Chapter Forty-Seven

Giles

LAST YEAR, MY MOTHER AND I didn't come to my father's grave together for the anniversary of his death. She couldn't, she was in the hospital. And though I should've been there with her, I chose to come alone and ask my father questions he couldn't answer, blame him for things he had no idea would happen. 

I can still taste the anger on my tongue from that day, the bitterness that seemed to flow through my veins for months to come.

The anger has faded away and with it, a lot of the questions I had. Questions, I now realize, were self-serving. Questions that simplify things that aren't meant to be simplified, trivializing issues that run deeper than I understood at the time.

I make that drive to the cemetery again this morning. Only this time, my mother sits in the car beside me. When I picked her up, she hugged me tight and seemed to breathe me in the way mothers do to young children. I should've felt something then, but all I felt was cold. 

We're quiet on the way to Point Loma. I can see her fiddling with her hands from the corner of my eye. One time, I make the mistake of glancing down and glimpse the old scars on her wrists. They are what I dread most about seeing my mother, they are a cruel reminder of a day I'd much rather forget.

My mother goes unusually still as the hedges and bushes on the left side of the road fall away to unveil slopping grass and countless identical white headstones in perfect rows, as Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery comes into view.

I reach over and silently take her hand, closing my fingers over it. I don't know if it's my gesture or our proximity to my father's grave, but she takes in a choked breath that holds the threat of tears. 

"I love you, Mom. You know that, right?" My voice sounds far away and I barely recognize it as my own.

She doesn't answer me because she's crying at my words. I hate that she's crying, but I know she needed to hear me say that. Aside from her periodical sniffling, she doesn't make another sound until I park, then she takes in a deep breath, attempting to suck in courage I'm not sure exists in the confines of this car. 

Outside, the weather is defiantly composed. The sky is a bright, clear blue and a salty breeze blows in from the bay, which is visible on the horizon, beyond the sloping, white-dotted grass. 

The fingers of my right hand absentmindedly smooth over the surface of the small, glossy photograph in my pocket. I don't need to pull it out to see the image in my mind's eye. That image is all I need to give me strength.

My mother and I walk wordlessly between graves, and without any hesitation or doubt as to where to go. Even though all of the headstones on this side are identical slabs of white stone, the spot where my father is buried is ingrained in my mind, the steps written on my bones.

Even before we reach it, my eyes lock in on it, the headstone bearing my father's name and the two most important dates of his life. It's cast in the shadow of a large tree, a fact I find comforting, until I remember it's not like my father can feel the merciless sun beating down on him all summer long. Still, the view is nice and that, too, brings me a strange comfort. Things he would've appreciated, even if he can't now.

I stop short of the grave, but my mother gets down on her knees in front of it and lays a hand on the top of the stone, as though it were his shoulder.

She starts talking, her head hung low. At first, I can't hear what she's saying but every so often, certain phrases drift in my direction.

I thought we'd get through it together. 

Why'd you leave me, Finn?

My chest cinches tighter, and tighter, as though her words were a belt strapped across it. I wish I were somewhere else, anywhere else.

Before she gets to her feet, she sets down a single yellow carnation. The idle thought occurs to me that my father doesn't care for flowers and would've rather we left him a beer. But he's not here and he doesn't get to decide how my mother grieves.

She steps away and I come forward, getting to my knees as well so that I'm eye level with the inscription of his name.

"Hey, Dad," I say, my voice just an undertone. "It's been a while, I know. I guess I should try to come more often. It's just...it's strange, still, not being able to see you." I clear my throat. "Anyway, everything's fine. And...if you can hear me, somehow, I don't want you to worry anymore." I glance over my shoulder, self-conscious. My mother is right there, hanging on to my every word. "I know I haven't been taking good care of Mom lately. I know I should be doing better, seeing her more. I'm going to try. I'm not saying I condone what she did, but I think I can understand the desperation of losing someone who's a part of you and feeling like you've been ripped in half. I felt that too, when you left. But I think she felt it more because she's always been so in love with you, Dad. You know that." My mother's crying again behind me, I can hear her loud sniffling. "I...I forgive her. And I forgive you, too. You were sick and needed help and no one around you knew how bad it really was. I get it now. I get that it wasn't your decision to leave us. I get that it was your illness that made it for you. So, I won't be angry with you anymore, Dad. I promise you that. I love you, Dad. We'll catch a baseball game together again, on the other side."

 My voice is even more hoarse when I finish and I clear my throat again. Then I get to my feet and rub a hand over the top of the headstone. The rough, cool surface of the stone grinds at my palms, but somehow it makes me feel closer to him.

When I look at my mom again, she's clearing her tears with a tissue. She smiles at me, nose red, and asks, "Who is she?"

I blink, unsure I heard the question correctly. "What?"

My mother walks up and places a hand on the side of my face, something she hasn't been able to do in over a year. Before she says anything, she nods over to the place I knelt, indicating the moment that passed and the things I said. 

"I'd recognize a woman's touch anywhere, son. So, who is she?"