In the Arms of Stone Angels - By Jordan Dane Page 0,8

a motel until we can do a little cleaning.” She pretended to be cheery. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“In North Carolina. I forgot to pack it.” I crossed my arms and slumped against the car.

“Stay put. I’ll need your help with the groceries if we stay tonight,” Mom yelled over her shoulder as she headed toward the front door.

I heaved a sigh and stared up at the old Victorian after my mom left me alone on the driveway. I wasn’t afraid of the dark since cemeteries were my thing, but living in small town suburbia scared the crap out of me.

Hours Later—Near Midnight

After we ate and made up our beds—at least good enough for one night—I lay in the dark listening to the creaks and groans of the old house. And I swear to God that I heard my grandmother’s footsteps walk down the hall and stop by my door. That would have disturbed most people, but feeling Grams in the house gave me comfort. It felt natural and I welcomed her spirit.

And I would have done anything to feel her brush the hair out of my eyes or tell me a story about when she was young. In the dark, I heard her laugh again and could picture her rocking like a big bowl of gelatin. Green, my favorite flavor and the color of Grams’s eyes. In my memory and in my heart, she was alive.

But I knew I’d never see her again. She was a star in the night sky. I was sure of it.

When the house was quiet enough, I knew Mom was asleep. I crept out of my room and slipped outside. I hadn’t changed my clothes, except to ditch the scarf and sunglasses and trade my old army boots for vintage Keds high-top sneakers. And I brought my trusty cell phone, like I usually did, just in case I got into trouble. Walking in the dark and breathing in the warm muggy air felt liberating compared to the old house. I picked up my pace until I was running through the streets of Shawano, heading to a place I knew well.

Pioneer Cemetery on Fifteenth Street. It didn’t take me long to get there.

A wrought-iron gate marked the main entrance with the name of the cemetery on a sign overhead. And the barrier around the grounds was made of a dark mottled stone that looked like it was bleeding rust down the mortar. I wedged my foot into the stone, hoisted my leg over the wall and dropped on the other side.

The cemetery hadn’t changed much.

I loved really old cemeteries, not the new kind that had no soul. Really old graveyards were like outdoor museums. And after getting familiar with where everyone was buried, a cemetery became familiar and comforting to me. And the headstones were like…family. I would read the names and wonder who they’d been or how they died. Or I made up stories about them. Being at the Pioneer Cemetery again was like coming home.

With a small flashlight that I’d taken from Mom’s car, I shined a light onto the headstones in a newer section of the grounds, looking for a name. When I found it, I took a deep breath and knelt beside the grave.

I ran my fingers over the name on the marker and remembered her face, but when I tried to imagine her alive, I couldn’t do it.

“I’m…sorry,” I whispered. I didn’t know what else to say.

I took out the page I had ripped from the phone book at Homeland and shined the light on it. The only mental hospital near Shawano was on the outskirts of town. And tomorrow I would find a way to go there. I wanted to see if what Mom had told me was true, that White Bird was in that hospital and sitting like a dead stump with vacant eyes.

I prayed my mother was wrong.

In my mind, I wished to God that I could see him again at that creek with the little bird in his hand, that tall boy barely older than me. And I tried to picture his gentle smile and soft brown eyes, but the image of him under the bridge at Cry Baby Creek—rocking back and forth and mumbling in his Euchee language—was burned into my brain.

To imagine his world frozen in that moment scared the hell out of me, but then again, I wasn’t much better off than he was. My life had stopped that day, same as his.