Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Goodbyes
It is a touching sentiment for the women to pay tribute to Zeke, the hero.
The path leads towards the orchard, where his deep, dark grave lies in a shadowed spot beneath the apple trees.
My fathers stand beside it, passing straps beneath the coffin, while the coarse rope handles burn my palms, but I would rather feel the heat than let go. It’s so hard to keep letting go.
With a tap on my shoulder, a sombre, pale Ren, his arm resting in a sling, snaps me from my trance. “It’s time.”
I’m the only one still holding on, my fingers seized around the handle.
I look at them, forcing them loose like rusted joints, and then stammer at the love heart tattoo on my hand.
My final piece of Zeke. It sends my eyes wide, breath shuddering as I stare at the tattoo.
Atlas pulls me back, scooping his burly arm across my chest. He holds me still while I watch the scene play out as if immersed in a movie.
Because this isn’t my reality. The straps bear the weight as they lower Zeke into the earth, and I flinch at the sound of soil falling atop him, thudding against the wood like sheets of heavy rain.
There’s nothing graceful or decorous about showering a body with earth.
The crowd of people closes in around us, and the whimpering of small children only adds to the surreal atmosphere.
Rex stands up front, drawing my attention from the shovelling. Everyone seems to turn to him, the already quiet scene quietening further with his stance. He lifts his chin as he speaks loudly and clearly to everyone.
“It’s easy to see the world through a darker lens in times like these.
Every one of us faces the day, knowing it could be our last, and then we make a choice—a choice that increases those chances.
Why? Because it’s worth the risk. Because great things require great sacrifices.
Zeke knew this, but it doesn’t make his loss any easier.
He saw that there was a change to be made, and he fought to make it happen. ”
Rex’s captaincy carries through the crowd, and although his body faces the majority, his eyes shoot towards me.
“Men didn’t make it to the moon alone. Journeying beyond the stratosphere is a team effort.
Some people come into our lives, hear about our dream to reach the stars, and they choose to join us.
They propel us from Earth—but some stay behind.
It’s not everyone’s destiny to make it to the stars, but they were the fuel that got us there.
Their efforts, their spirit, their love can continue in memory.
And it’s important to honour them by continuing that journey. ”
Those words pierce my numb shell, hitting me in a place of warmth, burrowing deep enough to stay with me forever.
I even hold my chest, steadying the sensation—the first positive nudge I have felt since before.
With Atlas’s arm wrapped across my chest, his pointing finger rouses my attention.
Ren passes a guitar to Leon, who looks so broken that his emotional wounds appear to have affected him physically, with deflated shoulders and weighted limbs as if it’s a chore to be vertical.
He seems incapable of managing a single word, while his eyes tilt downwards, his mouth so tight it’s barely visible beneath his beard.
The silence settles with the last shovel of earth, leaving only the rustle of flowing branches above, raining confetti blossoms into the warm zephyr.
Birds chirp in the distant trees as a soft strumming falls from Leon’s fingers.
With his eyes closed and his shoulders pulled back, he hums along with a melody that moseys through the air, while his melancholy voice amplifies above the silence.
It’s heartbreaking to hear “Love of My Life” by Queen sung by Leon.
Tears fall from his face, but the words flow untroubled by his severed soul.
His strength is ungodly, but then I realise, this isn’t his first loss.
With Atlas and me by his side, I’m startled to discover we are the only family he has left.
Kris and his brother appear, huffing as they lift a large stone and set it at the head of the grave.
When he straightens it up, I spot the carving: Ezekiel Hawkins.
A beautiful headstone. My fathers take turns stepping forward and each laying a large grey stone upon the turned soil before walking away.
Kris and Ren lay a grey rock each. One by one, the other men lay a stone upon his grave, and my vision blurs as the soil submerges beneath a blanket of grey rocks.
But then the women come, delicately resting posies of white and blush milkweeds above Zeke, and with every flower, a soft thank you is uttered, while the mothers wait until last, letting the children leave a lilac-petaled coneflower.
And with the last homage, it becomes the most beautiful memorial.
The trailer is a tough place to return to.
Baskets of fruit, bread, and alcohol have been left before our doorstep as offerings of sympathy from other soldiers.
We shower and dress, washing away the mission’s residual misery.
I prepare us some food to line our stomachs before I suggest drinking ourselves into oblivion, but with a knock on the door, I approach it with a soul-emptying huff.
Penny from the compound catches me off guard as she stands on my stairs. Her hair is tied back, and her little boy sits in her arms, with his wide, tawny eyes meekly glancing at me as he snuggles into her chest.
“Hey,” I croak with my coarse throat, “Penny, right?” I know her name, but I’m more confused about why she’s here as Leon comes to stand behind me.
“Oh, great! Are you all here?”
“Well, Atlas is getting dressed, but … what’s wrong?” I ask as my sore, puffy eyes squint beneath the sunlight.
“We will be leaving in a few hours, and I… Well, we…” She looks behind her, bringing a group of women to my attention.
I recognise many as they gather at the foot of our steps.
“We wanted to thank you personally, despite your loss. It doesn’t take away from what you did for us.
We will always remember you. All of you.
” She raises her chin proudly and passes me a pile of ragged papers.
They’re decorated in scribbles and drawings, some clearer than others, and as I flick through them, one stands out: an illustration of me with my orange hair beside Zeke with his blue eyes.
They’re sweet—so sweet. I force my cheeks to lift lightly, and I show them to Leon as he steps out onto the stairs with me.
“Guitar man!” a small child shouts, causing Leon to hum a laugh. The child’s mother attempts to shush him, but he wildly waves to Leon, and of course, Leon waves back, forcing a tight smile.
“They drew these in the truck on the way here,” Penny says. “We want to see you all celebrating the free world when this is over.”
The free world? It sounds so distant, so unattainable right now. I widen my eyes as the bigger picture is brought to my attention. “Yeah. When this is over… We’ll celebrate together, right?”
“Mummy? Guitar man, sing a song?” the child says as his mother tries to silence him again.
“One minute, kid,” Leon says, and he slips back into the trailer, grabbing the guitar before rejoining us. He sits on the top step and brushes his hair back with his hand before fitting his cap backwards.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” the mother says.
“Nonsense. I want to. What do you think, kid? Some Bowie? Billy Joel? The Beatles? What are we feeling?”
For the first time, I realise all the toddlers are boys, and they gather around the base of the stairs.
“What’s a beatles?” a child asks, only for Leon’s eyes to roll to the back of his head.
“Now, that’s an outrage, kid. The Beatles it is.”
As he speaks, his voice is toneless, and you can hear the sadness in his words.
But when he sings, it is unaltered, ploughing through his grief.
He strums up a storm as he journeys through a medley of their greatest hits, and the kids sit with their mouths wide open, looking up at him like he’s a rock star.
I suppose they have never seen live music in their little lifetimes, but even I stand watching him with equal amazement at his ability and strength.
Atlas comes out, his face crumpling at the sound of music. “What’s going on?”
I pass him the handful of drawings. “They wanted to say thank you. They’re moving on.”
“Oh. Is it that time already?” He peers around the door, and the women raise their hands, mouthing thank you’s to him.
The dulling of the daylight is the signal for them to leave, so we decide to walk to the trucks with them.
It costs us nothing, but the payback is worth it.
To watch them head off to a better life, to see the small children and their little smiles—it dilutes the horror tainting their rescue, reminding us why we did it in the first place.
I stand back, taking a moment, as I feel like a broken part while watching them. The purr of Malcolm’s British accent distracts me as he steps up from behind.
“Two hundred and thirty-two women, fifty-four children, and thirty-three unborn children … thanks to your efforts.”
“Is that right?” I ask, knowing those numbers exceed our estimations.
“Yes. You have twenty-five days.”
I scrunch my brows. “For what?”
“For round two, little sparrow. It may seem crass, but with the momentum of our success, it’s important that we proceed. I hope it’s enough to keep you from falling apart.” He places his arm around me.
“You’re right. An objective to work towards. It’s how I function best.”
He removes his glasses, polishing them with a silk square from his pocket.
“Good, good. What is it Roscoe would say…? ‘Eyes on the prize,’” he says in his best Southern accent, causing a puff of amusement through my nostrils.
“Now, go with your brothers. Take a few days. I’m on call twenty-four-seven.
We’re all here for you, Everlee.” He hugs me tight, and no matter the passing of time, I will forever feel safe in his arms.
His chin rests atop my head as he recites sweetly:
“My dear,
There is not a peak so bleak that a flower doesn’t grow,
Not a night so trite that a star doesn’t glow,
Not a day so grey that the blue doesn’t show.
My dear,
Beyond the veil of the darkness, the painful harrow,
Peace and freedom await you beyond the shadow.”