Asher #2
Without another word or glance, she took off.
Her pace was fast and uneven. Something seemed off.
She was generally hostile, but this felt…
different. Unpredictable, almost cruel. Another thing out of the ordinary was that she had shared.
She had shared more today than she had shared in any other session we had attended.
What was going on in that beautiful brain of hers?
She left, and I was sure to follow. She was suicidal on a normal day; on a day like this, anything felt possible. I didn’t want to risk it. I knew she would be pissed if she found out, but I didn’t care. Her safety mattered more than her feelings at this very moment.
I followed Lennon for what felt like ages, and I was exhausted. The walk was long, and the weather wasn’t in my favour. The muggy air felt thick in my lungs as I trudged along. An hour or so later, we ended up near a cemetery.
Not what I was expecting.
I watched as she disappeared deep into the rows—about twelve in—before stopping roughly a third of the way down.
When she reached her destination, she grazed the top of the stone with delicate fingers, then lowered herself in front of the tombstone.
She curled inward, folding herself into a fetal position.
She cried. That was all she did.
I sat down at a distance, watching as she cried over the grave of someone she had once loved.
Her body trembled, strained by the grief ripping through her.
It pained me to watch her without being able to help.
She was so vulnerable in this very moment, and maybe—just maybe—this was too many vulnerable moments for Lennon in a single day.
More than an hour passed before she finally rose from the ground. At one point, I honestly thought she might never get up—that she would simply become part of the earth itself, staying there until someone physically pulled her away.
Before leaving, she placed something small on top of the stone. It fit easily into the palm of her hand, but I could tell it was a gift. Once she set it down, she walked off in the opposite direction. When she was gone, I approached.
At the gravesite, I saw that the gift was a tiny pumpkin. I didn’t touch it. It felt disrespectful to intrude on something that wasn’t meant for me to understand. It was a secret between her and whoever lay there.
I looked down at the name.
Todd Becker.
1978-2006.
There was nothing else written. Odd. Most people had something along the lines of beloved son, father, grandfather. This held no information about those he left behind, or about the person he was.
I needed to keep the name in the back of my mind so I could understand its importance to Lennon later. Lennon didn’t seem to hold love for anyone, but she had clearly loved this person. Maybe an uncle. A role model. A teacher. Her father? I didn’t think she had ever mentioned him.
Realizing that the situation with Lennon didn’t feel as urgent as it had before, I figured it was probably okay to head home. She was clearly grieving—at least, that much was obvious. So I made my way back.
The sun still hung high in the sky for that hour, but the coolness of the fall evening had begun to chase away the summer heat, cutting through the lingering mugginess. I pulled out my phone and typed Todd Becker into a search engine. I froze the moment the first result appeared—a news article.
Local family man killed by suspected impaired driver.
The article went into heavy detail about the car crash that had killed Todd Becker.
He had been the sole occupant of the vehicle and had left behind a daughter, Lennon Becker and fiancée, Heather Marsh, who were at home during the time of the incident.
It also mentioned that he would be reunited with a late child.
Further down, there was an additional piece noting that a couple of weeks following the crash, a child had been found alone in the home for an extended period of time.
The only reason anyone had noticed was because a neighbour had seen movement inside the house, despite no vehicles returning.
They had originally believed the home had been subject to a breaking and entering.
As I read deeper into the details, I realized I had stopped walking when my eyes caught the date of his obituary. August 21st, 2006. Today was August 21st.
Today was the anniversary of her father’s car crash. Of her father’s death.
My heart sank into my stomach, and I felt sick for her. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she had left, but I needed to see her. I needed to hear her voice—something, anything.
Before I could second guess myself, I dialled her number and pressed the phone to my ear. The rings carried through the line and then stopped. She picked up, but didn’t say anything. The open line was filled with the sound of her soft breaths.
“I need to see you,” I said, matter-of-factly, sounding as confident as I could muster.
She exhaled. “Why?”
I huffed out a subtle chuckle. “Because, Lennon, I just want to. And I’m sick of wondering whether I should or shouldn’t call—whether I should or shouldn’t suggest hanging out, which I am, by the way. I hate pushing you, but I think part of you craves it.”
She sounded like she was searching for a logical response and coming up empty, so I took advantage of the silence.
“Little siren,” I said softly, “indulge me. You don’t have plans. I don’t have plans. So I have an idea—bucket list time. Let’s go volunteer tonight.”