eyes to adjust. The moon is wonky tonight—a balloon that’s lost some of its air—but it’s bright, and after a few moments I have to acknowledge that I’ve seen all there is to see.
There’s nothing here. No sign my mother was ever laid to rest. I sink to the ground, press into the mud wall behind me, and stare at the hollow coffin.
“I’ll give you a minute,” Helene says, “but that’s all we can afford. The sheriff is gathering his resources now. They won’t be long.”
If by “resources” she means Deputy Wimby, we might have more time than she knows.
Out of the corner of my eye I see her throw Jake a glance, and then she’s gone. His face, however, hovers above, but it’s only there for a moment more. His feet swing over—bare—and he drops next to me—shirtless. He was dragged from bed as well, it seems. From his dream to my nightmare.
He doesn’t say anything. He just sits and takes my hand.
I’m grateful.
“The first time you kissed me was here,” I say.
“And the second.”
I turn and press my face into the hollow at his neck, wanting to be anywhere but here, wanting to relive that moment. I’ve done it so many times. Eyes closed, quietly remembering. But I’ll save it for later, when the sirens are silenced, when I’m lost in my own sheets and blankets. When my surroundings are more dream and less nightmare.
But even my dreams aren’t safe anymore.
I force my thoughts back to now, as dreadful as now seems to be.
“When we visited Ali’s grave last month, and the month before, and the month before that,” I say, “I felt a peace. It was like my own feelings, but what I was experiencing were hers. Her body was at rest. At peace.” I shift, something sticky pulling at my knee. “But here? The only time I’ve ever felt anything here has been with you.”
Jake doesn’t say anything, but we’ve had similar discussions before. He’s always kind, but I know he’s not as dependent on feelings as I am. And I do feel now. Confused. Lost. And from somewhere deep within a sense of betrayal starts to form.
“Dad must’ve known—when he buried her. He must’ve known the casket was empty.”
“Why do you say that?”
I have to think about the question. Have to reason my way to an answer, because Jake’s implication—that it happened unbeknownst to Dad—is entirely plausible. It could have been an error by the funeral home or something else equally unlikely. But something about Virtue’s words, about his showing up while Dad is all misery and alcohol—something makes me certain.
Dad knew.
“Give him the benefit of the doubt, okay?” Jake says. “This is going to be hard enough on the guy.”
After all my dad has put Jake through, it’s strange for him to be all Bill O’Reilly about it. Fair and balanced or whatever they claim. But he’s right, and I know it.
Still, I’d rather he just take my side.
“There aren’t sides here,” he says, reading my mind again. “Just”—he fingers a shard of a wood protruding from the casket—“man, just devastation. And there’s more than enough of it to go around.”
Something skitters across my foot, small with lots of legs. I jerk, trying to be rid of it, but the thing is stubborn and clings to my ankle. I knock it away with my hand.
And then Helene is here.
“The sheriff’s heading this way,” she says. “He’s gathered a crew to assess the damage. If you’d like to stay we can, but we should at least take to the Celestial.”
I can hear them, their voices, their feet on the cobbled path. The sheriff shouts instructions; several men interrupt, asking questions. Their voices are gruff, demanding.
Angry.
In my mind’s eye I imagine them carrying pitchforks, and I don’t want to be here when they arrive.
I turn back to Helene. Her hands are on her hips, her legs straddling the casket. It’s casual, almost haphazard, and my stomach twists at the near disregard for . . .
For what?
It’s nothing but an empty box.
And it’s never been anything more than that.
“I’m ready,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”
We land in my living room to the sound of a ringing phone. The answering machine picks up as we transfer to the Terrestrial. The three of us stand in a triangle—Helene, Jake, and I—staring at the end table where the phone and the small machine sit side by side. Our outgoing message is old, recorded nearly a decade ago—Dad and