“Local high school teacher robs gravesite,” Phoebe says, impersonating a newscaster. “Story at eleven.”
“Would youpleasequit it?”
“I won’t visit you in prison.”
I roll my eyes, turning onto the church’s street. “Yes, you would!”
My nephew, Mason, fusses, and Phoebe begins shushing him. I hear the creaking sound of a wooden chair rocking back and forth as neither one of us speaks. I continue walking,finding myself at the church’s cemetery gate by the time Phoebe has lulled Mason back to sleep.
“Fine, yes, obviously I would visit you,” Phoebe whispers. “But, seriously, can we not just call the city and ask permission before you go digging? Or, at the very least, the church?”
“Remember what Grandpa Henry used to say?” I ask, turning towards the building across the street, flushed pale in the moonlight. I look to the top floor of the four-story brick building, and find a stained glass window. I smile to myself, looking up at the apartment Bonnie used to live in. “It’s often better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
“He was talking about sneaking into the kitchen to snag an extra cookie, notthis.” Phoebe lets out a long breath. “Is the ground even thawed? Do you not have snow in Toronto?”
I walk backwards off the sidewalk, then duck behind the maple tree, wedging myself between its trunk and the iron fencing of the cemetery. “No, no snow,” I say, setting the phone down and putting the call on speaker. A bird coos nearby, startling me, then flaps its wings as it takes off. I brace for sirens, or shouting voices, my eyes clenched shut.
When the haunting quiet continues uninterrupted, my shoulders relax and my breathing returns to normal. After a quick scan of my surroundings, I pull up the hood of my winter coat and click on my flashlight before setting it down next to my phone. “All right, I’m doing it,” I whisper, lifting the point of the shovel to the ground between the tree and fence, as Bonnie instructed.
“If you do get caught, what do you want me to tell Mom and Dad?”
“The truth? I already told them everything.” I break ground with the shovel, and I’m relieved to find that the earthis softer than I thought it would be at this time of year. I scoop up my first helping of dirt, and drop it to my right.
“And they hadzeroproblem with this? The parents who lost their ever-loving shit on us when we got our noses pierced on ourtwentiethbirthday are totally fine with—”
“I mean, Mom was a bit surprised, to say the least, but she was glad Grandma—”
“I don’t mean about Bonnie’s letter, dummy! Mom’s already posted a photo of Grandma’s urn with a rainbow behind it! I meant the grave digging!”
I stifle a laugh, trying to keep quiet. “Mom didwhat?”
“Yes, she photoshopped. God knows what sort of viruses she downloaded to get that software on her computer. Regardless, it’s visually offensive. She definitely set the movement back a decade, maybe more, with her tackiness. She’s also contacted a medium who,apparently, specialises in, and this is a direct quote, ‘the lesbian deceased.’ Be sure to check the family group chat when the cops give you back your phone later.”
I gape at the black screen, shaking my head. “I’m starting to understand why Bonnie’s letter skipped a generation ...”
“I think we can both agree, though, I should have been the one to get the letter, right? I’m the only member of this family who listens to Girl in Red.”
“What doesthatmean?” I ask.
“Exactly my point. You don’t know the culture.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to drive from Montreal to dig a hole, Bee! You have a baby to look after!”
“Grandma didn’t know I was going to move awayorhave a baby ...”
“She also didn’t know you were bi, did she?” I prompt. “You thought she’d be judgy!”
“Ugh. Whatever. I suppose I can be relieved I’m not the one being instructed to dig up dead bodies. I guess this is one surefire way of avoiding Valentine’s Day disappointment, if you’re in prison and all.”
“Would you seriouslypleasestop?” I say, looking through the iron bars towards the tombstones on the other side. I shudder, turning my focus to my shovel before I keep digging. I typically love graveyards—I’ve always found them equally fascinating and tranquil. But in the middle of the night while doing somethingtechnicallyillegal? That’s a different story. My blood pressure is higher than the church’s steeple right now. “You’re scaring me.”
“Fine,” Phoebe says, her voice resigned. “Are you nearly done?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, dropping another helping of dirt onto a pile to my right. “I’m not seeing anything so far.” I sigh longingly. “What if someone already dug it up?”
“Like who?”
“Maybe Martha’s family?” I suggest.
