The river was low. Rain had been sparse the past few weeks, and the bank was dry and cracked. The moss was shriveling along the water’s edge. I removed my tennis shoes, tucking my socks inside them. Muddy holes and rocks littered the path down to the water. The water had more trash in it than I remembered, and the stagnant smell was repulsive. Mosquitos swarmed over the surface.
Val plunged in, blissfully oblivious to the disgusting water. Boy was having the time of his life.
I’d intended to swim for old time’s sake, but the condition of the river stopped me. The summer heat and lack of rain had turned our place into a bit of a wasteland. The eulogy I’d prepared seemed ill-fitting. How could I lay her to rest when the water wasn’t even moving?
I tossed a few sticks in the river for Val to fetch while I weighed my options.
I climbed the bank and replaced my shoes. I’d been mentally preparing myself to say goodbye, but now it felt downright improper. I’d have to wait for the rain. I walked over to the old oak and ran my fingers along the engraving. Fourteen years changed a lot. It was hardly visible anymore.
Another engraving near the base of the tree caught my eye. I squatted to take a better look. “TC.” I wracked my brain, trying to remember what it could be. Then it hit me!
One time, on a particularly boring summer afternoon, we had buried a time capsule. I smiled, remembering how excited we were. We’d thought someone one day would excavate the property and find our little piece of history.
There were rocks galore on the riverbank. One nearby was half submerged in dry dirt. I pulled on the edge until it flipped out. It would do for a makeshift shovel. I started digging, grinding the rock’s nose into the dirt. I couldn’t remember exactly where we buried it, but hoped it was nearby.
Maybe high water levels had washed some dirt away, because it only took me about five minutes to find the thing. And only a couple more to free it. The capsule was protected in an old Folgers coffee can. Inside the can was a plastic Ziploc bag with a mason jar inside. We’d done a good job keeping it somewhat weather proof.
My heart raced as I screwed the lid off the jar.
Oh, Gracie, I miss you so much.
I pulled out all kinds of treasures from the early 2000s. Movie tickets and candy wrappers. A list with prices of random goods like gas, milk, and oil. A few pictures, letters, and a church bulletin unfolded in my hands. Two pieces of paper giving random facts about the two of us. I wanted to be a mechanic. She wanted to be a basketball coach. She loved the color green. I loved blue.
My eyes teared up reading the list.
Why did you have to die, Gracie?
I spent a good long time examining every single item, letting the memories wash over my spirit. Each piece brought so much joy, yet broke me on the deepest level. I glanced at her urn, propped beside me in the dirt. The finality of it all was surreal. Dream-like.
I blinked and whispered, “I’m sorry, Gracie. Things would’ve been different if I hadn’t been so afraid.” I squeezed my eyes shut. They burned from crying off and on all day.
I dumped the rest of the contents onto my lap. An envelope popped out. It had been folded down a few times to fit inside the jar.
I opened it, surprised to find a long letter inside.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Dear Pat,
I know writing this and hoping you find it is probably a shot in the dark. I could’ve sent it directly to you at Riverbend, but I’m afraid what I have to say may be too great a burden to bear behind bars. There won’t be a thing in the world you can do about it, and I know that’ll eat you alive. So maybe one day you’ll find this. And if you don’t, well, at least I got it off my chest.
When you get out, I’ll tell you in person and then we will laugh that I took the time to dig this dumb thing up.
I’m back in town this week. A friend was driving from Atlanta to St. Louis. He dropped me off in Pleasant Gap, which was a bit out of the way for him, so it was mighty nice. Only reason I’m brave enough to come back is because I found out my father died of cancer finally and Momma moved back to Louisiana to be with her folks. It’s hot as hell down there in the summers, and I think that’s rather fitting for Momma, don’t you?
I need to tell you why I never came.
My dad beat me half to death that night. He found out about us. I don’t know how. I really don’t. I’ve spent the last two years trying to figure it out. Like wondering how he knew you knew. Don’t matter though now, I suppose.
But he made sure not to scar up my face in case I was called in for questioning. He threatened me and said if I talked or went to the police, he’d kill me and you. Pat, he really would have. I’d never seen him so angry and out of control before. While he was hurting me, I wished he’d just kill me right then and there. But I needed to live.
I found out I was pregnant. Remember that time we made up after our big fight? We argued over something dumb then had a big, long talk while picking the honeysuckle? After our talk, we were laughing, kissing, and having a grand old time. Well, I was stupid and should’ve been more careful. It wasn’t until the day after that I realized it was my time of the month for making babies. I hoped nothing came of it, but I missed my period and took a pregnancy test two days before the police hauled you in.
I wanted to tell you that night we talked about my childhood, but I couldn’t. I was still reeling with the news myself, hardly believing it. I wanted us to get somewhere safe before I told you. But I never got that chance.
As soon as Dad left me alone after beating me, I ran. I hitchhiked out of town and started couch surfing. Doing whatever I had to do to find the next meal. It wasn’t glamorous, but I knew if Dad found out I was pregnant, he’d take me to a clinic and that would be the end of it. Or he’d beat me again and I’d miscarry. It’s an act of God Himself I didn’t lose the baby the first time. I should have.
There were a few times I considered going to the clinic myself because I was not fit to be a mom. My life was—well is—in shambles. I’d look at the timeline of my pregnancy, and my brain would play tricks on me, confusing me. Making me think it might be someone else’s. That maybe I didn’t remember properly and the baby was Willie’s or Ed’s or something. I didn’t want a baby from the likes of them, so I almost went a few times. Even had a consultation about what an abortion would be like.
