my eyes, I feel the pain of the light sink into them as I slowly squint and then blink them open.

She sits down on a stool that is farther away than her place at the doorway had been. The light is yellow, like the nightlight, only brighter. I look at her as she sits there staring at me, as though I am a car wreck on the highway, and she just can’t look away.

My violet eyes meet her dark brown ones, and she flinches slightly, looking at the floor. She is in monochrome like everything else here, I think, remembering when she used to be in color, when she still sat at the table with me.

I can see her regret for coming in here, for not being a better person, for not saying anything… and her regret for adopting me.

Sliding my plate forwards I think of saying something, but there is nothing to say, so I just stand and turn for the stairs to my room, I’m sorry… I hear behind me, so quiet I wonder if I am hearing her thoughts or if she actually said it. I stop, listening for more, but only for a second.

Halfway up the stairs the light shining up from the kitchen goes out with the same soft click, the stairs are nearly silent under my slight weight. Even the old stairs don't seem to notice I exist, I think looking down at them as I climb.

My room is dark, other than the lamp. Even though it has the same yellow light bulb, there is something different. It is the pale rainbow reflecting from the assorted beads on my desk, almost like the rainbow is from the persistent rain outside.

See the bright colors inside the flower bud? Always remember that Mei, the world is never absent of color, color is just absent from our view sometimes. All you have to do is look for it. I remember Lucy telling me this when I once thought the flowerbed was colorless, with only buds and no flowers.

The beads on the desk remind me of this as they speak. They ask me to turn, and I do. There is only darkness, the magnifying lamp’s light not reaching that far. It feels empty when a strobing flash of lightning lights the room in a blue, white light that stings my eyes, causing me to squint.

My breath catches and my heart seems to stop as each small blue glass bead on the floor and in the cracks between the boards explodes with vibrant light. They seem to almost sing with their colors, all blue, but no two the same. You can’t let anyone keep you from your life… I hear Lucy say softly into my ear. I lean into the words, closing my eyes, the feeling of her fingers stroking my long white hair.

I open my eyes, knowing what I have to do. I grab the butter-knife off the desk, turn on the sleeping overhead light, and drop to the floor. No one will stop me, I vow to no one and everyone.

2

A Journey Begins

Mei

There is no sunrise with the thick rain clouds, but instead the world turns from black to dark gray; dark enough that the street lamps don’t even turn off. They continue to glow, seemingly in confusion of their purpose. Just lighthouse orbs in my fog.

I put on my purest white dress that is just above the ankle, its long sleeves stopping just at my hands, it’s my favorite, and more importantly… Lucy’s favorite. No one in the world is so captivating in white, but you have to have an accent of blue, I remember her telling me this as I place the newly finished blue glass bead necklace around my neck.

As I pull my heavy dark brown cloak on and tie it tight, I grab my purse, as I always do when I am leaving the house. It’s a white leather purse that only holds my sunglasses and sunscreen; but I always keep them near, just in case. I slip the book I am reading into it, feeling like I might want it later.

Turning the light off in my room, a strange feeling comes over me as I look back into the room before closing the door. The room all suddenly feels like the past, like it is no longer mine. I close the door softly while wondering what the room was trying to tell me.

I take my time with every step on the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. The old house also seems to be trying its best to stay quiet. Thanks for the help, I whisper to it, placing my hand on the doorframe as I step outside.

The rain is falling lightly in straight down lines from low clouds; it falls silently on the sidewalk and street. Opening my umbrella gives voice to the raindrops as they patter against it. Starting down the street, I listen to them tell the stories of their journeys.

I can’t help but glance at Lucy’s flower beds as I pass her house. Who will take care of you now? I wonder, staring at the flowers. They’re crying… I say to the rain, just able to see the flowers bowing their heads with the weight of the water. I can feel my own sadness coming back as I watch the flowers cry, their rain tears slowly dripping from their petals.

A large crow drops from the rain with a caw, gracefully landing on the shoulder of a concrete garden elf statue in the flower garden. I’ve never seen you before, I say softly to it as I stop for a moment. I know it is watching me as the raindrops gather on its feathers.

It just stares at me. What is it? I ask, not getting a response. Then it shakes the water from its feathers and takes flight, seeming to fly between the rain as the drops fall, in complete harmony and understanding with the rain.

I keep thinking about the flowers and the crow as I walk, but I feel better about the flowerbed. It is a feeling deep down, and I know they will be okay.

A car drives past every so often, none of them notice me. Not being noticed can be a good thing. I hope it stays this way, I think, trying to figure out how far I have to go in my head. It isn’t a big city, but it is sprawling, and walking takes a long time, so most just drive. This leaves the sidewalks empty.

It’s strange, I have never been popular, but I wasn’t hated or feared. I hated being alone, that feeling of no one being around was painful. But then it changed. People started to fear me because of my past. Their looks all changed, they were convinced of what I might be. So convinced that I started to become just that.

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You seem a little wilted Sprout, what’s wrong? Lucy asks, stroking my hair softly as we sit at her kitchen table with containers of beads lined up in front of us.

It’s nothing, I say, laying beads out in the order I want to use them. Lucy doesn’t say anything else. That’s why she’s so great, she lets things happen in time.

You want a soda? she asks, standing and walking to the refrigerator looking back at me, and I nod my head. But she already knew I would want one, I have always liked sweet things.

I feel the question building in me, and I know I can’t keep it from Lucy any longer. What am I?

What do you mean? she asks, setting the two glasses on the table and unscrewing the cap from the bottle with the hiss of its escaping pressure.

I don’t know… I say, watching the soda fizz and foam as she pours it.

You’re a beautiful, strong little girl.

Am I? No one else thinks I am. They don’t even think I’m human, I pause, trying hard not to cry, but I can feel the tears gathering, and I think they're right.

So what if you aren’t? she says, pouring her glass full. I just stare at her, surprised, and she notices without even looking. What does it change? Nothing, it changes nothing at all.

Most people would say That’s not true, or Don’t listen to them, of course you're human, but not Lucy. She isn’t like everyone else. She’s also different, and that’s what makes her so special.

Really? I ask, wiping my eyes and then taking a sip of my drink.

Look at that flower, she says, pointing at the sunflower so tall I can see it out the kitchen window. Here it is a beautiful flower that people plant and love, but in some places they are weeds.

They are? I say wide-eyed with surprise that it could ever be called a weed.

Yes, but it can’t change that. It can only be itself, rather that is a weed or a flower. You are Mei, and you can only be yourself, nothing more, nothing less. So it doesn’t matter what you or anyone else thinks you are, just keep being you.

I take another drink of my soda. Okay, I’ll try to remember that… Do you think I am human?

She sighs, but then smiles. It doesn’t matter, plus… how am I supposed to know! she says, laughing.

Maybe I’m a ghost, and never even had a human mom, because she was a ghost, too! I smile, laughing and feeling better in the way only she can make me feel better.

I don’t know, Lucy says, poking me in the arm with the tip of her finger. You seem pretty solid for a ghost. Well, they say ‘you are what you eat’ so I guess you are just sweet, she says, grinning as I take another drink of the soda.

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My liking anything sweet was something Lucy always joked about. They said I was found sucking on candy, so I guess sweets became a part of me. I really don’t know. I wish I would have asked Lucy while I had the chance.

As I walk down the sidewalk, the wind picks up into a breeze, and I pull my heavy cloak tighter and lower the umbrella. The wet wind is cool, but the ankle length wool cloak stops it from biting at me. I look at my cloak like I often do, and wonder what the sheep; whose wool this is, are like? I would like to thank them for protecting me.

I hear the whispers of a few people coming out of a store as I go past. One is a kid that might go to my school; I’m not sure. But I can feel their eyes on me; it feels like an insect crawling on me, that instant feeling of something there, but there isn’t. But Lucy taught me not to think about them, so I try not to. I just take one step at a time, paying attention to where I am, because I can’t afford to get lost now.

I walk past my school, glad that I’m not going there. Maybe I should just never go back. I bet no one would even care, I think. Looking at the empty schoolyard, at the spot where I normally stand alone, trying not to be noticed, much like recent days at home. Maybe I should just not go home after this, I think feeling better alone in the cold rain than I did in my room.

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I sit under my parasol in the summer heat reading my book and drinking lemonade. What are you sitting in? a voice asks, and I look up to see Lucy smiling at me.

It’s a foam pool floaty, I answer, leaning my parasol back to see her, and push my sunglasses tighter to my face.

Shouldn’t that be in a swimming pool?

Do you see a swimming pool? I ask, gesturing to the empty yard, and Lucy starts laughing.

I guess you do have a good point. So, do you want to come help me with flowers at my husband’s grave?

Yeah, I say, jumping up. Let me go tell Susan.

Okay, she smiles.

I run into the house and set my now empty lemonade glass on the kitchen table, but drop my book into my purse as I pick it up and sling the strap over my shoulder. I quickly look through the house, finding Susan in the little office room. I’m going with Lucy to help with some flowers.

Okay, is all she says, not asking how long I will be gone, or where we are going, just Okay. But at this point I’m not surprised, so I just run back out of the house before I can think any more about it.

I run outside to see Lucy waiting with my parasol already folded up as she stands next to her car. Did she say okay? Lucy asks.

Yeah… she did, I say, going around to the passenger side and getting in. Some choice of words, Lucy, I think to myself.

We start down the street, the sun shining in brightly as we drive. Do you have sunscreen on?

No, I put some on this morning, but it has been quite a while now. I have been staying under my parasol.

Well, that’s no good in the car silly, she says with a smile. Pulling over she grabs a lap blanket off of the backseat and covers me up, then turns the air-conditioner on high, pointing the vents at the blanket. There, now the sun is off of you, and you won’t get too hot.

Thanks. I smile at her thoughtfulness.

So, what were you reading? she asks, pulling back out onto the road.

’The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,’ have you read it?

I actually have, but it has been a really long time ago. What part are you at? Lucy asks, and we start talking about the book to make the drive go quicker.

It feels like we are leaving the city when I realize there is a cemetery outside my window that goes as far as the eye can see. This place is huge, I say, interrupting our conversation.

Yes, it is, and only getting bigger.

It is getting bigger? I say, wondering how it could get bigger than it already is.

Lucy turns the car, driving between the two brick pillars with its wrought-iron gates swung open. The road going in is red brick, with squares of concrete and pavement as patches here and there to fill-in where the brick has fallen apart.

Graveyards are always expanding, Lucy says. They are very popular… people are just dying to get in.

I see… I know I would… I say quietly, staring out my window.

Don’t say that… Sorry, it was a bad joke, Lucy says with a lot of regret in her voice.

I won’t say it again, sorry, I say, hating myself… like I do every time I make Lucy feel bad.

It’s okay, you just have a lot to offer this world, she says, taking my hand and giving it a light squeeze, and we both sit in silence as the little road winds between the stones and trees.

Well, this is it, she says, breaking the silence, stopping the car on the now gravel road; which is only two gravel tire tracks with mowed grass in the middle.

I open my door and climb out, adjusting my sunglasses so the light won't spill in from the sides. Is it that one? I ask as Lucy opens my parasol, handing it to me.

She follows my gaze. That’s it. How did you know? she jokes, and I laugh because where the other graves are bare, this one is overflowing with flowers and plants in pots and containers.

I help Lucy while she talks with her husband and I talk with the plants, but then she starts filling the water reservoirs in the containers, fertilizing and trimming the grass around them. While you do that, can I walk around? I won’t go far, I promise.

Oh, walk all you want. I will find you. Cemeteries are always safe. There is no one else out here. Just give a holler if you can't find your way back, and I'll find you, she says, taking a small bag of fertilizer out of the car’s trunk.

I start walking towards the older part of the cemetery, that I noticed when we drove past. I had seen the huge trees growing here and there from my window. It also just felt old when I saw it. As I walk past the shining polished granite stones in gray, black, white, blue, and other colors. They turn to stones of dull white, some engravings worn nearly smooth, forever concealing the identity of the occupant below.

Even though I can’t read the names and inscriptions, they are beautiful. They have become part of the environment around them, with mosses and lichen growing thickly on them. They seem to tell me their stories as I slowly walk past, gently brushing my fingertips over the stones. I remember their details, and feel as they appear one-by-one out of my fog.

I can see what looks like an opening in a group of large cedar trees that are now thick and bushy. The opening is now overgrown, with only a tiny hole in the branches near the ground. Leaving my parasol behind, I am able to slip through the hole easily. It opens up inside and I feel like I am stepping into someone’s home. The deep shade is cool with the completely blocked sun. I slip my glasses off, placing them in my little purse, glad to have a break from the tinted world.

I slip my shoes off; feeling like it is the right thing to do. Taking soft steps as I walk, I notice a small stone that stands only up to my knees. The stone is old and so weathered it looks like it’s made of velvet rather than stone. Atop the stone is a sleeping lamb, carved so gracefully I am scared I might wake it from its sleep. I kneel in front of the stone and stroke the lamb’s head. The stone even feels soft, I think, with a smile. Then I look down at the inscription that the cedar trees have protected from the harsh sun and blowing wind.

Elizabeth Grace Fielding, I read out loud. It is nice to meet you Elizabeth, I am Mei, I say., carefully running my fingers over the lettering. Something in my chest tells me to look closer, so I begin brushing soil away to find that the stone has sunken in the soft soil, burying the date. I brush the dirt away and see she was only three years old, and died over a hundred and fifty years ago.

I sit next to the stone and lean on her as I lay my head against her. I close my eyes and I can feel the cold stone seep into me, I can feel Elizabeth’s loneliness as I hold her in my arms, my warmth seeping into her. Deep in my chest I can feel her story, with the intensity of any three-year-old that has been alone for a hundred and fifty years. The feeling of being lost in a world she doesn’t know or understand, the feeling of being forgotten with time.

Mei… my own name seems to brush against me from somewhere else.

Elizabeth smiles at me. I can't see it, but I know it’s there, and it is the first time she has smiled in a very long time.

Mei… I hear again, Who is looking for me? I wonder.

Suddenly, the warmth I shared with Elizabeth seems to pour back into me, but it feels different, like part of her returns with it. I feel her step away from me, her hand sliding through mine as she moves away.

Mei! I suddenly look up with a jerk. Glancing around, I see Lucy looking at me with a little chuckle. You fell asleep against that grave, silly.

Oh… I didn’t know I did, I say confused, because I didn’t fall asleep… I know that much.

Well, I’m ready to go if you are.

Yeah, I say, looking around with the feeling I am missing something, or that something has changed. I put my sunglasses on and slip my shoes back on at the little opening in the bushy branches, and look back at the lamb on the gravestone and realize that’s what has changed… it no longer feels like a home. It is now just an old stone marker under a group of trees.

I step out of the trees and pick up my parasol. Goodbye Elizabeth, I say, brushing my hand on the cedar tree.

Did you say something? Lucy asks, stepping around to my side of the trees.

No, nothing. I smile.

3

Goodbyes

Mei

I stand in the rain outside the cemetery’s open wrought-iron gates. My legs ache with the pain of the long walk, but it is a distant thought in comparison to the other pain.

As I walk down the old brick road leading into the forest of stones and trees, I notice the road ahead splitting over and over, branching as it expands upwards. It’s like a tree, I say to the large oaks flanking the road. I don’t remember exactly where the grave is, so I walk in the general direction as I remember how big Lucy said the cemetery is, but I know I will find it because I have to.

I just keep walking, staying on the path, cloak pulled tight around me, my umbrella close overhead. I’m listening to the sound of the rain against the umbrella as the drops hit, when I hear the sound of an engine getting closer. I turn and see a little vehicle coming. There is no reason to try to hide or run, so I just step to the side of the road so they can get around me. But I hear him slow down and then stop. Are you out here by yourself? a man asks, not quite in a friendly way. He seems to be the groundskeeper, judging from the little dirty vehicle with its bed of tools.

Yes, I say as I stop walking, and keep my head down. Not out of shame or guilt, but because I know the reaction of people when they see me.

What are you doing? he asks this like someone that has dealt with more than a few trouble making kids in the past.

I’m not sure what to tell him, so I just tell the truth. I’m here for a funeral. I hate the words, they sound cold… heartless.

Oh, well, there is only one of those today, and it is over there, he says this and points like someone telling me where to find an item at a grocery store, with no emotion or empathy.

Thanks, I say and continue to walk.

Just hop on the passenger side and I’ll give you a ride over.

I circle around and open the little door, folding my umbrella as I climb in. I notice piles of dried mud and dirt on the floorboard, and know it is mud and dirt from digging graves.

I notice the man swallow when he sees my hands, but he doesn’t say anything. Is anyone else here yet? I ask.

Yeah, I think so. It looks like a small group, maybe a dozen or so people. Sorry I didn’t notice ya sooner, he apologizes.

It’s fine… I really didn’t want to see anyone else.

I notice him glancing back at my hands, so I pull them inside the cloak. The silence and his discomfort seem to grow heavier, until they reach a near unbearable point. But then I see it, the cluster of large cedar trees where Elizabeth is. This is close enough. I would like to walk the rest.

He stops and I open the door, stepping onto the wet gravel that crunches below my feet. What’s your name? he asks.

I start to turn away but stop. No, Lucy wouldn’t want me to do this, she would want me to be proud of who I am. I pull the hood of my cloak back and look the man straight in the eyes. I am Mei, I say with all the pride I can gather; which isn’t much.

He is silent, and I wonder if he too has heard the rumors of me, if they have made it all the way over here. Well, don’t get lost, he says, and drives away without telling me his name. I know I did the right thing and that Lucy would be proud, but it doesn’t feel very good.

The rain has stopped, now only a drop here and there. Are you late or early? I ask the few droplets as I look up to the clouds. Then I step through the cedars. Hello Elizabeth, may I leave my umbrella and cloak here? I ask, slipping the cloak off.

I lay it over the corner of her gravestone and then open my umbrella and place it over the cloak in case it starts raining; though, the thick cedars have kept it much drier here than outside the trees. I turn and step back out, careful not to catch my dress on the tree limbs. I look at the small group of people, the stone, the flowers growing around it, and know that it is time.

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Emily

I have always heard people say they feel numb when someone dies, and I never got it, because I didn’t. When my brother died, I was angry at everything, and everyone. When my dad died, I was destroyed. Crying all the time, unless I was there for Mom, then I held it back, being strong for her. Mom never let it show either, being strong for me.

But now? Now that I am standing here staring at the grave with Mom and Dad’s names both engraved on it as the rain softly falls? I am numb, and I understand it. It isn’t even sadness anymore. Is this shock? How do I know? I wonder, having heard of it, but not really understanding.

Sara cries as she holds my hand tight. I have only cried a little, but she has been crying since it happened, like she is crying what I haven’t. But Mom had also become her mom; since her family disowned her. Mom was like that. There wasn’t a child she wouldn’t love or care for, she just didn’t know how to not love, how not to want everyone to be happy.

My best friends Madison and John are here next to me as well. They are the only two, other than Sara, that matter. Everyone else here are just distant relatives that I last saw at Dad’s funeral, and at my brother’s before that. Funeral family. They are only there when people die.

There are also a handful of people I don’t know, but they knew Mom in one way or another, and I appreciate their coming. Though, I am a little surprised that her best friend didn’t come, I thought she would be here. She is the one person I wanted to meet, the one person that might understand this feeling… this loss.

The minister finishes his words that don’t apply to Mom, but she used to go to church, so I thought we might as well have one speak. He makes her sound all religious, which she hadn’t been for a very long time. But he does a good job, and it isn’t like it matters, they’re just words at the end of the day.

It takes a moment before I realize he is done speaking. My mind is just in other places. Everyone meanders around for a few seconds, making small talk. They then start filing to their cars to go to the sandwich lunch and refreshments we are serving at a small community building.

Several of the funeral family, and Mom’s friends I don’t know, hug me and Sara before going to their cars. They seem to think that my being forced to hug strangers; or near strangers, will help… It doesn’t. I just want to go home and curl up on the couch under a blanket and let Sara hold me. I don’t want to be here in the rain and cold as people that hardly knew my mom tell me that, I will be okay, she is in a better place, and that they understand.

As the last person goes to their car, it is just Sara, John, and Madison left. I have to go, Madison says, hugging me tight, and I hug her tight back; she and John are the only people other than Sara I want to hug. If you want to just go home, everyone will understand, she says, kissing my cheek.

No, I’ll be there, I say, knowing I should be.

Don’t do it for anyone else, only if you want to, John says, hugging me tight.

I won’t, but I’ll be there.

Okay, Madison says as John puts