“Thanks for bringing me here,” I say quietly, cutting through the silence as Luke and I move straight down the center aisle of the graveyard.
“No problem,” Luke says softly. He keeps his eyes on the sea of stone going by. Our feet crunch on dirt and rocks as we walk, and I’m desperately trying to remain rational, to not picture zombies digging themselves up from underground or ghosts whispering in my ear.
Unsure of exactly what I’m looking for, my eyes instinctively seek the familiar: the groundskeeper’s shack disguised as a mausoleum.
Tracking my gaze, Luke squeezes the hand he holds tight.
“That’s where the smoking guy will be, right?” he asks. His simple question gives me a strange sense of calm. Belonging, even. From reading my life, Luke not only understands me, but he remembers, too. In a way, he has become the closest thing to a memory I might ever have.
“Yes,” I say with a nod, keeping my eyes focused there.
I’m so absorbed that I see the movement from inside that anyone else might have missed in the dying light. “Let’s go over,” I say, pulling Luke off the main path and onto a smaller branch cutting through graves toward the shed. I lift my hand to knock, but the door opens before I get the chance.
“Good evening,” says a cherub-faced man with a beard like Santa Claus’s. “How can I help you kids?”
“Hi,” I begin timidly, trying to find my words. “We’re looking for a grave. My grandmother’s grave, actually. I didn’t know her, and we were wondering whether there’s some sort of directory.”
“A directory, huh? The only directory you’ll find here is locked in my noggin,” the man says with a kind smile and a tap, forefinger to temple. “My mind is like a steel trap: it never lets anything out. What was your grandmother’s name?”
I glance at Luke before turning back to Santa.
“Jo Lane,” I say.
“She died last winter,” Luke offers.
Santa scratches his head, muttering, “Lane… Lane, hmm…” I watch; the caretaker seems familiar to me. Maybe it’s just that he looks like Santa Claus.
Luke and I catch gazes again, and just as I’m wondering whether Santa’s brain isn’t as advertised, his weathered face brightens.
“I’ve got it. Aisle thirteen, plot two hundred forty-seven. Or is it two hundred forty-eight? Follow me, please.” He steps onto the path and leads us in the opposite direction from which we came. We follow, farther away from the safety of the main walkway, right into the thick of death.
As Luke and I gingerly step behind the crunch, crunch, crunch of Santa’s work boots, at least one of us wonders about the sanity of someone who chooses to work at a cemetery. As he moves, Santa mutters under his breath about Jo Lane’s funeral.
“Sad turnout, that one. Only just the man and the priest. Poor woman.”
Blameless, I’m guilty just the same.
I’m preoccupied by the eeriness of the passing graves, now that it’s officially dark outside. Low-hanging trees make it even darker. It feels like the dead of night, even though it’s barely six thirty.
Abruptly, the caretaker stops moving, and Luke grabs my waist to keep me from running into the old man.
“Here she is, two hundred thirty-seven,” Santa says, gesturing to the simple rectangular granite grave marker at his feet. I can’t help but think that he’s standing on my grandmother.
>Sure, there were photos, but they didn’t do him justice.
Luke is holding two to-go cups of coffee, but instead of coming in, he stands on the porch.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
Quickly, I run and tell Mom that we’re going to the mall—hey, it could be true—then grab my jacket, cell, and wallet. I return to find Luke gazing out toward the street. He hears my footsteps and turns to face me, eyes bright and beautiful.
“Ready?”
“Yep,” I say, bounding out of the house and taking the coffee from his outstretched hand. He kisses me lightly on the cheek and whispers, “Did you get my note?”