I run north along the ranch lane for about a mile, stopping to grab a couple fistfuls of Lupine, Balsamroot, and Indian Paintbrush; then I cut across the east meadow.I charge up the gentle incline to a small flat area sheltered by a windbreak of old trees.I pry open the squeaky gate of the weathered wrought iron fencing and step inside.
I haven’t been here in a good long while.Once I’m inside, I slow my pace.I do all I can to quiet my thoughts and remember where I am.
My family is here, those I’ve known and loved and those I’ve only heard stories about.The original settlers are here, and Dad’s grandparents, Angus MacLaine and his wife Bridget Lynch MacLaine.She’s the closest our family has ever come to celebrity status.
She was a frontier doctor back in a time when women weren’t doctors, let alone the kind who rode on horseback through blizzards to treat victims of the Spanish flu.My great-grandmother was even part of the history curriculum in the Sweetbriar Public School System.
I leave a Lupine by her headstone, in honor of all the strong MacLaine women.
Also here is Phyllis’s husband, my Uncle Murray.
And my mother, Stella Roberts MacLaine.I pause in front of her grave for several long moments, and then gift her with half of the wildflowers held in my hands.
I move on to the reason I’m here.
Amy died in San Diego when I was still in the Navy.She wasn’t close to her family, so I brought her here to be buried, so that she could be close to mine.I know it’s a ridiculous thing to think, but I didn’t want her to be alone.
Her tombstone rises above the ground under a Whitethorn Acacia tree that provides a combination of shade and dappled sunlight.
I drop to my knees and release the flowers onto the ground before the stone and trace my fingertips along the etched letters—Loving Wife and DevotedMother.I close my eyes and send up a prayer that she’s at peace, and that she knows she will always be loved.
“I’m sorry, Amy.”I sit back on my heels.“You died on my watch.I wasn’t the man you deserved, but I try every day to be better, for you and for Jasmine.”
Guilt, so heavy and familiar, crushes me.
CHAPTER 36
Finn
Guilt churns and stabs until it becomes a bitter sadness.My eyes fill, and I let the tears stream down my cheeks.There’s no one here but me and my Amy.
And that’s when I feel it, rolling like thunder inside me and surfacing, something I haven’t permitted since the day Amy died.My shoulders shake.My chest burns.I curl in on myself and let out a scream that rolls over the landscape.
“Fuck it!”I yell.“Amy, I miss you so fucking much!It’s not fair!I failed you, and I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself.I’m so sorry!”
The hurt flows from me until I’m limp, hollowed out.And when I finally come to my senses, I’m on the ground, a flower glued to my cheek with hot tears.I feel a gentle breeze caress my face, and the Acacia leaves above my head quake and whisper in the wind.
I close my eyes again and listen, imagining that it’s Amy’s whisper I hear, sending me a message from outside of time and place.But honestly, that’s never been the case.When she passed, there was only a bottomless void where her laughter and kisses used to be.
My love for her remains.It will never die.But her death felt like she’d been ripped from me and from the earth in a sudden act of violence.No matter how many times I’ve come to visit her grave and asked her for advice on how to raise our little girl, I’ve never gotten an answer back.
Never.
The trees continue to rustle in the breeze.The gentle wind is a sensual pleasure, cool against my skin after the run across the meadow and the flow of hot tears.I decide to remain still just a bit longer.
Just be here.With Amy.I rise up to sit on my heels.
My eye catches movement.I’m startled to see a blue butterfly enter on the breeze.It lands on Amy’s tombstone, wings beating as soft and steady as a heartbeat.
I don’t breathe.I don’t move.I just stare, not certain that this is real.
Jasmine’s words come back to me.Whenever I see a blue butterfly, I think of Mommy.
“Amy?”
The breeze picks up, and the trees rustle louder.I’m afraid the motion will frighten the butterfly away, but it seems content to perch on the tombstone and simply visit with me.
Then, I hear it.
