Chapter Two Georgia
A week earlier
You rang?” I say, putting the car into park while answering my sister’s tenth call.
“Georgia, what the hell?” my sister whisper-yells down the phone, her voice raspy and desperate. “You cannot be serious!”
I turn my ignition off and bring the phone to my ear as I reach for the flashlight I keep in my glove compartment.
Thankfully Phoebe has a nocturnal six-month-old, so she’ll be able to keep me company on the phone at two in the morning while I do this.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. “Why are you so freaked out about this?” I ask, laughing.
“You’re grave digging, Georgia!”
“I’m not digging inside of the cemetery, Bee!
I’m digging outside of it. There’s a big difference.
” I quickly test the flashlight and then put on my baseball cap that I brought to disguise myself at Phoebe’s urgent command amongst her tsunami of texts.
Afterwards, I open my car door. “You would be here doing the same thing as I am if the letter had been addressed to you!”
“Which is bullshit, by the way . . . You’re, what, eight minutes older? Why the hell does that make you the Stanley Yelnats of the family?”
“Stanley who?” I ask, opening my trunk to grab the small shovel I’d bought this afternoon at my local hardware store.
“The kid from Holes! Jesus, G, keep up!”
I gently close the rear door, trying to not wake the neighbourhood.
“It’s literally the middle of the night, Phoebe.
I’m sorry for not getting your obscure middle-grade references.
” I begin making my way around the block in the direction of the church steeple that’s haloed by the moonlight.
I parked one street over, just to be safe. “It’s freaking freezing out here.”
“Digging anywhere on city property breaks, like, four different bylaws, FYI. You’ll have to pay thousands of dollars if you’re busted! Not to mention, you’d be caught standing outside a graveyard with a shovel! How do you think that will look?”
“Thousands?” I whisper, turning onto the side street.
“I’m glad I’ve got a good lawyer, then,” I tease.
“And that she can lend me some money if I need it?” Living in Toronto is expensive, full stop.
But living here on a teacher’s salary is next to impossible.
Even in my tiny basement apartment with one singular window, my finances are tight.
“Local high school teacher robs gravesite,” Phoebe says, impersonating a newscaster. “Story at eleven.”
“Would you please quit it?”
“I won’t visit you in prison.”
I roll my eyes, turning onto the church’s street. “Yes, you would!”
My nephew, Mason, fusses, and Phoebe begins shushing him. I hear the creaking sound of a wooden chair rocking back and forth as neither one of us speaks. I continue walking, finding myself at the church’s cemetery gate by the time Phoebe has lulled Mason back to sleep.
“Fine, yes, obviously I would visit you,” Phoebe whispers. “But, seriously, can we not just call the city and ask permission before you go digging? Or, at the very least, the church?”
“Remember what Grandpa Henry used to say?” I ask, turning towards the building across the street, flushed pale in the moonlight.
I look to the top floor of the four-story brick building, and find a stained glass window.
I smile to myself, looking up at the apartment Bonnie used to live in.
“It’s often better to ask forgiveness than permission. ”
“He was talking about sneaking into the kitchen to snag an extra cookie, not this.” Phoebe lets out a long breath. “Is the ground even thawed? Do you not have snow in Toronto?”
I walk backwards off the sidewalk, then duck behind the maple tree, wedging myself between its trunk and the iron fencing of the cemetery.
“No, no snow,” I say, setting the phone down and putting the call on speaker.
A bird coos nearby, startling me, then flaps its wings as it takes off.
I brace for sirens, or shouting voices, my eyes clenched shut.
When the haunting quiet continues uninterrupted, my shoulders relax and my breathing returns to normal.
After a quick scan of my surroundings, I pull up the hood of my winter coat and click on my flashlight before setting it down next to my phone.
“All right, I’m doing it,” I whisper, lifting the point of the shovel to the ground between the tree and fence, as Bonnie instructed.
“If you do get caught, what do you want me to tell Mom and Dad?”
“The truth? I already told them everything.” I break ground with the shovel, and I’m relieved to find that the earth is softer than I thought it would be at this time of year. I scoop up my first helping of dirt, and drop it to my right.
“And they had zero problem with this? The parents who lost their ever-loving shit on us when we got our noses pierced on our twentieth birthday are totally fine with—”
“I mean, Mom was a bit surprised, to say the least, but she was glad Grandma—”
“I don’t mean about Bonnie’s letter, dummy! Mom’s already posted a photo of Grandma’s urn with a rainbow behind it! I meant the grave digging!”
I stifle a laugh, trying to keep quiet. “Mom did what?”
“Yes, she photoshopped. God knows what sort of viruses she downloaded to get that software on her computer. Regardless, it’s visually offensive.
She definitely set the movement back a decade, maybe more, with her tackiness.
She’s also contacted a medium who, apparently, specialises in, and this is a direct quote, ‘the lesbian deceased.’ Be sure to check the family group chat when the cops give you back your phone later. ”
I gape at the black screen, shaking my head. “I’m starting to understand why Bonnie’s letter skipped a generation . . .”
“I think we can both agree, though, I should have been the one to get the letter, right? I’m the only member of this family who listens to Girl in Red.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Exactly my point. You don’t know the culture.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to drive from Montreal to dig a hole, Bee! You have a baby to look after!”
“Grandma didn’t know I was going to move away or have a baby . . .”
“She also didn’t know you were bi, did she?” I prompt. “You thought she’d be judgy!”
“Ugh. Whatever. I suppose I can be relieved I’m not the one being instructed to dig up dead bodies. I guess this is one surefire way of avoiding Valentine’s Day disappointment, if you’re in prison and all.”
“Would you seriously please stop?” I say, looking through the iron bars towards the tombstones on the other side.
I shudder, turning my focus to my shovel before I keep digging.
I typically love graveyards—I’ve always found them equally fascinating and tranquil.
But in the middle of the night while doing something technically illegal?
That’s a different story. My blood pressure is higher than the church’s steeple right now. “You’re scaring me.”
“Fine,” Phoebe says, her voice resigned. “Are you nearly done?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, dropping another helping of dirt onto a pile to my right. “I’m not seeing anything so far.” I sigh longingly. “What if someone already dug it up?”
“Like who?”
“Maybe Martha’s family?” I suggest.
“I mean, maybe. But they live in England, right?”
“Planes exist, Phoebe.”
“Do you want me to hang up, asshole? Because I will!”
“No, no, please don’t,” I say, dumping another mound of soil before going back in for more. “I’m pretty deep down now, so I’m going to change spots if I—” I’m interrupted by the sound of metal hitting metal. “Oh, wait, I think I might have got it . . .”
“Hurry!”
I drop my shovel to the side and pick up my flashlight, pointing it down into the hole. “Holy crap,” I whisper, brushing dirt off the silver object with my hand. “Yeah, there’s something here.”
“Hopefully not a gas pipe.”
I glare at the phone silently, picking up the shovel again. Five minutes and a few snide comments from Phoebe later, I’ve got a metal box sitting on the ground next to me. Quickly, I fill in the hole as best as I can and book it back to my car with the box under my arm.
“I cannot believe you did that,” Phoebe says as I turn the ignition and lock my doors. I toss my hat into the back seat before gripping tightly on to the steering wheel with both hands.
“Neither can I.” I stare at the metal box sitting in my passenger seat, smiling wider than I ever have before. “What do I do now?” I laugh, shaking my head as I attempt to lift the lid to no avail. “I really found it! Oh my god.”
Phoebe laughs too, in the same disbelieving, breathy way as me. “I think there’s only one thing to do, G. Contact Martha’s family and try to get that thing open.”