2005 Grace #3
Cyrus furrowed his brow and looked at me as if I were an alien.
“I am human, Grace. I have feelings,” he mumbled.
It was unbelievable—the huge, hard-faced cop had a heart of gold. Still, part of me wasn’t surprised.
“Tulips were my mom’s favorite.”
“Then tulips it is.” Cyrus stepped up to the counter and rang the other golden bell built in it. Once, twice, three times.
“Shopkeepers don’t like impatient customers,” I noted.
“Abigail is almost deaf,” he replied, smiling.
“Do you come here often?” I stroked the silky petals of one of the lilies with my fingertip.
“No.”
“Then how do you know her?”
“The old hag once flipped the bird on me. We had a green light, but her car didn’t move an inch.
I honked for a long time, then got out of my car and slapped her hood.
Still no reaction. Then I yelled at her and waved my hands in frustration.
In the middle of the street. When I walked back to my car, I glanced back and saw her stick her arm out the window and give me the middle finger. ”
“She sounds cool.” I smiled at the story.
“More like crazy. The old woman has hearing aids but doesn’t wear them out of pride.” Cyrus shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair.
“Pick a few, I’ll find her in the meantime.” He walked to the storeroom with heavy steps.
After a short time, a woman shuffled into the shop, clicking her tongue. She wasn’t that old—I’d thought she’d be ninety, but she barely looked older than sixty.
A sharp, beeping sound pierced the balmy air. Abigail set the hearing aids in her ears to the correct frequency while staring daggers at Cyrus, who smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Can you hear me now?” he whispered, teasing.
“I wish I couldn’t,” she grumbled, then looked at me. “Your girlfriend?”
“Nope. Just a customer.”
Abigail slapped herself on the forehead. “Oh! How could I have thought that a huge, hairy beast like you could have such a cute girlfriend?”
They both laughed in mirth—I didn’t get the joke, though. I stared at them in confusion, because Cyrus was handsome.
“And is there any chance she’s looking for a job? Because such a cute face would sell a lot of flowers…” she probed.
“Well, she’s not looking, but she could use one anyway.”
“I don’t have any qualifications…” I blurted out.
“Can you count?”
I nodded.
“If you can count the change and have an eye for how a nice bouquet should look, you’re hired. Don’t worry, girl, you’ll learn it in the blink of an eye.”
“I…” I looked at Cyrus desperately.
“Grace is going through a rough time right now. How about we discuss this a couple of weeks from now?”
“Okay, but don’t take too long. The girl from the library just dropped these off. What’s her name? I can’t remember.” She tried to recall the name, snapping her fingers.
“Mia,” Cyrus stepped in.
“Yes, Mia! It’s only three letters, but it’s still easy to forget.” She licked her fingers and went through the papers, reading the text above her glasses.
“Job advertisement.” She looked at me, tore off a square piece from the sheet, and gave it to me. “I don’t promise I’ll pick up the phone right away, but call me if you feel like returning to normal life, Grace.”
I took the note from her with shaking fingers. “How… how do you know?” Tears filled my eyes, and my lips were trembling.
“Darling, this is Willow Creek. You’re all over the news.”
I wanted to cry and hide in a corner. Still, I knew that I couldn’t afford to fall apart. The most difficult part was yet to come.
The town graveyard wasn’t too large. It was located in a flat area and didn’t have tall trees surrounding it. You could see every tombstone—organized in neat rows—from the parking lot.
I got out of the car, palms sweaty, heart racing—a tornado of emotions was whirling inside me.
My head buzzed, my knees trembled. While my gaze searched the tombstones, I almost collapsed.
The soft stalks of the tulips bent in my hand.
I pulled them against my chest so hard they released sap, which trickled along my hand.
Cyrus touched my elbow gently. I looked at him with teary eyes, and for a brief moment, I found peace in those dark eyes. If I didn’t have him… If he didn’t support me… I was afraid to finish the thought.
He nudged me to start walking slowly and stayed by my side all the way.
When we reached the chapel, I halted and could not speak.
I knew the letters of the words I was looking for, but I couldn’t string them together.
And my hearing… I could hear the groundskeeper’s voice and Cyrus’s deep grumble, but both seemed distant and distorted.
As soon as he pointed us in the right direction, Cyrus discreetly put his hand on my back and led me where I had never wanted to go. I wanted the trail to my parents’ grave to never end.
Our Parents
Richard McCarty
1950–2000
and his wife
Elizabeth McCarty
1952–2000
Loving parents will never be forgotten.
As long as we live, they live in our hearts.
We bid farewell with aching hearts.
Your children, Nicole and Jamie McCarty
Burning acid filled my throat. I read the lines carved into the tombstone again and again. A wave of anger overwhelmed me, sending me into a fit—in a way, it was similar to my anxiety attacks, but this was fueled by rage, not pain.
I was angry with everything and everyone—especially my siblings. Didn’t they think I loved our parents? Didn’t they think I also wanted to say goodbye to them?
That night, not only my parents died—I did, too.
I started scratching the stone, my nails scraping against the shiny granite slab. I wanted to scratch my name into the stone, but my pitiful, laughable effort proved ineffective.
“Grace! Stop it, Grace!” Cyrus knelt beside me and caught my hands, then drew me into an embrace.
My muscles were tense, my bones were cracking, and I was flailing around with my bloody nails.
My head swam and my blood was boiling. I pinched Cyrus’s thigh and slammed my head backward, trying to hit his nose—maybe he’d let me go then.
“Calm down, Grace! Calm down,” he whispered in my ear.
For hours, he rocked me.
The graveyard was already empty, and the sun had reached the horizon. The air was colder, and the world was quiet. I watched the orange silhouette in the sky, shivering with cold. I got lost in its picturesque beauty and thought about how I hadn’t seen a sunset in five years.
Was it life’s bizarre irony that that’s where I saw my first sunset? In a cold graveyard, next to my parents’ grave? I don’t know. There was only one thought circling in my head while I crouched on the ground, freezing.
Chase knew.
He knew my parents were dead and never told me.
January 2006
Cyrus delivered the letter summoning me to court personally. He hadn’t visited me too often after the incident in the graveyard. This didn’t surprise me, though.
He promised to pick me up on the day of the hearing and gave me a card. A doctor’s. He said he was the best, and that I should visit him to help process the trauma that made me behave erratically.
Often, I could not control my emotions. This was one of those times. I crushed the paper in my palm and threw it at Cyrus’s head, then ran into the house. I sobbed loudly and kept hitting the mattress. Because I had turned down the help I really needed.
March 2006
In the court, I was sweating, and my heart went berserk.
It was weird to see him after all this time.
Chase had been looking for me with his gaze—and found me right away. My throat and stomach clenched.
When I looked at him, strange feelings whirled inside me.
He was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit instead of the usual jeans-and-T-shirt combo.
His wrists and ankles were in cuffs linked by a thin, bright chain.
It had been months since he’d been locked up in prison—still, his face and gaze didn’t seem broken.
His face looked more angular, his eyes harder, and his posture more commanding than before—and I shrank inside the suffocating whirlpool I felt around him.
During the hearing, he didn’t rage or try to contradict me.
He admitted everything, even the cruel murder of Mr. Miller.
But what shocked me was not this, but the fact that he was not afraid.
He was smiling when they were leading him away.
He smiled at me, because he knew too well that I…
that there had been times when I had given myself to him freely.
The worst thing was that this had happened on more than one occasion.
His last message to me—the one he shouted across the courtroom—was not a threat or a promise… It was a simple fact.
“You are mine, Grace!”
His deep brown eyes flashed sharply, and his deep, dark, resonant voice floated around me for a long time.
All eyes in the courtroom were on me, while all I was capable of was staring at the door where they had led him out of the room.
I was deep in thought, because I had heard him say this so many times that I had ended up believing it.
I am his.
A memory from 2002
Two years after kidnapping—I was 17
Chase must have stepped out of the shower when I started banging on the door of my prison. I kept hitting and kicking it hard—I didn’t care about the pain or the wounds on my skin.
My captor tore the door open with a dirty towel around his waist, bright drops of water trickling down his body.
I watched as they meandered down, forming a small puddle underneath him.
It reminded me of the one I’d ended up with on my small pillow.
Whenever I thought about my parents or the happier times of my life, it drained my heart of blood and corroded my soul.
I missed my parents so much, it was unbearable.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his chest rising and falling unnaturally fast.
I opened my arms, hugged his waist, leaned my head against his wet chest, and cried quietly.