Page 68 of The Library of Second Chances
CHLOE HAD BEENavoiding going to the graveyard since she had moved back to Wellbridge. Moving back into the house was difficult enough, but seeing Mum and Dad’s graves, side by side, felt like too much.
One day, she had told herself.When I’m ready.
She was glad that her first visit to Lucy and Thomas Keeton’s graves was with her sister. On the way there, they sang along to some songs, the few of them they could agree were good when they were teenagers. The car park was empty, and a sense of calm stole over Chloe as they climbed out of the vehicle and into the cold autumn air.
Gwen’s long blonde hair rippled down her back like a golden curtain as they walked together. Chloe had opted for a high ponytail, her chestnut-brown curls just reaching her neck.
‘I’ve always been so jealous of your hair. It’s just like Dad’s,’ Gwen said as they walked through the car park towards the graveyard.
‘You like mine?’ asked Chloe in surprise. ‘I’d never have thought it.’
Gwen took her arm, linking them together as they reached the expanse of green. It was a beautiful stretch of land that held the sense of quiet that always seems to accompany the resting place of the dead. A stone chapel, worn by time, watched over rows and rows of gravestones, many of them in the shapes of crosses. Trees, almost void of their browning leaves, dotted the area. The grass crunched beneath their feet, the frost clingingto the blades, as the sisters walked together in search of their parents.
They held bouquets of flowers in their free hands. Chloe had chosen roses for Mum and Gwen had gotten some orchids for Dad. Though their parents had loved both their children equally, Chloe had always felt closer to Mum. Their trips to libraries and bookshops, the way Mum would braid Chloe’s hair and read to her before bed. Gwen liked going swimming and playing chess with Dad. That was until the family had fallen out over Gwen kissing Liam, and Gwen had run off with her older boyfriend.
Chloe was scared to ask how many times Gwen had seen Mum and Dad in person since she had left at eighteen. She was only aware of that one Christmas during Chloe’s first year at university. Gwen could probably count all the times she had visited them on one hand. Whatever guilt Chloe was feeling for not contacting them enough, Gwen’s must be a hundredfold. She could tell by the way her sister’s shoulders had slumped, the way she looked sadly down at the flowers. Chloe couldn’t think of any reassuring words; like her, Gwen had likely assumed Mum and Dad would have years left, and there would be time to patch things up. So she just gave her arm a squeeze.
They talked as they walked, sharing memories of them all together, visiting a theme park, going to the theatre in Buxton, and their holiday as kids in Spain.
‘Remember how Dad got burned? Mum had warned him to put on sunscreen but he didn’t listen.’ Laughter rang in Gwen’s voice.
‘Oh, yeah. He looked like a lobster.’ Chloe giggled. ‘And Mum was entirely unsympathetic.’
‘If you’d just listened to me, Thomas . . .’
Dad had been bright red for the rest of the holiday. ‘We’ll have to see if we can find the old photos,’ Chloe said. ‘I’m sure there are ones of Spain in the attic.’
‘That’ll be tough,’ Gwen admitted as they passed some old gravestones, people who had passed away over a hundred years ago. ‘Seeing the pictures, I mean. But maybe it’ll be . . . I don’t know, therapeutic, too.’
‘Let’s do it when we get home.’
Chloe couldn’t remember exactly where the graves were. The memory of the funeral was a blur. They passed a familiar-looking part of the graveyard, and a gravestone caught Chloe’s eye.
‘Did you find them?’ asked Gwen as Chloe slowed to look down at the stone that read,
HERE LIES JULIE ASHCROFT, LOVING DAUGHTER AND WIFE. 22NDAPRIL 1996 – 30THMAY 2023.
A bouquet of flowers sat on the grave, more freesias and daisies like before. Harry had been here.
Chloe moved on. It didn’t take them long to spot the twin graves, shinier and newer than most of their counterparts.
‘Here they are.’
A lump formed in her chest and crawled up to her throat. Suddenly it was summer last year again, the birds chirping and the sun shining in a brilliant blue sky like there was nothing wrong in the world. Mournful music, some old rock song Dad liked, played as the caskets were lowered, side by side. Auntie Paula’s gnarled, firm hand patted Chloe’s as she murmured words of comfort Chloe didn’t hear.
The stone of the graves glimmered in the weak morning sunlight, the tops sparkling with frost. The letters, gold engravings, shone bright as new.
HERE LIES LUCY KEETON, LOVING WIFE AND MOTHER. 19THFEBRUARY 1970 – 3RDAUGUST 2024.
Seeing her mother’s name engraved in stone broke a dam inside Chloe. She knelt to lay the flowers before the gravestone, sniffling, tears slipping hot and fast down her cheeks. Gwen sighed beside her, laying her orchids on Dad’s grave, which read,
HERE LIES THOMAS KEETON LOVING HUSBAND AND FATHER, 16THJANUARY 1968 – 3RDAUGUST 2024.
‘We should come here more often,’ said Chloe when they had wiped away their tears.
‘Definitely.’ Gwen nodded, palming her cheeks. ‘We owe it to them.Iowe it to them,’ she added more quietly, and Chloe squeezed her hand. Her fingers were cold.
They cleaned the graves, swapping memories good and sad, from the games they played as kids to trips to the beach. It was funny how grief could blur memories; Chloe could not recall one of the many forgotten arguments, the times their parents scolded them for something or other. It was a marvel how some memories only Chloe remembered, and others Gwen reminded her about. Sometimes Gwen would mention a day and the memory would resurface. They cried as they talked, the sadness broken suddenly by laughter from recalling something funny.
