CHAPTER 10 THE INCIDENT AT KATE’S
THE INCIDENT AT KATE’S
I stop. So does the figure.
I take two steps forward. So does the figure.
I pick up the pace—and so does the figure behind me.
I take off, my sneakers skidding across the tightly packed snow.
I stumble down University Avenue and near the bottom of the hill I hang a left and enter the gates of Ithaca City Cemetery.
Spinning around I throw my fists up in front of me and let out some weird combination of a scream and a grunt.
An older woman in a red coat and black beanie walking a fluffy brown dog stops on the sidewalk, shoots me the bird, then continues down the street.
The person in the black parka is gone and I am alone in the cemetery, just steps from where Noah lies entombed.
I haven’t set foot inside the cemetery since Noah’s funeral.
I’ve been up to the gate, but I couldn’t go in.
It was like my body stopped functioning at the entrance.
I could see the Cliff family tomb from there and that was enough for me.
But the fear of somebody who’s probably just trying to get home from class or work has pushed me over that barrier that separates the living from the dead.
The Cliff tomb, with its intricate red-and-black brick pattern, stands stark against a blanket of white snow.
I still cannot bring myself to walk up to it, but someone else has.
Snow has been cleared away from the tomb’s entrance and a pathway of overlapping footprints leads up to the door.
A wreath of white roses, their petals curled and yellowing, lies against it.
A brown teddy bear with a heart on its chest sits like a sentry at the entrance.
There is suddenly a buzzing at the back of my head.
A wave of dizziness washes over me. I feel like I might faint.
I tilt my head up and look at the sky. “I miss you, Noah,” I say as a knot claws its way up my throat. “So much.” It hurts too much to stay any longer. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry, Noah. I—I can’t do this.”
I glance at the tomb one more time, then leave the cemetery and walk the rest of the way home. The shame I feel is just as stifling as the sadness. I’m a coward for not being able to stay with Noah in that cemetery and I’m so mad at myself for it I want to scream.
At home, I climb the front steps and go inside.
I lean against the front door, wondering when things will get better or if they even can.
I turn and flip the dead bolt on the door and as I glance through the glass in the direction of the cemetery, I see the figure in the black parka standing at the end of my street.
The front door is bolted but I still feel like that’s not enough.
I glance down at the latch. It’s engaged; I can see it sticking into the doorframe.
I jiggle the knob, then take stock of what I have close to me—a coat rack, my dad’s walking stick that may or may not be just a random stick he found on one of his walks, and a small but weighty rock we use to keep the door propped open in the summer.
Funeral homes aren’t in need of deadly weapons.
Most of the people that come here are already dead.
I pick up the rock and grip it so hard my knuckles audibly pop as I peer back outside. The figure is gone.
“Meka,” my mom says.
I jump, dropping the rock which misses my toe by an inch.
Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. “You all right, baby?”
“I—yeah, I’m fine,” I say as I attempt to get my heart to slow down a little. I suck in a chest full of air and let it hiss out. “You scared me.”
“I did?” she asks, looking puzzled. She glances past me, out the window in the front door.
“There was somebody following me,” I say. “I think.” I’m still not sure and I guess it could have been nothing.
My dad walks into the hallway from the kitchen. “I heard a bang. What was that?”
“I dropped the door-propping rock,” I say.
“Why were you holding it?” my dad asks as he bites into a half of a ham sandwich.
“She said somebody was following her,” my mom says. She quickly moves to the door and peers out. She double-checks the lock.
“I was gonna clock whoever it was with the rock,” I say.
My dad joins Mom at the door. “I don’t see anybody,” he says. “You sure somebody was out there? What did they look like?”
“I—I don’t know,” I say. “I couldn’t see their face. They had on a big winter coat.”
“Why would anybody want to follow you home?” my mom asks.
“I—I don’t know .” I try to figure out how to explain but I start to doubt the whole thing myself. It’s possible somebody was behind me, walking the same direction as me. That doesn’t mean they were following me.
“Meka, baby,” my mom begins.
“Please don’t,” I say quickly.
My mom presses her hand down on her hip and tilts her head to the side. “Excuse me?”
I shake my head. “No. Mom, listen. I know you’re about to say you’re worried and that I need sleep. You’re not wrong, at all. But I can’t really do anything about it right now.”
“If it’s causing you to hallucinate—” she begins.
“I didn’t imagine it,” I say, but I don’t know if that’s true.
“Okay,” Mom says gently. “Or maybe you’re feeling paranoid. Whatever the issue is, lack of sleep could be to blame for all of it.”
“Whoever it was is gone,” my dad says.
“Good,” I say. “See? No big deal.”
My mom looks at me like she wants to say it is a big deal and that she’s not going to let it go, so I just avoid her gaze and hope she’ll leave it alone. I turn to my dad.
“Dad,” I begin hesitantly. “Please don’t judge me when I ask you this but—” I stop. I don’t even want to ask because I know it sounds impossible. “Can—can ravens talk?”
My mom’s eyes widen. “Baby. Get in the car. We’re going to the doctor’s office and we’re gonna get you some help. It’s gonna be okay, I promise.”
“Hold on,” my dad says. “Obviously, we can go to the doctor if you need to, Meka, but yes, ravens can talk.”
“What?” my mom asks, before I get a chance to.
“Ravens are highly intelligent,” my dad says.
His eyes are alight, and I can tell he’s about to launch into telling me some obscure facts about ravens.
“They have the cognitive abilities of a seven-year-old child. They use tools, they can reason and solve problems. They can mimic human speech like a parrot.”
I sigh. Okay. I’m not losing it completely.
“Simple stuff mostly,” Dad continues. “Maybe two or three words. Not full-on sentences. And it’s not quite independent thought, just mimicry, but still an astonishing feat. They’re incredible creatures.”
My mom covers her mouth with her hand. She’d never shame him for what he likes but it can be a little intense sometimes.
My dad tilts his head and looks at me. “Why do you ask?”
“There was a raven by the falls,” I say. “It said ‘hey.’ Then it said ‘get out’ right before I saw the person in the coat.”
My dad doesn’t smile now. His mouth actually turns down into a sort of scowl. “It did?”
“Yeah,” I say.
My dad looks thoughtful as he glances at the perch where his ravens usually congregate.
“Interesting,” my dad says. “But it would have had to hear someone say those words before it could repeat them.”
“It was quiet,” I say. “Nobody said anything.”
“Not that you heard, anyway,” says my dad. He thinks for a minute. “It probably picked it up from someone nearby. Strange but not impossible.” He smiles gently. “Why don’t you and your mom order a pizza or something. Relax a little. I need to pack.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask.
He nods and looks at his sandwich like he doesn’t want to take another bite. “Business. We might have a new supplier for our bulk orders of trocars and eye caps. They’re using some new alloy which makes them cheaper without skimping on the quality. It’s really remarkable.”
“I’ve never seen anybody so hyped about trocars,” my mom says, kissing him on the cheek and rubbing his arm.
A trocar is a long, sharp instrument used in the embalming process. It goes in the lower abdomen and helps access and drain built-up fluids and gas, replacing them with embalming fluid. There are different makes and models and my dad has his favorites.
“I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” Dad says. “And keep the doors locked. Just in case.”
I touch the lock to make sure it’s bolted.
“Where do you want pizza from?” my mom asks.
“Let’s do Ned’s,” I say, happy to move on from the subject of my imaginary stalker.
“You got it,” Mom says, giving me a little nudge in the shoulder. “They have this great gluten-free, no-cheese option.”
I scrunch up my nose. “What’s it made out of? Cardboard? Is it even pizza if there’s no cheese?”
Mom rolls her eyes and shoos me into the living room. Upstairs, there’s a loud bang and then the sound of my dad cursing.
My mom sighs. “Help your father, please.”
I jog upstairs to find my dad struggling with his suitcase as he wrestles it from the closet next to my room.
“I got it,” I say, grabbing the handle and yanking it out into the hall.
“Thanks,” my dad says. He pulls a tissue out of his pocket and dabs at his forehead. “I was just going to do a carry-on but I need the bigger one this time in case I want to bring back samples.”
“TSA is gonna let you on a flight with a bunch of trocars in this thing?” I ask. “I feel like that’s going to land you on the no-fly list.”
My dad chuckles to himself. “Hasn’t been a problem before.”
I grab the handle of his bag but my grip slips and it tips over, popping open.
A jumble of clothing falls out. I reach for it to shove it back inside but a smell emanating from the bundle of black clothing wafts into my face.
It’s smoky, like the smell that sometimes drifts out of our wood-burning fireplace when it’s windy outside.
I cover my mouth with my hand. “Dad, what is that smell?”
Flustered, my dad shoves the thick black cloth, which I’m not even sure is clothing now, into the suitcase and zips it closed.