34. Goodbyes
ELOISE
All along, even when he was arched in ecstasy under me, I suspected it would be the last time I ever saw Damien. He freed me from Tony, and I freed him from his eternal captivity. I’ll never forget our time together. He was my advocate, my monster. That is all it was. Our attraction to each other, our bond, can never be anything more than temporary. He’s not human, after all, and for all intents and purposes, immortal. A relationship with me would be a limitation he doesn’t need. He”ll always hold a place in my heart, but I understand that last night was goodbye.
I cried when he left, cried in the shower as I washed the remnants of our lovemaking from my thighs, cried as I dressed in my most cuddly PJs. Once I was under the covers, I cried myself to sleep. But this morning, with the sun sweeping across my face from my bedroom window, I feel good —at peace and whole again. The house is mine. Damien has taught me I am still desirable. Still strong. Still alive. With his help, I”ve proven that I am capable of saving myself, even if I occasionally need some muscle to back me up.
My monster won”t be the last man interested in me, of that I am sure. Although the mere thought of anyone else leaves me feeling empty. No man will ever measure up to him. Thankfully, I know now that I’m enough alone.
I sit up in bed and stretch my arms overhead, feeling the shattered pieces of my heart shift around inside my chest. I’m all out of tears. All that’s left is numbness and the comforting monotony of breathing. I tell myself it will be okay, eventually. I have plenty to focus on besides Damien, first and foremost, Grams. Dressing quickly in jeans and a sweatshirt, I jog down the stairs, gathering all the positive energy I can muster to spare Grams from my personal problems.
“I hope you”re in the mood for pancakes, Grams, because the sun is shining, the leaves are falling, and I want carbs!” I slide sideways on stockinged feet across the wood floor of the hallway and catch myself on her doorframe.
My smile and my world come to a screeching halt.
Grams is still propped on her pillows, but her eyes are wide open, her unblinking stare fixed on her window and the cemetery beyond. Her hands are clasped over her heart, and her thin lips curve into a smile. My throat constricts as if I”ve swallowed an invisible fist as I make my way across the room and raise my fingers to her neck to check for a pulse. Her skin is cold to the touch and it confirms what I already know. I can”t feel her in the room anymore. Her body is there, but she isn”t.
She’s gone.
“Grandpa came for you, didn”t he?” I choke back a sob. “I”m going to miss you. Grams… so much. But I”m glad you had the death you wanted, and I”m going to make damn sure the rest goes exactly as you wanted too.” My gut clenches, and I shift into survival mode. I wipe under my burning eyes, but no tears have actually escaped. I”ll let myself feel this once everything is taken care of.
Reaching for my phone, I dial the coroner.
One of theblessings of Grams having a long fight with cancer is that she had plenty of time to document her final wishes. She wants to be buried in the family cemetery, that part was always a given, but she also made it clear she didn’t wish to be embalmed. Not only did she feel it was a huge waste of money, she thought it was bad for the environment and, subsequently, the fairies she believed lived around the graveyard. Howard hadn”t been embalmed, and neither had her mother or her father. On paper, it’s a simple request. In practice, it means things have to happen fast.
The coroner comes within the hour to pronounce her dead. Then Chuck Harper, the local cemetery caretaker, shows up with equipment to dig the grave out back. Grams has already paid him for the service. Paul Walker, the mortician from Echo Mills funeral home, arrives next with a coffin she”d picked out. Aqua blue, her favorite color. They dress her in a gorgeous dress in a coordinating shade and arrange her in the satin lining. Paul does her makeup right there in the house.
Meanwhile, I message everyone who”d been close to Grams, which includes most of the town of Echo Mills and her cousins who live in Maryland. Those who don”t respond within the hour, I call to deliver the news personally. Reverend Hollister from Echo Mills Non-denominational Church agrees to perform the service that afternoon, 4 p.m. sharp. I dress in a smart black wrap dress that has long sleeves and a hem below my knees. It’s a cold day, so I add a long black wool coat and a tall pair of leather boots.
When I make the walk out to the cemetery that afternoon, I think Grams would have liked how it all came together. Rows of white chairs are set up beside the grave, with Grams lying in the coffin on a contraption that will lower her into the ground right next to Howard. Evelyn from Echo Mills Flowers and Gifts came through with a beautiful coffin spray made from a variety of Grams”s favorite flowers: pink garden roses, scabiosa, wax flowers, and lisianthus. I imagine her ghost leaning over to smell them. A wreath of pink roses stands beside the coffin on a stand with a satin ribbon that reads Beloved Grandmother.
The turnout is disappointing, though. None of her cousins could make the distance before the event, and many of her Echo Mills friends are out of town. But Simone from the nail salon is here, as is Principal Singer, some members of her bridge club, and of course, Evelyn, Chuck, and Paul who helped make this event happen.
It’s selfish, but I wish someone was here for me. I don”t know many of these folks well, having spent most of the last six years away at school and then living in Richmond. And although everyone hugs me and offers their condolences, it all feels impersonal. Until Maeve arrives. I release a huge breath of relief when she pulls me into her arms and hugs me so hard it almost hurts.
“I”m here,” she repeats again and again in my ear. And it matters. It matters so much.
After that, I don”t hear a word of the ceremony. Everything hurts. I don’t know why. It’s like every joint in my body has decided to ache for no reason. My throat is raw from an unyielding lump wedged in it. My stomach is empty and leaves the rest of me feeling hollowed out. Reverend Hollister reads from the Bible and then says a few words. When he’s through, he introduces me. I’m supposed to give a speech. A eulogy. I stand and unfold the notes in my pocket.
“Nora Harcourt was my Grams, but she was so much more than that. She was born in a suburb of Chicago and met Howard Harcourt when they both attended the University of Illinois. Howard wasted no time marrying her, and they both moved back to Echo Mills after graduation. Grams never looked back. She took to this town like she was born here, and all of you know how much she loved you and was loved in return. From her volunteerism at St. Johns to her work at the Echo Mills community gardens, there isn”t a single person in this town who hasn”t been on the receiving end of Grams”s good nature. Her casseroles were known throughout the county.
“She gave birth to my dad in this house, on the second floor, God rest his soul. When my parents died, she was so appreciative of all you did to help us get through that difficult time. And for all the meals you brought the last months while she was in hospice. But I need to tell you that Grams believed her beloved Howard was coming to take her home these last weeks. She told me she was ready to go, and when I found her this morning, she was smiling. I believe my grandfather did escort her to her final rest. And I believe that”s where she is now. She”s free of pain and happily tending her roses and peonies with Gramps on the other side.”
Although my knees are shaking, I hobble over to the casket. “Goodbye, Grams. Give Mom and Dad and Gramps a big hug for me.”
I return to my seat to the sound of sobs from the attendees, but I haven’t shed a tear. Not yet. Reverend Hollister wraps things up and directs everyone into the house to share in the potluck supper the attendees have brought. When I stand again, I’m trembling so violently, I’m not sure I can make it back into the house. Maeve takes me by the waist and helps me inside, propping me in a cushy chair in the formal living room. She makes me a cup of tea that I’m sure has something witchy in it because once I drink it, the world takes on a hazy quality. People offer their condolences, and I respond politely. All their faces run together eventually. And then, like magic, my cup is empty and Maeve is showing the last guest out the front door.
“Do you want something to eat?” she offers kindly.
“No.” I haven’t eaten much all day but I’m not remotely hungry.
“Would a distraction help? We could stream a movie.”
I stand. “I want to go back to the cemetery.”
Maeve shakes her head. “I don”t think that”s a good idea, El. Everything is still so fresh for you. I don”t think they”ve even cleaned up the grave yet.”
I grab my coat and stick my arms into the sleeves. “I want to go. I want to wait for the fairies.”
“The fairies?” Maeve follows me to the door, looking morose in her long black skirt and sweater. A giggle escapes me and it turns into a completely inappropriate laugh.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I just realized you wore your normal, everyday clothes today. You look totally and completely at home.” I gesture toward her outfit as I walk toward the door at the back of the house.
“El? Come on. The sun”s going down. It”s getting cold out there.” She holds out a hand to me.
I sigh. “Grams believed she saw fairies in the cemetery. She believed they”d come for her when she died. I want to see for myself. I need to see for myself. I need to know she”s okay.”
“You don”t actually believe there are fairies in your backyard, do you?”
I whirl and glare at her. “My best friend is a witch, and a shade became my greatest advocate. So, yes, I believe my grandmother was telling the truth about this.”
I turn the knob and stride toward the cemetery. Tonight is going to be frigid. Already the cold bites at the tip of my nose and blows right through my coat, seeming to sink into my bones. Maeve”s moto boots thump the grass behind me, but she doesn”t say a word. And when I arrive at the heap of fresh dirt that is my grandmother”s grave, my friend stands in silent vigil to my left, hands folded in front of her.
The sun has set, and darkness grips us in its icy fist. I watch the woods beyond the graves, hopeful for a sign. It doesn”t have to be fairies. Anything to let me know she’s okay.
“Your family raises the dead.” I don’t bother turning to face Maeve. It’s too dark to see her anyway.
“My family animates the dead. The bodies of the dead. No souls are in there when we do.”
“Right.”
“I can”t contact her, El. I”m not a medium or a necromancer. I”m sorry.”
“But you know people who are?”
“Yes, but I don”t recommend using them. Nothing good ever comes from disturbing a soul”s rest.”
I nod. I can see the wisdom in that. “But, I mean, you know for sure that there are souls, then. If there weren”t, there would be nothing for them to talk to.”
“Of course there are souls. Your grandmother has a soul, and she”s in a good place, just like you said.” Maeve”s voice is sure and edged in anger at my doubt.
“You”re right. I know you”re right.”
The wind blows, and I hear her teeth chatter. “Can we go in? Maybe we can watch from a window?”
I’m about to agree to that plan when I notice two small lights bouncing behind the trees to my right. Excitement lifts my spirits. “Look, here they come.”