Page 64 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“I’m going to take you home, Mom.” Lucas holds eye contact while he slowly gets to his feet.

“Where’s your sister at?” Susan asks, ornery now.

“She’s out on a bike ride,” Lucas says, exchanging a glance with each of us. He whispers, “I’m sorry. She was much better this morning.”

“It’s all right,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael adds.

Lucas reaches for Beth’s hand and holds it while Michael and I retreat a few steps to give them a moment. He tells her he’ll call later, thanks her for letting him stop by, and then drops her hand.

“Emma better be home before dinner,” Susan says as Lucas starts to wheel her back up the driveway

Beth turns toward us, tears streaking her face.

“Do you think Mom really said something to Susan?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says through the tears, her voice cracking.

“What do we do?” I ask.

“Nothing. Even if Mom confessed to Susan, she’s too far gone for anyone to believe her,” Michael says in a hushed voice.

“But if Mom did tell her, maybe that’s what she wanted...” I say.

“Stop,” Beth interjects. She looks down at the urn and takes a deep breath, composing herself. “The only thing that I know Mom wanted was for her ashes to be spread around this property.” She pulls the lid off, and Michael takes it from her. Her hand disappears inside of the container and emerges with a handful of ashes. Beth tosses them into the wind and says, “No matter what you’ve done, Mom, I still love you.”

I slide my hand into the urn, collecting a scoop of ashes. I don’t say anything before scattering them around me. I had planned to say something at Mom’s service, but now that I’m here, I think those words are better left unsaid.

Michael hesitates when Beth extends the urn to him. He never liked the idea of cremation, so I’m sure flinging Mom’s ashes around is even less appealing to him. She nudges the urn toward him again. Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh and dips his hand into it, holding up a palm full of ash.

“I can’t believe this is what we’re reduced to when we die—ashes.” He turns his hand over. Some of the dust swirls in the air while the rest plummets to the ground.

“Sometimes we’re reduced to much less when we’re alive,” I say.

Beth and Michael exchange a worried look. We walk the property, scattering her ashes and reminiscing on our favorite memories of Mom. The wind carries some of her away. The rest lands on the dewy grass, melding with the earth. By the time we’re done, the sun is just a sliver, the horizon nearly swallowing it whole. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as the sun eventually sets on us all.

THIRTY-FIVE

LAURA

DECEMBER 27, 1999

The sound of the shower sputtering to life jolts me awake. It’s pitch-black and quiet, save for the running water. The numbers on the alarm clock glow red with the time: 3:06 a.m. My hands search the other side of the bed, sliding along the twisted sheets and comforter. It’s empty. Where’s Brian? A streak of light glows beneath the bathroom door. Why would he be showering right now? I flick on the bedside lamp as I get to my feet and slip on my housecoat. I stare at the bathroom door for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I push it open. Brian stands on the other side of the fogged-up shower door. His head is tilted forward while the stream of water splats against the back of his neck, running down the sides of his face.

“Brian,” I say.

His shoulders jump, and he slowly lifts his head. “Yeah, Laura.”

“What are you doing?”

He hesitates before he responds, so I know whatever he says won’t be the truth.

“I think I’m getting sick. I woke up sweating, thought it’d help to take a cold shower.”

The steam fogging the mirror and shower door tells another story. I glance down at the floor, spotting his clothes crumpled in a pile. Bending down, I pick each one up and examine it.

“Laura,” he says. “You can go back to bed. I’ll be out in a minute.”

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