“When this is over…when it…happens, you’ll need to bury me in the field,” Grandma says, not wasting time. “With the others.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. How can she possibly talk so casually about this? About…dying.
Mom flinches at her words, and it’s clear she’s as unprepared for them as I feel.
“Do you remember the place?” Grandma goes on, her eyes no longer as sharp as they were mere moments ago. She looks as if she might fall asleep. “Billie? Tell me you remember. Under the willow tree, where the lilies come up in May. There’s a row of markers I showed you when you were young. They’re there, though they might be covered in moss. Crooked. You might have to look, but you’ll see them. They’re waiting for me. Your grandma Ruth. My gran, Martha. And her mother before her. All of us.”
Mom steps forward, hands clasped together. “But you’ll want a funeral. A casket. You haven’t told me?—”
“I don’t want any of that.” Grandma cuts her off with a heavy breath. “Just put my body in the ground. Return me to the earth. To my mother and sister. My gran.” It’s the first time I hear her voice crack, and when I look from Mom to her, Grandma’s eyes are squeezed shut. “Corinne should help. She needs to learn our traditions.”
“She’s a child.” Mom’s voice turns to steel, her cheeks pale.
“She’s a Wilde.” Grandma’s thumb runs over my knuckles, and her gaze spars with Mom’s. I love the way she says our name. It always makes me feel powerful. As if it’s a spell. A promise.
There’s a long pause, and it feels as if they’re still talking without moving their mouths. Still arguing, though only in silence and flicks of gazes.
Finally, Mom takes half a step back. When she speaks, her voice is flat. “I remember the place.” When Grandma isn’t looking, I catch her rolling her eyes.
“Good.” Grandma turns to me again. “You remember the meadow, don’t you, Corinne?” She pats my hand, and my breathing catches in my throat. “It’s special. Sacred. Guarded by generations of Wilde women, but played in by those same women as they grew.” She lifts her hand, popping a finger on the end of my nose. “The earth needs both, you know? The laughter and the bones.”
She pauses, studying me. “You were a child who played there, and one day…one day when you play, you’ll stop by and say hello to me again, won’t you? You’ll visit me? In the meadow, where I’ll be waiting.” She lifts her wrinkled hand and brushes a stray tear from her weathered cheek. Then, a smile. “And someday, your grandchildren will visit you, too.” She draws in her lips, eyes closing once more. I don’t know if she’s looking for an answer, but I can’t bring myself to speak.
When she opens her eyes again, I nod softly, afraid the memories of the meadow will make me feel too much, miss too much. But it’s clear I have no choice.
Without warning, the memories flood back into my mind without much care for my feelings. Long days in the tall grass. Weaving flower crowns from the wildflowers. Befriending the bugs and making bouquets with the dandelions. The sunlight warming my tangled hair. Chasing shadows with a stick for a sword and dancing with the fairies. Pretending the wind could talk. Imagining it could tell me secrets and keep me safe. I used to lie in the middle of that field and feel the ground breathing beneath me.
“I thought it was a fairy garden,” I admit. “When I was little, I thought it was magic.”
Grandma’s eyes soften. “Who says it isn’t?” She squeezes my hand once more.
“We should let your grandma get some rest,” Mom says, touching my back gently.
I wait for Grandma to argue, to say I should stay right here with her, but she doesn’t. She nods her chin toward the door with a look I’ll never forget.
I think she knows.
I think maybe she is trying to burn the image of me into her brain.
Somehow, she knows it will be the last time she ever sees me. That this is it for us.
“Foxglove is yours now, Billie,” I hear Grandma whisper as we walk out the door, talking to my mom. “Don’t forget about her.”
“I’ll get you some tea and another blanket.” Mom doesn’t cry as we walk away. She just nods once, her body tight as a fist, and shuts the door.
As we watch her sleeping peacefully that night, Hazel Wilde—mother of Billie Wilde, grandmother of me—takes her last breath.
Death is silent, I learn. Hers is, anyway. She doesn’t make a sound. She just goes eerily still, her final breath slipping out between her lips like smoke from a chimney, barely there, then gone all at once.
Two days later, we bury her in the meadow under the willow tree.
In the end, Mom honors Grandma’s wishes. We find the largest stone we can to mark her grave, then begin digging. As we work, I silently promise to visit her, just like she asked.
Mom lets me help with every part of the process, which surprises me.
Maybe she needs my help, though.
I can’t stop watching her. Worrying. Taking stock of the slight wrinkles around her eyes, the streaks of shimmering silver starting to appear in her hair, the heavy way she breathes.
She’s getting older, and for the first time in my life, that scares me.
