It was strange: I thought the fear and pain would overwhelm me, but I felt calm, as if she really were there and there was no point in missing her. That wasn’t true, though. I did miss her. I missed her terribly.
I opened my purse and took out some chocolates. I unwrapped and chewed one as I stared at her name engraved on the tombstone. Then I lay back on the grass and enjoyed the silence I had always found so pleasant there, beneath the one ray of sun that had managed to penetrate the thin cloud cover. Time passed as I let my emotions roll over me. I imagined her appearing by my side to awaken me from a bad dream in which the world had gone on without her. I had always been able to count on her love: selfless, sweet, eternal. Learning to go on without it was going to be hard for me.
I savored my memories, then I stood up and kissed the tombstone and traced out the letters of her name with my index finger.
“Goodbye, Grandma. I’ll see you again soon.”
I didn’t bother drying my tears as I walked to the center of the cemetery, following one of the paths worn by visitors’ feet that zigzagged between the tombs and mausoleums.
It was a pretty place, in its way, almost an open-air museum, with sculptures that included copies of Michelangelo’sPietàand William Wetmore’sAngel of Grief.
A light breeze shook the trees, bringing me the scent of damp leaves. The clouds were no longer white—they’d turned gray and were darkening by the minute. A raindrop fell on my forehead.
I hurried on to my mother’s grave. It lay amid blossoming trees under a statue of an angel praying. Dad was Catholic, but he hadn’t brought me up religious, and as far as I knew, his religious sentiments went no further than that statue. If he ever had believed in anything, it must have died with my mother and remained buried, along with his good intentions, inside that granite crypt.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, kneeling in front of her tomb. I pushed aside some dried leaves that had fallen there and laid down a bouquet of tulips. A fine rain was falling now from the dark sky, but the branches overhead protected me from the worst of it. “I’ve got a lot to tell you. I don’t even know where to start.”
“You could start by telling her how you’re going to ruin your life by becoming a goddamned cashier.”
I leapt up, terrified, and turned to see him there—my father, observing me with that contempt he had perfected over many years. He was holding a huge bouquet of wildflowers. He left it at the foot of the angel, kissed his hand, and touched the place where my mother’s name was engraved.
“How did you find out?”
“There’s nothing I don’t know, Harper.” His way of speaking made me feel exposed.
“Listen, you may not like the path I’ve chosen, but I’m an adult and this is what I want to do.”
He raised his arms in exasperation and let them fall to his sides.
“When are you going to learn? It’s not about what wewant, it’s about what we ought to do. Our place in the world, who we are. Sometimes we’re obliged to do things whether or not we’re inclined to. You should know this by now.”
“But…you always said we should try to find something we could devote ourselves to one hundred percent, and that’s what I’m doing.”
“I wasn’t talking about running a bookstore. I meant—”
“The company, investing, the family name,” I finished for him.
“Exactly.”
“I’m no good for that.”
“Then what are you good for? What have you done to make up for the…?” He closed his mouth and struggled to swallow the words burning his lips. “It’s best if I go.”
He turned on his heels and walked away, seemingly indifferent to the rain.
“Has it ever occurred to you that you could try encouraging me instead of always talking down to me?” I shouted, full of anguish. He looked back with a grimace.
“So that’s what you think, that I talk down to you?”
“Never, not once have you said anything kind to me, or even anything pleasant. I know you can be nice, I know you can even be sweet and caring, because I’ve seen you do it with other people. But with me, you’re incapable of it. It’s as if you hate me, and I can’t figure out why.”
He turned and walked back, his hair and blazer soaked.
“Maybe if you would stop screwing up for once…”
“I am. I have.” I brought my hand to my heart. Raindrops dripped onto it from my hair, which was damp now and smelled strongly of my shampoo. “And you should feel proud of me. I’m living my dream. I’m happy.”
He clicked his tongue, disgusted.
