Chapter 15 #2
She nods enthusiastically like I’ve touched on her special interest. “Ebey Graveyard. That’s where you want to look,” she informs me.
With a jerk of the steering wheel, we’re on the highway, and I have to clutch the car door in order not to go flying, though my stomach somersaults in offense.
“It was ruled historical, and the monuments there are old as dirt. People used to do rubbings a lot on the headstones, but that can be pretty damaging.”
“Oh, yeah?” I’m not really interested in the details of gravestone rubbing, or how it’s no longer allowed. I’m not going to Sunnyside to look at graves or read about the pioneers who died after coming to the island.
I was interested once. Long, long ago, my dad took me on picnics to the cemetery, with paper and crayons to discover the details long ago faded from the stone.
But that was then, and this is now.
Luckily, I’m able to continue steering the driver away from any notion that I have family there, even with my earlier slip-up.
We spend the hour drive with her talking, telling me about the cemetery before somehow going off on a tangent on local wildlife and how she doesn’t like what the Whidbey Board is doing with the local hiking trails.
But with the way I’m zoning in and out while trying to look like I’m paying attention, how the hell would I know? Most of what comes out of her mouth hits me as white noise, as the sound of my breathing and the fight to suppress old memories take precedence in my head.
Finally, the tall pines part, and I see the whitewashed fence I’m pretty sure has lined Sunnyside Cemetery since before I was born. Like sunlight splitting the clouds, it feels like a beacon of hope, and I nearly jump out of the moving car before she’s slowed to a stop at the entrance.
“Will you need a ride somewhere else, hon?” the woman asks with possibly genuine concern as she hands me her phone to swipe my credit card.
I do so, giving her a generous tip so she doesn’t have anything other than fond memories of me.
Not that I’ve given her reason to think anything at all, but for some reason, the idea of slipping up and letting it be known who I am here feels dangerous.
Whidbey Island is small, and I very much doubt they’ll look kindly on me after what I did.
I’m informed enough to know the papers blamed me for Dad’s death too, along with Mom’s and Derek Prescott’s.
Which I suppose is reasonable, even if it leaves a bad taste in my mouth and a scent in my nose like the burned hair I smelled emanating from his charred corpse in the tub that night.
I never would’ve hurt my father.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, distracted as I shove my card back into the slot in my phone case.
“I need to catch the afternoon ferry going back to Seattle. So I thought I’d hang out here for maybe an hour, then go back to the coast and get some food.
” I keep my voice casual as I say it, and the taxi driver nods sagely.
“If I don’t have any fares in the area, I’ll swing back around.
” The offer is a kind one, though I can’t decide how I feel about it.
“The newer parts of the cemetery are that way.” She points one chubby finger tipped with a fake red nail toward one corner of the sloping cemetery.
“That’s where you’ll find the Morwen graves, too. ”
Her words make me stumble, and I nearly fall as I get out of the taxi. My whole body seems to lurch, and I whirl around, eyes wide. “The, what?” I ask, completely caught off guard for the first time in a long time.
“Oh, come on.” She waves a hand. “I’m not stupid. Ever since then, kids have been coming up here to look at their graves like they’re a tourist attraction. You don’t have to lie to me.” She gives me a secretive smile, as if she’s in on my intentions.
Though she’s a bit closer to the truth than I’d like her to be, and all I can do is stare at her.
“So if you’re looking for old Anna and Rick, that’s where you’ll find them.
” I hate her smugness and the way she sounds like she knows more than she’s letting on.
An irrational frustration burns up my throat, and it’s a chore to smile at her instead of ripping her head off.
Literally.
“That’s not really why I’m here,” I lie, with a falsely apologetic laugh.
“But I’ll check it out. I’ll pay my respects.
Thank you again.” With that I close the back door of the taxi, and when I glance back after a few steps toward the cemetery gates, I see that the taxi driver is back to smoking a cigarette and scrolling her phone, probably to find where she might get her next fare.
Taking her advice, albeit in a roundabout way, I meander through the cemetery with the wind cold blowing on my face from the nearby sea.
Everywhere on the island feels like this, I remember, and I take a moment to look out over sloping farmland, faraway cows, and rows of fields not-yet seeded for the season.
“This place really used to feel like home,” I whisper to myself, happy that there’s no one around to hear me.
In fact, the cemetery is deserted, not that I’m surprised.
It’s not impressive, or large, or a particularly big deal to anyone outside of the island.
And even then, it’s not the only cemetery to bury one’s dead.
My eyes drift from headstone to headstone, and I briefly try to remember which ones I’d rubbed with paper and crayons back in the day, to no avail. It’s been too long, and the memories are too polluted by the abuse that came after.