The two earthen coffins sat neatly side by side as I patted the last bit of earth, putting the past where it belonged, then climbed wearily to my feet.
I stood and stared at the small graveyard.
I tried to speak to my parents one last time.
But only ice slithered around my heart.
One promise broken.
One about to be honoured.
I collected my backpack, cut across Cherry River, and never looked back.
*****
PART THREE
*****
INTERMISSION
DELLA
* * * * * *
DEAR JACOB…
Oh, wait.
I have a question for you, dear reader, before I pen this letter to my son. How do you begin to write something for when you’re dead? How do you compose something when you don’t know when that will happen or how or why?
How did Ren do it?
How did he buy so many trinkets, pen simple notes, and wrap them tightly in pretty paper, all while knowing we wouldn’t open them until he was gone?
That took courage.
That took undying affection.
And I find myself struggling in his position as I have no timeline on my death. I don’t know if I’ll be young or old. I don’t even know if I’ll outlive my son, in which case, this writing exercise is a waste of time.
All I want to do for Jacob is what Ren did for us.
Even gone, he reminds us we are not alone. He found ways to show his love, and even though it hurts—excruciatingly so—it’s also the best thing in the world because even gone we feel cared for, watched over, and protected.
I’m wasting time.
I’m getting off topic.
If I die, I want Jacob to know I love him as much as his father does.
I want to remind him not to be afraid.
I want to force him to stay alive and somehow be happy.
I need your help, dear reader. I need your counsel on how to do such a thing because, in reality, I fear what will truly happen.
I’m afraid that if something happens to me too early, he’ll turn his back on the living. He’ll embrace the hopelessness. He’ll accept the pain and sink into it forever.
So perhaps my letter shouldn’t be about what he should do, or a lecture, or scolding, or guideline.
It should just be what he needs to hear.
I’ll try again.
I’ll keep it short.
I’ll let my love speak instead of me.
Dear Jacob,
You are loved by the living and the dead.
You are watched by the caring and the callous.
You are real for now and for always.
Grief can’t hurt you.
Regret can’t define you.
Only you can do that.
So be who you want to be.
Love, hate, smile, or cry.
Be every emotion or none of them.
But don’t be afraid to survive.
Fight.
Rejoice.
Grow old and happy.
Love.
Please, God, love. There is no other purpose for living.
And when you’re through with this world…we’ll meet again.
And when that day comes, I can tell you just how proud I am of you.
Of how wonderful you are.
Of how much I adore my son.
Until then, Wild One.
I love you.
Mom
xxx
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Hope
* * * * * *
Twenty-One Years Old
I’D GROWN EXTREMELY intimate with the ceiling.
Lying in bed, night after night, struggling to sleep while Michael dreamed soundly beside me, I knew every shadow, imperfection, and discolouration.
It wasn’t that I had a stressful job or crazy deadlines. It wasn’t that Dad had met someone else and was hosting an engagement party in three months. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been on a horse in four very long years—although that probably had something to do with it—and it definitely wasn’t thanks to unfinished business with a man who’d thrown me from his home and then vanished.
Not at all.
Then again…that was the exact reason.
But it shouldn’t be.
Not after four years of nothing.
No letters, no phone calls, no visits.
For the first year, I’d stayed in touch with Cassie almost constantly. I’d ring and ask a thousand questions, all centring around if they’d seen Jacob or heard when he would return.
Each time, the answer was no.
And slowly, my questions dried up to just one.
‘Is he home yet?’
After a while, I didn’t even have to ask. The moment Cassie knew it was me ringing, she’d give me a sad no, then ask about my life as if to distract me from everything I was missing.
They’d hired contractors to run the farm in Jacob’s absence. John Wilson hadn’t bounced back since Della died, and his health was declining. Nina had opted to go to university away from Cherry River to get away from the perpetual grief. And Cassie and Chip were doing their best to stay strong.
It wasn’t fair that sadness had swallowed up such a vibrant, wonderful place.
But that was life, wasn’t it?
It came and went, far too fast and fleeting, leaving the ones not chosen to suffer.
Thanks to Della dying, I returned to my fascination with death.
I studied late into the night, reading research papers and theories that the brain stayed active even after death, which led to nightmares of still-alive cremations.