Thomas?”
“He was a little younger than me,” he said, pausing.
I heard commotion on the other end of the line, and a nurse’s voice. “I’ll let you go,” I said. “I promise to come visit soon.”
“Sure, honey. Anytime you like.”
The keys to Ethan’s BMW lay on the kitchen counter. I’d only driven it a time or two, preferring cabs to a vehicle with a manual transmission. Shifting gears on Seattle’s notoriously hilly streets frightened me, especially after the time I’d rolled back so far between first and second gear. I’d vowed never to drive the car again. It was Ethan’s domain, not mine—an unspoken agreement since the accident. Like much of our lives, since last year, a line had divided my world from his. But the keys glistened in the morning light. It would be easier to drive to the cemetery than to hassle with a long cab ride or navigate the bus lines. I hated buses. I nodded, scooping up the keys and dropping them into my bag.
I took the elevator down to the parking garage and stepped into the car, setting my bag on the passenger seat. I took a deep breath. Ethan. The car smelled of his cologne, his skin, and—I picked up a petrified french fry near a cup holder—his secret love of fast food. I smiled to myself, tucking the fry into a plastic trash bag in the backseat.
The tires screeched as I navigated out of the garage, taking a right onto the street. It felt good to be behind the wheel of a car again. I felt in control. I flipped on the radio and the U2 song “With or Without You” drifted from the speakers. I hardly noticed the big hills before turning onto the freeway. I turned the volume up, letting the music soothe me as I drove, taking the exit that led to the cemetery. They’d given me a Valium the morning of the baby’s funeral. It had made me feel drowsy and secure, like being cloaked in a big fluffy comforter, warm and protected. I wished I hadn’t taken the pill, though. I should have felt the emotions in all of their rawness. I should have let myself grieve. I’d needed to grieve. And now, as I drove the car through the gates of the cemetery, I did so fully conscious, feeling every tug at my heart, every dark memory, every regret.
I stepped out of the car, cautiously, locking the doors with a swift click of the button on the keychain. I looked out ahead over the grassy hill. As children, my little brother and I had often played in a cemetery near our home. Dad had cautioned us not to step too close to the headstones. “It’s disrespectful to step on the dead,” he had said. After that, I’d made sure to tread more carefully. But once, my brother had hidden behind a headstone and jumped out, screaming, “Boo!” In a frightened state, I’d leapt back, landing on my feet right in the space beside the headstone of a little girl who’d died in the 1940s. I’d felt terrible about that. Dad had said it wasn’t a big deal, that I hadn’t disturbed the little girl’s grave, but I cried the whole way home, too sad to ride my bike, so Dad pushed it for me.
The sun shone down on my head. I was grateful for its warmth after last week’s snowstorm. I thought about what the cemetery must have looked like with the headstones covered in snow, like cakes piped with white icing.
I stared ahead, recognizing the willow tree in the distance. The baby was buried just beneath it. A breeze blew a blossom from the nearby magnolia against my cheek, and I swiped it away. I shivered, turning back to the car. I don’t have to do this. I could turn back right now. Then I remembered Vera. I was here for her. I could be strong for her. I took a step, and then another, winding my way through the grave sites until I reached the willow tree that presided over the Kensington family plot.
With magnetic pull, the baby’s headstone drew my eyes to it. Ethan had picked it out, with his parents’ help. We’d kept it simple. No name. Few details. It’s how I’d wanted it. Ethan couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to know the child’s gender. He had accused me of being emotionally cold, frozen. Perhaps I was. But it was the only way