I knew how not to succumb to my sadness. If I didn’t know, I didn’t have to feel. The hospital grief counselor had advised that while a funeral wasn’t necessary, it could give us closure. A couple who had lost twins recently, he’d explained, had buried the ashes of their children under two plum trees they’d planted in their backyard. Another couple had buried their stillborn daughter under a rose tree in their garden. Ethan had insisted that our child needed a funeral, but to me, it only seemed to add to the pain. I had been distraught, and a nurse had to come in to give me a sedative.
I knelt down beside the grave, running my hand along the edge of the headstone, wiping a bit of moss off the edge with my hand. I pulled a package of tissue from my bag, and used one to rub dust from the shiny granite. BABY KENSINGTON, the first line read. BORN MAY 3; IN THE ARMS OF JESUS 13 MINUTES AFTER BIRTH.
I didn’t bother to wipe away the tear on my cheek. No one was watching. I could let myself grieve. “Mommy misses you,” I whispered, as the wind whistled through the willow tree. I longed to hold my baby, to feel the softness of a cheek against my breast. I remembered the way they’d been engorged with milk, pulsing with pain, the day I came home from the hospital. How cruel, I’d thought, to have milk for a child I could never feed. I stared at the headstone. Every part of me ached for what I had lost. And when the stream of tears came, I did not try to stifle them.
Startled by a rustling noise, I looked behind me, where an older man in overalls with dirt stains at the knees stood with a rake on the hill above. How long has he been watching me?
He set the rake against a tree and walked toward me. I wanted to tell him to go away, to leave me alone, but something about his face—friendly, kind—told me not to. “This your child, miss?” he asked, pointing to the headstone.
I nodded.
“The name’s Murphy,” he said, pulling a wrinkled hand out of his work glove. “James Murphy. I’m the caretaker here.”
He gave my hand a squeeze, and I tucked it back in my pocket. “I’m Claire Aldridge,” I said, eyes fixed on the headstone.
“Must be a special one, this child,” he said, kneeling beside me.
I didn’t answer. He probably says this to everyone.
“I’ve been tending these grounds for more than forty years,” he said. “Never seen a blackberry vine grow here, least not in my time. The soil’s too dense. But look.” He paused, pointing to a sprig of light green peeking out from behind the headstone. The crinkly leaves covered a thorny vine with a single white flower, its petals so delicate they might as well have been lace.
I reached down to touch its stem, but pulled my hand back quickly, feeling a sharp prick. Blood dripped from my finger. “Ouch!” I cried.
“Careful,” he said. “Those thorns are sharp.”
I put my finger in my mouth to stop the bleeding.
“We grave minders have long believed in the legend of the blackberry,” he continued. “Do you know it?”
I shook my head.
“They choose souls to protect. The special ones.”
I noticed the way the blackberry leaves lay against the headstone, almost embracing it.
“I’m surprised the storm didn’t kill this little shoot,” he said, touching the tiny flower delicately with his index finger. “Special,” he said again, rising to his feet, brushing dirt from his knees. “Well, I’ll leave you now. Just thought you’d like to know.”
“Thank you,” I said, looking up at him with more gratitude than the words could express.
I sat there for a long time, thinking about the child I’d never know, milestones I’d never see. First steps. First words. Kindergarten. Sixth-grade science fairs. Swing sets and sidewalk chalk. Summer camping trips. Spelling bees. I stood up and steadied myself against the trunk of the willow tree. I’d come here to find Daniel, not to sink deeper into my grief. I came for Vera. I took a deep breath and wound my way through the rows of Kensington headstones, most made of marble punctuated with elaborate finials and urns. Headstones for wealthy people. Ruby Kensington. Elias Kensington. Merilee Kensington. Where was Daniel? Eleanor Walsh Kensington. Louis Kensington III. My eyes squinted at a smaller headstone. A child’s rocking horse was etched into the