Chapter 32
April
Two Days Until The Wedding
The wind whips my hair across my face and I pull my jacket closed against the chill. Carter and Sabrina had better pray it warms up before the wedding. If there is a wedding. No news indicating otherwise has made it through the proverbial grapevine.
I finger the summoning stone in the pocket of my trench, my heels clicking against the paved path winding its way through the cemetery.
It’s technically spring, but the tree limbs are bare, the smallest buds still hiding.
Mist fills the air, bringing my already voluminous hair to another level.
The pale gray gravestones have darker stripes where the moisture has settled.
I inhale, reading the names as I pass them by, as though I don’t already know exactly where I’m headed.
As if I haven’t spent this day the same exact way for the past ten years.
Just around the maple tree that’s grown thicker through the years, I navigate my way down the small slope to the lower grounds of the cemetery.
A few other people stand or place flowers on gravestones as I pass.
I don’t make eye contact. Perhaps in a stronger moment I would give a nod, a small smile of solidarity.
But grief is intimate, and something about looking too long feels voyeuristic.
I turn the corner, and the rounded stone top comes into view. It’s one of hundreds, but I know the exact one. My heart thuds as I approach, as though I’m actually seeing her and not a piece of rock.
And then I’m face-to-face with the etched, modest-size headstone. No quote, no embellishments, just a name and two dates. I run my pointer finger across the engraved lettering.
Kassia Lakoski.
A handful of dandelions crowd the base, their sunshine yellow a juxtaposition to the gray day. I lean over and pluck them from the ground, holding them by the stems in one hand.
Great, now it looks like I brought my mother dandelions. I should’ve stopped at the florist before coming, but while the motions of today are mostly habit, the florist isn’t one of them. That was always Babcia’s domain. She would’ve thought ahead.
I lay my hand on the smooth, arced top. The stone is surprisingly warm beneath my palm. I close my eyes and inhale, petrichor filling my lungs.
“Hi, Mom.”
I don’t know what I believe about communing with the dead.
Is speaking out loud better? Can they read our thoughts?
I’m not sure I buy any of it, honestly. Last year I would’ve said this is simply a way to comfort ourselves, to act like we can still connect with loved ones when in reality, we cannot. But that was before Trip.
“I—I’ve come to a realization recently.” I swallow and pop one eye open to see if I’m at risk of being overheard.
Coast is clear.
“I had a lot of resentment toward you because it felt like you didn’t choose me.
” A shiver travels up my spine and I cinch the belt on my coat tighter.
“Part of me wanted you to realize that I was enough. Reason enough to try. But I want you to know it’s okay.
” A tear rolls down my cheek, stinging in the cold.
I wipe it away and sniff. “Well, not okay, but—I forgive you. I love you, Mama.”
With a shaky breath, I reach behind my neck and unclasp the gold chain. It’s light in my hand, the metal like a soft strand of gold hair. I pull the summoning stone out of my pocket with my other hand and hold both out, like an offering to an unknown deity.
I close my eyes and two drops descend from where my upper and lower lashes squeeze together. “Here goes nothing.” Inhaling through my mouth, I bring my two palms together and squeeze.
Please, please, please. A breeze stirs and lifts strands of hair off my shoulders. Voices of other visitors carry across the cemetery. I open my eyes and scan the hillside. Nothing out of place. No long-legged woman with a shock of black hair.
That’s okay. Sometimes it takes a while. Maybe she’s coming.
Do I want her to come? My stomach flips at the possibility. But my heart knows. As complicated as our relationship was, as fraught as those years that I lived with Babcia were, I’ve always wanted her to come back to me. To realize this is where she should be.
I shut my eyes to barricade another well of tears. Blinking them open, a slash of purple cuts through my clouded vision. At my feet, a bouquet of crocuses rests on the damp earth. I whip my head around and she’s there.
Babcia.
Wearing her same old black wool jacket and a colorful silk scarf over her hair. It takes everything in me not to sob, not to collapse into her arms. Instead, I follow her knowing gaze as it falls to my clasped palms.
Quick as a whip, I shove both hands into my jacket pockets and release the items against the soft fabric.
We stand there, our eyes locked. The gray day plays tricks with her gray irises, and in this light they’re like ice.
I try to dig beneath the surface of her stare, looking for any hint of warmth.
Then two wool-clad arms wrap around my middle and the air is squeezed from my lungs. Babcia’s forehead presses against my collarbone.
“Oh, wnuczka.” She presses a hand to the back of my head, smoothing my hair. “I’ve missed you.”
A sob tugs at my bottom lip, threatening to escape, and I bring one hand around her head to dab at my eyes. She only squeezes me tighter and I don’t pull away.
Minutes pass—maybe hours. We don’t speak and yet so much is exchanged during that time.
Eventually Babcia pulls back and places a hand against my cheek. “Let’s sit.”
She points us toward an iron bench, grasping one of my hands in both of hers as we walk. We sit and she doesn’t let go, laying my hand in her lap.
“Babcia, I’ve made such a mess.”
The child in me wants to bury my head in her lap, have her stroke my hair and tell me everything is going to be okay. Instead, I search her eyes for comfort, for that same reassurance.
“I used the stone a third time.” My throat is dry and the words come out cracked.
She looks at the ground and nods, as though she expected as much. “And how did it go?”
John Coldwell’s dark eyes appear in my mind like an unwanted guest.
I swallow. “I met Carter’s grandfather. John Coldwell.”
Babcia is a vault when it comes to her emotions, especially unpleasant ones, but her face blanches at my words.
“I need to ask you, Babcia.” I squeeze her hand, even though my insides are shaking. “Did you work with him?”
She sighs and stares into the distance. “What can I say, kochanie? You know I did.”
“Why?” It’s shaky, not nearly as firm as I would like, but I’ve lost most of my nerve.
Babcia presses her fingertips to her eyebrows. “For you, Elzbieta.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t—”
“I’m not proud. I don’t like doing that kind of work, not for payment.
Connecting with spirits, to other ways of knowing—it’s an art, not something to be bought and sold.
I could feel the answers resisting us.” She glances at me.
“But that man could provide opportunities for you. I wanted—want—everything for you. And I do think it was because of his support for treatment that we got a few more years with your mother.”
A knot tightens in my chest and we’re both quiet for several moments. Birds chirp in a nearby tree and branches rustle against each other in the wind. I tilt my head toward the cloudy sky and inhale.
“Plus,” Babcia continues, “as time went on, I saw the way you looked at his grandson.”
My mind jumps to Trip.
“The light came back to your eyes, the pink to your cheeks, wnuczka. You had been sad for so long. I didn’t want to jeopardize what his friendship meant to you.”
I scoff and pick at my cuticle. “I don’t think it was as real as I believed.”
Babcia narrows her eyes. “Did that man hurt you?”
“No. I brought this upon myself.” I puff out my cheeks and exhale. “I’ve been willing to settle for crumbs, if only to feel chosen by someone.” I straighten my spine and tilt my chin up. “But I need to stop waiting for others. I’m choosing myself.”
Babcia’s eyes soften. “Oh, kochanie. My brave, brave girl.” She pats my hand in her lap.
My chest loosens. “You don’t need to worry though, Babunia. Family comes first. And I owe you for so much. Even though I’m choosing myself, I’ll still help you. With the shop and everything.”
Her eyes sparkle. “I may be old, but I’m capable. It’s time for you to take your own path in life.” She squeezes my hand. “There is no greater way you could repay me than with your own happiness. Besides, we must write our own fairy tales.”
I snort, but the gaze she levels at me is anything but joking.
“Fairy tales? We hardly live in a fairy tale, Babcia.” A ghost story, perhaps. “Plus, this from the woman who spends her time investigating people’s fates, what the universe has in store for them? I thought you believed those things are predetermined.”
Her chest rises and falls. “The stars—other ways of knowing—give us insight. But it’s what we do with it that really matters. We can always change our stories.”
My chest squeezes. For years I have believed my circumstance, my worth to be set in stone, determined by others around me. To now be given the chance to decide that for myself.
Babcia’s hand squeezes mine. “And you’re wrong, by the way.”
I furrow my brow. “What?”
“You are chosen.” Her mouth spreads into a soft smile and her eyes shine.
I sniff and clear the moisture from my throat, pulling the summoning stone from my pocket. “She didn’t come.”
Babcia doesn’t need to ask who I mean.
A question claws at my throat. “Why can I see them?”
“I’m not sure why we can, kochanie—”
“We?”
She nods. “Many of the women in our family have had this ability.”
I swallow and examine the side of her face, the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. “Mama?”
Again, a quiet nod. “I think it’s part of the reason she struggled so.”
My hand closes around the chain in my pocket, gripping it so tight, my nails dig into the skin of my palm. “Why didn’t you tell me? Give me some warning?”