Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ROXY
The cemetery is quiet when I arrive, the funeral service already underway at a grave near the main entrance. I park the car at a respectful distance and watch from behind a cluster of oak trees, my sketchbook already open in my lap. I'm not here to intrude, only to observe.
The mourners are dressed in black, clustered around the grave like dark flowers. A priest speaks words I can't hear from this distance, his gestures solemn and practiced. The casket is simple, polished wood that catches the afternoon light.
I don't draw the service itself as that feels too invasive. Instead, I wait.
Twenty minutes later, the service ends. The mourners begin to disperse, moving slowly back toward their cars. Some linger, embracing each other, offering quiet condolences. Others leave quickly, as if they can't bear to stay in this place of grief any longer.
But one woman remains.
She's elderly, I would say she is seventy, maybe older.
She is dressed in a black coat despite the mild San Diego weather.
Her hair is white, pulled back in a neat bun, I would call her elegant.
She stands at the edge of the grave, staring down at the casket as the cemetery workers begin to lower it into the earth.
I watch her for a long moment, then begin to sketch.
The curve of her shoulders, hunched with despair and loss.
The way her hands clutch a handkerchief, twisting it unconsciously.
The angle of her head, tilted down, as if she's speaking to the person in the casket.
I can feel the torment from where I sit, hidden under a tree.
This is what I'm drawn to, the human connection to loss. The way grief reshapes a body, makes it smaller, more fragile. I never understood it before, as I’d never experienced a love or connection that had truly made me feel anything.
But now, I think it’s something I can understand, as the thought of losing Dom kills me inside.
The very concept of grief hits me differently now.
It hurts to the bone, but I like the pain, because it makes me feel, lets me know I can feel.
My pencil moves across the page, capturing the details.
The texture of her beautiful coat, that has a pretty brooch attached to the left lapel.
I can’t quite see the shape from here, but it’s tasteful with hints of gold.
I catch the way the wind catches a strand of her hair on the left side of her face.
The absolute stillness of her posture, as if she's been turned to stone.
She stays for nearly an hour, barely moving.
The cemetery workers finish their job and leave as the other mourners are long gone. But she remains, standing vigil over the fresh grave.
Finally, she bends down and places something on the mound of earth, a small flower, a rose, I think, though I'm too far away to be sure. Then she straightens, touches her fingers to her lips, and presses them to the air above the grave.
A kiss goodbye.
She turns and walks slowly back toward the parking lot, her steps are slow but firm. I hope she finds peace. As she fades into the distance, I finish the sketch and close my book, deciding to explore a little before I head home and wait for Dom to get home from work.
The older sections of the cemetery are in the back, past the manicured lawns and modern headstones. Here, the graves are from another era, all weathered stone, moss-covered markers and names worn smooth by decades of rain and wind.
I wander through the rows, my camera in hand, feeling the peace of this place settle over me like a blanket.
There's something meditative about old cemeteries.
The way time has softened everything. The way nature has reclaimed the spaces between graves, grass growing tall, wildflowers pushing up through cracks in the stone.
I photograph a headstone dated 1847. The name is barely legible, something that might be "Sally" or "Samuel," the letters eroded by time. The epitaph is completely gone, worn away by a century and a half of weather.
Who were you? I wonder, framing the shot. What did you love? What did you fear? Who mourned you when you died? The questions don't need answers as the mystery is part of the beauty.
I move to another grave, this one with a small stone angel perched on top. The angel's face is smooth, features erased by time, but the wings are still visible, delicate, detailed, a testament to the sculptor's skill.
Click.
Another photograph. Another moment of history preserved.
I think about death as permanence. How these people have been gone for over a century, but their graves remain.
I think about how grief outlasts the grieving.
How memory becomes stone and moss, blending into part of the earth itself and settling into the landscape. The way it becomes sacred through time.
I spend an hour wandering the old section, photographing headstones, sketching weathered epitaphs, letting my mind drift through thoughts of mortality and memory, with the strange comfort of knowing that death is the one universal truth.
When I finally return to my car, I feel settled. Calm. Like I've been to church, or meditation, or whatever it is people do when they need to reconnect with something larger than themselves. This is my spiritual practice.
Death as art. Grief as beauty. Time as the ultimate sculptor.
I drive home to Dom with a full camera and a quiet contentment in my chest. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
The following day I'm on my laptop, organizing the digital files from my camera when an email notification pops up.
The sender is unfamiliar: [email protected]
Subject: Your Work
I open it cautiously.
Hi,
I came across some of your photography online (I think through a forum post?) and I'm absolutely captivated. The bleakness and morbid sense of life you have captured is extraordinary.
I'm a curator at a gallery in Los Angeles, and I'd love to discuss potentially representing you or showing your work. Would you be open to a conversation?
Best,
Melissa Lammings.
Curator, Avant Gallery LA
My heart stops, shit, someone found my work. How, though? I must have posted something months ago, before we left our old lives. Before we became James and Roxy Brennan. Some fragment of my old portfolio still floating in the digital ether. And now a gallery curator wants to show it.
I should be excited. This is what I've been working toward, a gallery representation, exhibitions, a legitimate career, but all I feel is panic.
Because this wasn’t the plan. The plan is to build the portfolio first, then submit on my terms, under my control. Not to be discovered accidentally by someone who might ask questions, might want to meet me, might connect the work to the old Roxy who's supposed to be dead.
"Dom!"
He appears from the bedroom, immediately alert. "What's wrong?"
I turn the laptop toward him. "Read this."
He reads the email, his expression darkening with each line.
"Who is this?" he asks.
"A curator in LA. She says she found my work online."
"How?"
"I don't know. Maybe something I posted before we disappeared. Before we became the Brennans."
"Fuck."
He's quiet for a moment, thinking. Then he closes the laptop with more force than necessary.
"We need to ignore it," he says.
"But…"
"No. We don't know who this person is, what they want, how they found the work. It's too risky."
"But she's offering representation…"
"I don't care. What if it’s the cops pretending because they found a lead? We said we would do this when we were ready."
"You're panicking," I say.
"I'm being protective. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
He pulls me up from the chair, gripping both of my arms. "This could ruin us, ruin our lives if we’re not smart. And even if it is legit, she could just take control of everything."
"She's not going to control me."
"She’s already holding all of the cards by reaching out. Inserting herself into something that belongs to us."
I watch him, the crazy eyes trying to focus on me, but his mind is racing. He has controlled our situation, trying to protect us for so long that he can’t let go and let some things happen naturally. But I love him for it.
"You're right. We're not ready, and besides, like you say we don’t know for sure who she is. And I don’t want anything linked to our old life."
Some of the tension leaves his shoulders, and I pull away from his hold and touch his bare arms with my hands, gently running my fingertips up and down his forearms, in a comforting way.
"But Dom?"
"Yeah?"
"We have to let the outside in at some point, otherwise this will never work. I understand what you are saying and your concerns, but you will have to give in for this to work."
"It’s hard to let anyone in our bubble."
“But we’re not letting anyone in between us. This is work and money. Us telling our story. This is as much your work as it is mine, as we created this together. It’s just us.”
Suddenly, he kisses me passionately, pulling my whole body up against his. We make out like teenagers, only touches and kisses before I bury my head into his neck, inhaling his scent, loving that feeling of home when we are together.
“You’re right. It’s just us, baby.”
I nod against him, and he hugs me tighter like he is afraid to let go. But there is no need for him to worry, because I will never let go either.
The next few days I focus on creating my portfolio, finishing off the prints left on my camera. Then I spend hours curled up in my favorite chair, drawing in my sketchbook, getting lost in each moment I create.
Dom is the best as he brings me food, making sure I eat before he watches me work in the quiet of our apartment.
"How are you getting on?" he asks, as I clear up my drawing equipment, my hands aching from the long process.
"Twenty-three. Fifteen photographs, eight drawings."
"Do you need more?"
"A few. Maybe two or three more drawings. And one final piece."
"What kind?"