2. Gilbert
2
GILBERT
The graveyard is a desolate place today, cloaked in a somber gray. The overcast sky matches the mood of the mourners gathered. Rows of gravestones stretch out in every direction, each one a silent testament to lives once lived.
The air is heavy with the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass. Black umbrellas are open against the light rain, creating a sea of darkness against the gray sky. The low murmur of the minister’s voice blends with the rhythmic patter of rain on the umbrellas, mingling with the quiet sobs of those gathered.
A lone figure stands off to the side, slightly removed from the main group of mourners.
That lone mourner is me.
I stand at the edge of the group, feeling like an outsider. That’s because I am an outsider. Being here at Everett Crane’s funeral dredges up memories I fought so hard to bury — memories of Rachel’s funeral five years ago and of the raw, unyielding grief that nearly consumed me.
To this day, it still feels so surreal, like I’m walking through a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
It was even worse back then — bad enough that I took several back-to-back assignments that had me stationed all over Europe. I only returned stateside a month ago, and here I am.
The rain picks up, relentless as it soaks through my suit. I glance at his daughter, Ashlynn Crane. Her face is set in a mask of stoic sadness, her shoulders hunched against the rain. She looks so small, so broken. It hits me hard, seeing her like this.
I don’t know her — I was hardly ever around anyway — but Rachel did. After all, she was her ballet teacher for over a decade. No one should have to go through that much pain at such a young age.
We were here five years ago, burying Rachel and her mother, Hannah.
Fate sure is cruel, making sure that we find ourselves in the same place five years later, burying her father. A man who, for all intents and purposes, hated my guts. The last time I saw him, he took a swing at me for, in his words, ‘insinuating his wife had planned on leaving him.’ The joke’s on him, though. She was leaving him. Too bad she died before making that a reality.
The wet grass soaks through my shoes, the cold seeping into my bones. The minister’s words are a distant hum, drowned out by the roar of my own thoughts.
The casket begins to lower into the ground, and I see Ashlynn sway. Next to her, Bonnie reaches out a hand to steady her. I see her swallow hard, trying to keep her composure as she clings to her aunt, her grip tight — like she’s trying to hold on to something solid in this world that’s falling apart.
My chest tightens at the sight, the rain blurring my vision. I am intimately familiar with that feeling — the crushing weight of grief, the sense of being utterly lost and alone.
There’s movement, lots of it. People take turns ceremoniously dumping soil into the open grave. Well-wishers surround her. Some pat her on the shoulder and murmur words of comfort. She nods and smiles weakly, but I can see it in her eyes — the same hollow emptiness eating away at me. The same unbearable weight of loss.
It is possible to be surrounded by people yet feel so utterly alone.
Bonnie wraps an arm around Ashlynn’s shoulders, pulling her close. The other mourners start to drift away, a sea of black coats and umbrellas. Both women stay rooted to the spot.
I find that I can’t get my feet to move either.
So we stand there, just the three of us in the pouring rain, together yet far apart. Surrounded by the echoes of the past and the crushing weight of the present, we watch as Everett Crane’s grave is filled.
Or rather, they watch as Everett’s grave is filled, and I watch her. It would seem I can’t get my eyes to look at anything but her.
There’s no denying Ashlynn Crane is stunning, or that the sight of her stirs something deep inside me, something I didn’t think I was capable of.
She’s here to mourn her father. I should be above these feelings. It would be crossing a line, a line I can’t afford to cross. Yet, I can’t seem to stop.
One of the diggers hands her a shovel and she joins in, her movements fluid, as if every gesture is part of a dance only she can hear. The black dress clings to her, emphasizing the elegant lines of her body, the curve of her waist, and the gentle slope of her shoulders. Her bun comes loose, a few strands of rich brown hair billowing around her face.
Her piercing green eyes appear to be haunted. They glisten with unshed tears, their color more vibrant against her pale, almost alabaster skin. It’s like she’s carved from marble, a statue of grace and fragility. My gaze travels over her delicate frame. She’s impossibly slender, every inch the ballerina Rachel dreamed she’d become.
Rachel.
She’s the reminder I sorely need to back off.
I shouldn’t even be here. I should’ve stayed away. Should’ve kept my distance like I’ve done for years. But I had to come. I might not have liked the man, but I owed that much to his daughter.
So, I keep my distance as they wrap things up. They don’t see me, and I’m both relieved and disappointed. Still, I stay in the shadows as both women head back to the reception hall attached to the chapel, wrestling with emotions that have no place here.
I really should have left when I had the chance. Not much has changed, and I can’t help but draw parallels to Rachel’s and Hannah’s funeral. It feels like I stepped into a time capsule, where everything is frozen in time.
The same stifling rooms. The same forced smiles and empty condolences. The same feeling of drowning in a sea of people who couldn’t possibly understand the depth of my pain. I thought time and distance would dull the ache, but being here is like tearing open a wound that never really healed.
I feel the all-too-familiar and suffocating weight of grief settling over me. Voices rise and fall behind me, snippets of stories about Everett Crane. Laughter mingles with tears, but it all feels distant and surreal. I’m trapped in my own head, reliving every mistake and every moment that led up to this point — the things left unsaid, the apologies never made.
The rain finally stops. The room slowly empties. Ashlynn is nowhere to be found. Bonnie is still surrounded by well-wishers, but she looks like I feel — like she’d rather be anywhere else but here.
So why am I still here?
Simple.
Guilt made me stay. She made me stay.
It’s been five years since I last in the country, and the least I can do is say a few words to my best friend. To the woman who gave up so much of herself for the benefit of others. And just when she had a chance to be happy, it was snatched from her in the blink of an eye.
I take comfort in knowing that at least they died together. If there is an afterlife, I’d like to think they are in it together, blissfully happy and free to be their authentic selves. Free to love each other without repercussion.
It seems I’m not the only one who needs to talk to Rachel.
Ashlynn Crane beat me to it.
My eyes lock onto her slender frame, a lone figure in the dimming light. The bun is gone, and her long brown hair falls loosely over her shoulders. She leans against Rachel’s weathered headstone, her fingers tenderly tracing the words engraved there.
Words I know by heart. After all, I picked them.
Rachel McKenzie.
Beloved Wife and Teacher
Forever worthy. Forever loved. Forever missed.
She speaks softly, her words carried away by the wind before they can reach me. The raw pain in her posture tells a story of loss and longing. She seems at ease in the space, too. I can only imagine the conversations she has with her mother and teacher, the stories, the heartaches, the triumphs.
I know I shouldn’t be here, intruding on such a personal moment, but I can’t tear myself away. My chest tightens with an ache I cannot shake. I want to go to her, to offer some semblance of comfort, but something holds me back.
Rachel holds me back.
I miss her, more than I ever thought I would. Not only was she my best friend, but she was loved and respected by all who knew her. There were times she didn’t think she was worthy of all that, but her loss left behind a void too big to be filled.
Ashlynn’s posture shifts as she pushes off the headstone and stands tall. A familiar grace envelopes her movements, and I recognize the transformation instantly. She’s no longer just a woman in mourning; she’s a ballerina, every inch of her body poised and expressive.
She begins to dance, her arms slicing through the air with a fluidity that speaks of years of practice and a lifetime of pain. Each twirl is a whispered confession, each leap a conversation with her teacher, each precise movement a testament to their unspoken bond. Every movement is a silent scream, every step a tear.
Rachel talked about her technique all the time. She called Ashlynn a true prodigy, that she could be the next Margot Fonteyn. That was high praise in her book. She also talked about how lucky she was to be the one to nurture such raw talent.
Now, I know why.
The hem of Ashlynn’s dress flutters like a delicate curtain in the wind, her feet moving with a precision that speaks of years of discipline and passion. The cool evening breeze plays with the loose strands of her hair as she moves in sync with it, her feet barely touching the ground. It is a grace that seems otherworldly.
A pang of guilt tugs at me for witnessing this private ritual when Rachel can’t, but I’m entranced by Ashlynn’s performance. It’s as if she’s transcending reality, her grief channeled into an ethereal display of beauty and strength. The world around us fades; there’s only her, her ghosts, and the silent dialogue of her dance.
I hear footsteps approaching me, but I keep my eyes on Ashlynn. Nimble fingers curl around my arm, grounding me in this moment.
“That’s her audition piece for Bayard Ballet Conservatory,” Bonnie says softly, her voice barely audible. “She wanted Rachel and Hannah to see it. It’s her way of honoring them, of mourning their loss.”
I can’t tear my eyes away from Ashlynn. She is lost in her own world, a realm where only she and her ghosts exist. The grace of her movements is haunting, a beautiful agony laid bare. My throat tightens, and I have to look away for a moment, the intensity of her sorrow almost too much to bear.
This is a sacred space, a dance of grief and memory that I have no right to intrude upon. A sentiment that Bonnie wastes no time in voicing.
“I know you want to talk to Rachel, but she needs this,” she continues, her voice a mix of empathy and sorrow. “Please, let her have this moment.”
I nod, swallowing hard as words escape me.
“We all grieve in our own ways,” she adds. “For Lynn, it’s through dance.”
Bonnie’s words are a balm and a knife all at once, cutting through my heart but offering comfort. On the other hand, Ashlynn’s dance slows, her arms falling to her sides as she sinks to her knees with her head bowed. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, and my heart shatters for her.
The moment has passed, so I brace myself for Bonnie to tell me to leave. Instead, her grip tightens on my arm.
“Thank you for coming,” she eventually says, her eyes filled with understanding.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I manage to say. The words feel hollow and inadequate, but it’s all I have.
For a moment, she stares at me. But then, something in her expression shifts. She looks so tired and defeated — like someone at a crossroads. She leans into me, and I feel her starting to relax, just a little. Her body is warm against mine, a stark contrast to the chill in the air.
We stand there, enveloped in our shared grief, surrounded by the echoes of the past and the crushing weight of the present. We watch in silence as our ballerina takes her final bow… only to start all over again.
“I wasn’t expecting you to come,” Bonnie says, her voice raw with emotion. “I know you and Everett didn’t exactly leave things on an… amicable note.”
Amicable is one way to phrase it.
That sucker punch to the face?
It happened right here.
Everyone present saw it, including his daughter. There were theories as to why that happened, most of which I didn’t care to stick around and find out since I left the country shortly afterward and never looked back.
Until now.
“Everett was an asshole,” she tells me. “I apologize on his behalf.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I want to because that’s what family does.” My lips part to protest, but she quickly adds, “Like it or not, you have always been as much a part of our family as Rachel was. Deal with it.”
The raw vulnerability in Bonnie’s voice shatters something inside me. I swallow hard, whatever witty comeback I can think of sticking in my throat.
“Come,” she urges gently. “Let’s give her the space she needs. I doubt she would be pleased to find that she has an audience. Besides, you and I have a lot to talk about.”
Reluctantly, I let Bonnie lead me away. I cast one last glance over my shoulder. She’s still there, a solitary figure against the gravestones, dancing with the ghosts of her mother and teacher as her audience. The image sears into my memory, a poignant reminder of the depths of human sorrow and the haunting beauty of love lost.
As I walk away, Bonnie by my side, the vision of Ashlynn’s mournful dance lingers in my mind. It’s a moment I’ll never forget, a testament to the power of grief and the unbreakable bond between mother, daughter, and teacher.