They Both Die at the End (Death-Cast #1)(46)
“Late-night chats with the Plutos,” Rufus says.
“I hope reincarnation is real,” I say. I’m already finding that this one day to get everything right isn’t enough. This one life wasn’t enough. I tap headstones, wondering if anyone here has been reincarnated already. Maybe I was one of them. I failed Past Me if so.
“Me too. I want another shot, but not counting on it. What’s your afterlife look like?”
Coming up, there’s a large tomb that resembles a pale blue teapot, and I know my mother’s headstone is a few rows behind it. When I was younger I pretended this teapot tomb was a genie’s lamp. Wishing for my mother to come back and complete my family never worked.
“My afterlife is like a home theater where you can re-watch your entire life from start to finish. And let’s say my mother invited me into her theater—I could watch her life. I just hope someone knows what parts should fade to black so I’m not scarred my entire afterlife.” I couldn’t sell Lidia on this idea, but she did admit it sounded a little cool. “Oh! And there’s also this transcript of everything you’ve ever said since birth and—”
I shut up because we’ve reached the corner, and in the space beside my mother’s plot there’s a man digging another grave while a caretaker installs a headstone with my name and dates of birth and death.
I’m not even dead yet.
My hands shake and I almost drop my sanctuary.
“And . . . ?” Rufus asks, quickly following with “Oh.”
I walk toward my grave.
I know graves can be dug on an accelerated schedule, but it’s only been eleven hours since I even got the alert. I know my final headstone won’t be ready for days, but the temporary one isn’t what’s throwing me off. No one should ever witness someone digging their grave.
I’m hopeless too soon after believing Rufus is my life-changer. Rufus drops his bike. He walks up to the gravedigger and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Yo. Can we have a few minutes?”
The bearded gravedigger, dressed in a filthy plaid shirt, turns to me and then back to my mother’s plot. “Is this the kid’s mom?” He gets back to work.
“Yeah. And you’re in the middle of digging his grave,” Rufus says as trees rustle and a shovel scoops up earth.
“Yikes. My condolences all around, but me stopping ain’t going to do anything, except slow me down. I’m knocking this out early so I can leave town and—”
“I don’t care!” Rufus takes a step back, balling up his fists, and I’m scared he’s about to try to take this guy on. “So help me . . . Give us ten minutes! Go dig the grave of someone who isn’t standing right here!”
The other guy, the one who planted my headstone, drags the gravedigger away. They both curse about “Decker kids these days” but keep their distance.
I want to thank the men and Rufus, but I feel myself sinking, dizzy. I manage to stay upright and reach my mother’s headstone.
ESTRELLA ROSA-TORREZ
JULY 7, 1969
JULY 17, 1999
BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER
FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS
“Can I have a minute with my mom?” I don’t even turn around because I’m stuck staring at her End Day and my birth date.
“I won’t be far,” Rufus says. It’s possible he doesn’t go very far, maybe only a couple of feet, or maybe he doesn’t move at all, but I trust him. He’ll be there when I turn around.
Everything has come full circle between my mother and me. She died the day I was born and now I’ll be buried next to her. Reunion. When I was eight, I found it weird how she was credited as a “beloved” mother when the only mothering she did was carry me for nine months; ten years later, I know much better. But I couldn’t wrap my head around her even feeling like my mom because she never had the chance to play with me, to open her arms as I took my first steps so I could crash into her, to teach me to tie my shoes, none of that or anything else. But then Dad reminded me, in a gentle way, that she couldn’t do any of those things for me because the birth was complicated, “very hard,” he said, and that she made sure I was okay instead of taking care of herself. That’s definitely worthy of the “beloved” cred.
I kneel before my mother’s headstone. “Hey, Mom. You excited to meet me? I know you created me, but we’re still strangers when you think about it. I’m sure you’ve thought about this already. You’ve had a lot of time in your home theater where the credits start rolling because you died while I cried in some nurse’s arms. Maybe that nurse could’ve helped with the severe bleeding if she hadn’t been holding me. I don’t know. I’m really sorry you had to die so I could live, I really am. I hope you don’t send some border patrol to keep me out when I finally die.
“But I know you’re not like that, because of Dad’s stories. One of my favorites is the one where you were visiting your mother in the hospital, a few days before she died, and her roommate with Alzheimer’s kept asking you if you wanted to hear her secret. You said yes and yes over and over even though you knew full well that she used to hide chocolate from her kids when they were younger because she had a sweet tooth.” I place my palm on the headstone’s face, and it’s the closest I’ll come to holding her hand. “Mom, am I going to be able to find love up there since I never got the chance to find it down here?”