Page 94 of Nothing Less than Magic
“But I can help,” I continue. “We can help each other.”
“You don’t have the greatest track record, Chels. You and Big Al are the cut-and-run brigade.”
I let out a long breath. “Not anymore. No more running.” I lean over and take her hand. “Will you do something with me tomorrow?”
“Probably not. What is it?”
“Mom and Dad’s graves. I think it’s time we said a proper goodbye.”
Chapter 25
I stop and bend down to smell a bouquet of plastic flowers. They’re everywhere at Forest Lawn. The practical side of me says,why not? They keep forever. And it would be a relief not to have to worry about clearing dead ones away. Or in my case, hiring someone to do it.
“Stop that. A dog probably peed on them.” Lolly tugs my arm.
“At a cemetery?” I don’t think dogs are allowed in cemeteries. But who knows? They seem to be allowed everywhere these days. Restaurants, grocery stores, hospitals. “But they’re so pretty.”
“They’re disgusting and tacky.” Lolly is done hearing me extol the virtues of plastic roses.
It’s just the two of us, as Uncle Sylvester thought we needed to do this alone. We’re walking down the rows of headstones, following a map given to us by a prim-looking man who punched our parents’ names into a computer and within minutes could tell us the general location of their burial sites.
The last time I was here was for the funeral, a surreal event where no one spoke the unspeakable. Just a lot of eulogies about how my father was a cop’s cop, a hero, and my mother, a friend to all. A young, beautiful couple that loved their family who were taken from us too early.
Lolly and I wore matching navy-blue dresses and sat in the first row as they lowered Mom and Dad’s caskets into empty holes. Dad’s brother, Jeb, sat next to us, drinking from a brown paper bag, mumbling expletives under his breath. Everyone pretended not to notice.
Grandma Josephine, my mother’s mother, was there, too. I remember pushing one of the handles on her wheelchair while Lolly pushed the other. She died a year after my parents.
“According to this, it’s the next row over.” Lolly is holding the map, examining the red circle the man drew.
We veer off the trail, and our heels get caught in the wet grass.
“I should’ve wore flats,” Lolly says.
It’s one of those perfect Southern California days, if you like Santa Ana winds blowing in warm air. Everyone on the maintenance crew is wearing shorts. I, on the other hand, am in a sweater dress, the same one I wore on Christmas. It’s all I brought that’s appropriate for a graveyard visit, but I can’t wait to get it off me. It’s sticking to my skin.
“I think it’s in this vicinity. Start looking for names,” Lolly says.
It feels a little voyeuristic reading the names on the headstones, like we’re invading a stranger’s private nap. We walk in circles but can’t find Christopher and Nancy Knight.
“I don’t see it,” I call to Lolly, who has skipped ahead. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
“I can read a map, Chelsea. It’s here somewhere. Keep looking.”
I catch up to her and snatch the map out of her hand to study it. “It’s three rows up.”
“How do you get that?”
I start to show her, but she’s already crossing the lawn, leaving divots in the sod with her stilettos. At least my heels are only two inches high. Besides a pair of tennis shoes, they are all I brought.
“Over here.” She waves to me.
I quicken my pace and join her in a leafy spot under a mature oak tree. One of the few in this part of the cemetery. I suspect Uncle Sylvester greased some palms. My mother loved trees. There was a beautiful jacaranda tree in our backyard in Porter Ranch. Mom used to say that she always knew when winter was over, because the tree would bloom in a halo of glorious purple flowers, a stunning contrast against springtime’s dreary gray skies.
I read Dad’s headstone first. “Christopher Jacob Knight, 1957 to 1999. In Loving Memory.” Then Mom’s. “Nancy Gay Knight, 1958 to 1999. Loving wife, mother, daughter, sister, adored by all.”
The contrast between the two is not lost on either of us.
“You know the ‘in loving memory’ part had to have killed Uncle Sylvester.”
