She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,134

never been in the casket. Unlike the wooden exterior, the satin lining of the casket appeared new, only slightly yellowed from its time below ground, preserved by the airtight seal. A pillow sat where his head would have rested, and that pillow didn’t have so much as a crease down the center.

In the center of the casket sat a cardboard box.

The box I had seen my father give Auntie Jo.

Inside the cardboard box, I found two books. A Penn State 1978 yearbook, and a paperback copy of Great Expectations.

Nothing else.

Not a damn thing else.

I wanted to scream. If not for the fear of discovery, I surely would have.

I’m not sure what I expected to find, but it certainly wasn’t this.

The anxiety, fear, and uncertainty of earlier quickly turned to anger and frustration.

There had to be something else. What the hell was I supposed to do with an old yearbook and another copy of that damn Dickens book? Why would someone go through all this trouble for something so mundane?

A note fell from the folds of Great Expectations:

Your mother is at rest, Jack. Please let her rest.

I didn’t recognize the handwriting. Not Auntie Jo’s. My father’s?

Filling the grave back in went much faster than digging it up. I replaced the sod as best I could and scattered dead leaves left over from fall over the plot. When finally satisfied that my night’s work would only be discovered by someone specifically looking for it, I scooped up the yearbook, the novel, and shovel, and ran back through the woods to my car, carefully watching the cemetery grounds and the trees for any sign of another.

Inside my car, I pressed the button for the overhead light and flipped through the pages of Great Expectations. The book appeared to be new, unread, many of the pages still sticking together. I expected to find something written inside, but there was nothing. The first page contained a detailed map of England—Exeter, London, Manchester, Whidbey, Newcastle upon Tyne, and dozens of other major cities labeled. The novel itself appeared to be complete, beginning with the same line engrained in my head since childhood:

My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.

My hands (and my clothes and every inch of my skin, for that matter) were covered in dirt, and each page I touched came away smudged and filthy. I rubbed them on my jeans and that only made things worse. I reached down and wiped them as best I could on the carpet under the gearshift.

I set aside Great Expectations and moved the yearbook into the light. Unlike the novel, the pages of the yearbook were well-worn, some folded over. The inside flap of this book was filled with handwritten notes and scribbles—Maybe next year you’ll learn to hold your beer! – Al Waters, Hey Eddie, Get a haircut, you shit! – Gene Glaspie, Two more years to go, good luck with that! – Enid Sather…there were dozens of them, but none written by names I recognized.

I turned to the first dog-eared page—Class of 1979 across the top. The photographs of three students were circled on the opposite page:

Perla Beyham

Cammie Brotherton

Jaquelyn Breece

Two on the next page:

Jeffery Dalton

Garret Dotts

The three pages that followed had no circled photographs. The next I found was a face I recognized—Kaitlyn Gargery—my mother, young and beautiful—Gargery being her maiden name. I continued to turn the pages, slower now. Each dog-eared page contained circled images:

Penelope Maudlin

Richard Nettleton

Keith Pickford

Emma Tackett

The third to last marked page had my father—Edward Thatch. The final page was someone I did not know, named Lester Woodford. He wore thick glasses and had unruly curly hair.

I flipped back to Richard Nettleton. Stella’s father? Then to Emma Tackett—possibly Stella’s mother, like my mother, listed with her maiden name? None of them married yet, too early in their lives.

The final marked page wasn’t among the student pictures at the front, but was at the rear of the book with the staff members. Although much younger, it was a face I recognized, a name I knew well—Elfrieda Leech, Guidance Counselor.

I dropped the book into the passenger seat, started the car, and raced down Nobles Lane as the sun began to climb over the horizon.

The first time I knocked, I did so lightly. It was just a little after six in the morning, and many in the