Collared(51)

I feel bad I didn’t tell my parents or someone who could have told them because they don’t need me going missing on them again. I’d just been in such a hurry to leave, and I knew they’d never have let me out those doors if they knew where I was going.

I wish I had a phone. At least I could call them to let them know I’m safe and fine and will be home later tonight. That is if I can find another bus that will somehow take me all the way back to Sammamish.

I sigh as I continue down the sidewalk. I haven’t thought out any of this. All I’d been focused on was getting to the cemetery. The before and after and repercussions hadn’t even flickered in my mind.

I keep going because I can’t turn back.

The cemetery gates are locked, but it’s only to keep cars out because I can slip right through the metal gates. Other than a few lights glowing from a couple of buildings, it’s dark, and no one else is around.

I don’t know where Earl Rae’s buried—I only know the cemetery because of the article I read in the paper my dad left on the arm of his recliner. My parents have been careful to keep the television off during the prime news hours and make sure the daily paper is never in plain view, so yesterday’s paper I found was a fluke. Or maybe it was meant to be.

I wander up and down the driveway for a while, examining the expanse of grass and graves for a patch of earth that looks freshly disrupted. I’m almost to the end of the cemetery when I notice a mound where the earth hasn’t settled. Finding it takes me longer than I’d thought it would, making me thankful for the jacket I grabbed. I take a breath, hold it in, and weave my way toward it. This plot’s tucked in the far back corner, so close to the fence’s barrier that weeds coming from the other side have started to creep in.

When I’m close enough, I read the letters stamped onto the gravestone. I’ve found it. I’ve found him.

My chest moves faster as my legs feel like they’re turning to stone. My pace slows. Taking the last few steps is next to impossible while dragging this kind of weight.

His tomb stares up at me. I can see him staring at me from beneath the ground. All at once, I feel everything I ever felt during those ten years with him. It drops me to my knees.

The earth is cold, damp. It soaks through my dress like my skin is lapping it up. His name is stamped across the gravestone in impersonal letters, the dates of his birth and death below. There’s nothing else. Not even a scroll etched into the corners of it. No title, no scripture verse, no warmth.

When I lower my shaking hand to touch it, it’s colder than the soft ground my knees are sinking into. So cold. So hard. So empty.

I don’t want this to be my last memory of him. I don’t want to remember him like this because if I do, how can I move on? I want to remember the person who celebrated my birthday every year with balloons and yellow roses . . . even if it wasn’t Jade’s birthday but Sara’s. I want to remember the person who didn’t do to me the things everyone assumes he did. I want to remember the soul who wasn’t evil . . . just lost.

If anyone can empathize with a lost soul, it should be me.

The stone doesn’t warm no matter how long I keep my hand pressed to it. Instead of accepting my warmth and radiating it back, it seems to consume it—to extinguish it. I feel the cold creep up my arm and tangle around my elbow.

Cold. Hard. Empty.

It’s not just the stone that fits that description.

Today was his funeral. No one came. I know because there are no flowers. There are no footsteps pressed into the earth except for mine. No one came. No one left him flowers.

He didn’t deserve to be put to rest like this—not even with what he did.

I hadn’t noticed the person come up behind me, but I know he’s there. I know because the cold blasting from in front of me wanes.

“What are you doing here, Jade?” Torrin exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

I don’t look back. “There aren’t any flowers. No one left him any flowers.” My back shakes from the sob I’m holding in. I cried in Earl Rae’s presence so many times that I don’t want this to be his last memory of me either.

Torrin doesn’t say anything when he moves toward the fence line. He just kneels and picks through some of the weeds, plucking whatever slightly resembles a flower. I watch him, and I wonder if it hits him the same way—at this moment, he and I and Earl Rae are together. We’re sharing the same space. All of those years of being separated . . . it’s strange how this feels, watching him pull weeds that look like flowers for me to place on the grave of the man who took me from him.

Torrin comes back once he’s collected a small handful and holds them out for me. His jaw is tight, and his shoulders are tense. He won’t look at the grave. He won’t come close to it.

“How did you find me?” I take the bouquet of weeds and let my fingertips brush his before pulling away.

“I followed the trail of breadcrumbs you left.” His voice is strained like he’s being choked.

“I didn’t leave any.” No notes. No calls. No nothing.

“Not the visible kind maybe.” He stares off in the other direction and shrugs. “And after what happened, I’m kind of hypersensitive to you suddenly disappearing.”

I’m kind of hypersensitive to certain things too.

“Everyone’s calling him a monster. A bad man. An evil one.”