The headstone is like a work of art. Now that I’m standing in front of it, I can see why it took three months to fabricate. I think I should apologize to the guy who made it for yelling at him for taking too long. It’s a laser-etched scene of a field of flowers, with an image of Katie running, smiling, holding a teddy bear. The detail is absolutely amazing and worth every penny.
Every other Saturday I visit her grave because every other Saturday was when I would get to see her. I’m just not ready to give up our time yet. I bring a teddy bear with me every time and now her grave is overrun with stuffed toys, as well as other little gifts that other family members must be leaving.
I climb up the huge oak tree that shades this part of the cemetery, get settled on a large, thick branch, and lean back against the trunk. I love the strength of the tree, and I like to think that it’s protecting my daughter. I sit up here every time I visit, and just try to let the quiet seep into me. Maybe it’s morbid, but being here calms me and makes me feel grounded to the earth that holds my daughter. It’s the only place where I feel like I belong.
My legs begin to feel numb, so I turn to hang them over the branch when I see movement out of the corner of my eye, and slowly turn to see a girl kneeling down in front of a grave not too far away from my tree. This is the first time I’ve seen another visitor in the cemetery in all the times I’ve come to sit by Katie. From my perch, I can hear her talking softly to the headstone, placing fresh flowers over the newly-grown grass. Shit. I was hoping to leave, but I can’t jump out of a tree and scare the hell out of someone in the middle of a cemetery. I put in my ear buds and listen to some tunes as I wait her out, but my attention is soon drawn back to her when I hear her let out a wail like a wounded animal. I pull out my ear buds and squint in her direction. She’s kneeling, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth as she sobs uncontrollably. I lower my eyes away from her, knowing too well what she’s feeling. Grief is an evil hungry monster that will eat you alive.
***
It’s almost dusk when the crier finally leaves and I can climb out of my tree. I walk by the grave she mourned over, and sick curiosity leads me to go read the headstone. Nick Bennett. Beloved husband and son. Twenty-seven years old. I’m about to walk off but something stops me in my tracks. I turn back and stare at the date of death. It’s a date that will be engraved in my brain and my heart for the rest of my life because it’s the same date that Katie died.
An icy chill spreads through my veins as I stare at the date, and pieces of information slowly come back to me about the accident. I remember Lukas saying the other driver was young, and his wife was in the car and got banged up pretty good.
I’m pretty damn sure I’m standing on the grave of another person I may have killed. Just fucking great.
I take the long way home on my bike to try to clear my head of all the thoughts that are jangling around. I never asked for any details about the passengers in the other car, and I’m not even sure if their names were ever mentioned. It was hard enough to deal with the death of Katie, but now, seeing the other side of the accident is even more of a mind-fuck. I can’t get that girl’s wailing cries out of my head.
I get home at dusk, and I’m not in the house for ten minutes when my doorbell rings. I put my drink down and go to the door, not hiding my annoyance as I open it.
“What now?” I demand as Evelyn walks past me, carrying a small pet carrier. I’m utterly confused as I watch her open the little door of the plastic cage.
“What the hell is this?” I ask as she thrusts a small furry animal against my chest.
“It’s a kitten.”
“What the hell is wrong with it?” I hold it away from me a bit and stare at its tiny face. It’s squinting. A lot.
“He’s blind,” she replies simply.
I look closer at the small, silver and white cat. “Blind? It has no fucking eyes, Evie.” I can’t even believe what I’m looking at.
“I know, Vandal. It was tortured as a tiny kitten by some evil teenagers. He’s fine now, but his eyes had to be surgically removed after what was done to him. He’s all healed up now and ready for a home. He’s been in foster care for three months while he healed and learned how to adapt. He’s only about six months old.”
Tortured? Who the fuck tortures a kitten? I instinctively hold it closer to my chest and it begins to purr violently against me.
I stare at Evie, confused. “Why is it here?”
“You’re going to love it. But you’re going to have to actually show it that you love it. And ‘it’ has a name; meet Sterling.”