Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(90)
The flower, she means. I turn to Francis, who’s still staring at it. Even after every plant she’s watched wither and fade, she still has hope that things can be different. I face Briana again, my own voice soft. “What if it doesn’t?”
Briana doesn’t respond, and her hand clenches and unclenches. Worry grabs it with both of his, and forces it to go still.
Suddenly Francis whirls, startling us. Leaving the window, she brings the lily over to Briana and kisses her forehead. “I want you to have this,” she says and presses it into her daughter’s grasp. Stunned, Briana takes it. Without another word, Francis creaks down the hallway and into her room. The door closes.
There’s a long, long pause. When it becomes evident that Briana isn’t going to talk about what just happened or what it means, I ask, “Were you listening to Joe’s station last night?”
She tears her attention away from the door to look at me. Her grip is white on the potted flower. “Yes. Georgie didn’t really give us any choice.” Another Emotion joins us in this small space, but I don’t let myself see who it is. I want to ask her what she thought, if it changed anything, if it helped at all. Maybe it was just a song, even if it felt like more.
“Well … ” I clear my throat. “You know I’m not good at, uh, expressing myself. So just know that I’m so glad you’re going to college, and I’ll think about you every day. And I hope you find a radio station that doesn’t play a single Elvis song.” When she doesn’t smile back, I make a vague gesture. “Okay, then. Bye, I guess. Good luck with everything. Not that you need luck, you’re so good at everything.” You’re rambling, that inner voice nudges. Right. I swing around and clatter down the steps.
“Alex.”
I turn. Briana smiles, a thing just as fragile as all those flowers. “I kissed Rachel yesterday. Right when we threw our caps into the air.”
A lump forms in my throat. “That’s good,” I say. “You’ll have to give me the details before you leave.”
Briana nods, still smiling and clutching that lily. “See you soon. And … you look beautiful.” She retreats into the house again, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a beginning, and beginnings are just as important as the endings. I linger for a moment, fingering the skirt of my mother’s favorite dress. It still smells like the attic I finally removed it from.
Eggs prances impatiently and I slide behind the wheel. Home? her expression seems to ask. “Not yet,” I say. “There’s one more stop I have to make.” The engine rolls over after a few tries, and then we’re thundering down the road, dust flying up all around. Overhead the clouds are thin wisps, so delicate that one gust of wind could wipe them away forever. Eggs hangs her head out the window, her long tongue flopping out of the corner of her mouth. Slobber splats the seats behind ours, but I don’t care. We pass the lake, the general store, the radio station, the school. Until there’s nothing but trees and a single sign on the right.
FRANKLIN CEMETERY.
The instant I stop and open the door, Eggs tumbles out in a flurry of legs and gleaming fur. I stretch my arm toward the backseat and grab the box Missy gave me. Butterflies flit through the air and long, golden grass tickles my knees as I trek away from the rest of the headstones, toward a row that stands apart. A huge oak tree towers over my family’s graves, the branches twisted and ancient in their wisdom. Kneeling, I dig a hole with my bare hands. Dirt cakes beneath my nails. Once it’s big enough, I bury the box containing the flash drive, laying it to rest along with everything else. There. Finished.
I flatten my filthy hands on my thighs and they all gaze back at me. WILLIAM TATE. TRACEY TATE. HUNTER TATE. “Love you,” I whisper, my vision blurred with tears. The scents of chocolate and mint drift past, carried by a breeze.
Suddenly Eggs barks, an urgent sound. She stands on her hind legs and claws at the tree trunk. A squirrel titters angrily from the leaves. I glance up at it and start to smile. But then something glints. I frown, looking closer … and the oxygen leaves my lungs.
There it is. Rusted with age, cracked down the middle, so brittle that it looks like it’ll never fly again. But it will. Because my father built it, and he made things to last. I jump to my feet and haul myself up the unyielding branches. Each one brings me into the blue, unending sky. The squirrel scurries into hiding, thinking that my outstretched hand is reaching in its direction.
I pull the rocket free, smiling.