Sixth Grave on the Edge

23

Bad decisions make good stories.

—T-SHIRT

Cookie and I stood along the outer edges of a small funeral procession clad in its best mourning attire. I was glad she’d come with me. The thickness of grief that surrounded us, the oppressive weight of it, made it difficult to breathe. And my ankle hurt.

Normally, I could shut down the part of myself that absorbed emotion, that siphoned it off the people around me like others siphoned vitamin D from the sun. Otherwise, I would be bombarded with the drama of everyday life nonstop. It took energy, but raising the wall was almost automatic now. I did it quite often before I even left my apartment in the mornings.

But here at the funeral of a beautiful three-year-old girl whose love for her two fathers lingered on the air still, my defense mechanism didn’t work. I could only hope Jessica’s funeral would not be as painful, as I had that one to look forward to.

Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to attend the funeral of Marcus Nelms that week. I’d called 911, told them about the cyanide. They pumped his stomach, but according to the doctor on staff, even though they’d gotten there in time to prevent an oxycodone overdose, the cyanide would have killed him almost instantly regardless. The authorities checked, and the one laced with the lethal poison was the only one left in the bottle. And I suddenly believed in miracles.

Marcus would need a lot of help, and I planned to make sure he got it. I’d already talked to my friend Noni Bachicha. Noni offered to not only hire Marcus at the body shop but also to keep a very close eye on him and let me know how he was faring. Noni’s support, along with the free counseling I’d talked my sister into providing, gave me hope that we could get Marcus out of the lifestyle he’d been living and into bigger and better things. He clearly had a huge heart. He so very much deserved another chance at life. Clearly someone else agreed.

Sadly, not everyone was granted a miracle. I had to focus on making it through the funeral without breaking down. The emotion radiating out of the friends and family of Isabel Joyce was strong. It came at me from all directions. I felt dizzy as we stepped forward in line to offer our condolences to the two grieving men. Isabel’s fathers loved her so deeply, walking toward them through their grief was like pushing against a brick wall.

Seeming to sense my distress, Cookie took my arm in hers and inched forward. Attendants hugged the men, their sympathy sincere, their loss like gaping holes in their chests. Cookie sniffed and took the hand of Mr. Joyce’s husband, Paul. He was a big man with a warm face and firm handshake, as I found out when it was my turn. Fortunately, he didn’t ask how we knew his beautiful daughter. Cookie and I had come up with a cover story, but so far, we hadn’t had to use it.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, his red-rimmed eyes watering in the process. I could feel the suffocating agony he held at bay. Forcing the words out, any words out, was torture for him. He just wanted to go home and mourn, and my heart ached in response. I wanted to tell him that all the ceremonial stuff would be over soon, and he and his husband could grieve, and heal, together, but it was not the time or the place. Isabel’s friends and family had come to pay their respects. To diminish that would be doing her an injustice.

Cookie squeezed my arm, and I realized I was still holding on to the man’s hand. He didn’t seem to notice. He was fighting tooth and nail to stay vertical. To keep from crumbling to the ground. Mr. Joyce’s arm tightened around his husband’s shoulders as they took a moment to let the sobs overtake them.

It was then that Mr. Joyce realized who stood in front of them. He glanced at his partner, worry flashing in his expression before settling his own red-rimmed gaze on me. I took his hand, leaned in, and whispered to him, “You’ll be with her again. Your soul is all yours. Don’t lose it again.”

When I tried to pull back, he held me to him, buried his face in my shoulder as a fresh round of sobs engulfed him. I wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and fought for control over my own emotions. I hated funerals. I hated any rite of passage that emphasized how fleeting and fragile our physical lives were. I hated that children died. Even knowing what I knew about life and the afterlife and the momentary condition of our existence on earth, I hated it. It was better on the other side. I knew that. I’d been told by countless departed, but I hated this part nonetheless.

And just for the record, telling the living how their loved ones were in a better place rarely helped. Nothing helped apart from time, and even then, the long-term prognosis was sketchy. Most recovered. Many did not. Not really. Not fully.

After the funeral, I had one more errand to run before I could take the evening off to elevate my throbbing ankle. I felt a scalding hot bubble bath was long overdue. Combine that with a little candlelight, a glass of sparkling wine, and a real-life fiancé named Reyes, and I might have a wonderful evening. Only the fiancé named Reyes was still recovering from his fall. I had no idea how extensive the damage was as I’d fallen asleep the moment we got home, but having him so close to me, his heat permeating the sheets, enveloping me in a heavenly and healing warmth, sent me into a deep slumber. He was gone when I woke up that morning, his freshly showered scent bathing the area, making me crave at least a glimpse of him, but I’d been running late for the funeral, so I didn’t get a chance to go to the bar before I left.

And seeing him would have to wait a little while longer. I pulled Misery to a stop in front of Rocket’s place. The abandoned mental asylum had been cleaned, the grounds cleared, and a sparkling new chain-link fence bordered the entire area. I took out my key and glanced over at Cookie.

“Are you ready for this?” I asked her. She’d never met Rocket or his sister, Blue. Nor had she been introduced to Officer Taft’s sister, Rebecca—or Strawberry Shortcake, as I liked to call her, mostly because she’d died in Strawberry Shortcake pajamas, but partly because calling her Strawberry was safer than calling her the plethora of other names that surfaced every time I saw her. She was a handful. And she had issues.

Cookie was gazing wide-eyed at the building. She nodded, then turned toward me, biting her lower lip, her nerves getting the better of her. “You’ll have to interpret.”

“I promise,” I said.

After managing our way through the locked gate and the locks on the main entrance, we stepped inside cautiously. Cookie was cautious because she wasn’t super fond of abandoned mental asylums. Especially haunted ones. I was cautious because the last time I’d seen Rocket, I wasn’t very nice to him. He’d told me Reyes was going to die. I didn’t take it well. In fact, it was a fairly low point in my life, if one could measure low points by how many times one threatened to rip five-year-old girls—namely, Rocket’s sister, Blue—to shreds.

I cringed when I thought of it. Cookie noticed as I hobbled along beside her. While the outside had been cleared and maintained to perfection, the inside was still in a state of chaotic ruin. Bits of the crumbling plaster cluttered the floor, along with trash and other paraphernalia that had been left throughout the years. Many a partier had celebrated life here. Along with Rocket’s scribbling and scratches was all kinds of evidence of how many times the place had been broken into. Spray paint on the walls. Empty beer bottles and soda cans. The occasional used condom, which evoked a gag reflex every time I saw one. This place needed a good scrubbing.

“Has he ever been angry with you?” Cookie asked, referring to how I’d left things with Rocket.

“No, but he should be now. If he’s not, I’ll feel worse than I already do.”

“So, you deserve his wrath, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yep.”

Before she could argue, a young, high-pitched voice echoed throughout the halls. I winced at the sound of it. It had a certain je ne sais quoi nails-on-chalkboard quality that one didn’t find every day.

“Just where on God’s green earth have you been?” Strawberry appeared before me, her long hair hanging in tangles around her pretty face. Her pajamas had gotten soiled when she drowned, but they were still pink and cute and sweet. Unlike, say, Strawberry.

I hesitated. She’d been there during my lesser moment, and I didn’t know if she was still mad at me or not. The departed could hold a grudge like nobody’s business.

“Hey, kid,” I said at last.

In my periphery, Cookie was looking where I was, even though I knew she couldn’t see the beautiful girl standing in our path. She was such a good egg, and way more handy than a crutch. This way I could lean my weight on her and not have to worry about dragging around a huge piece of metal. And Cookie finally got to see Rocket’s place. It was a win–win.

“Well?” Strawberry asked. “Where have you been? He’s very upset.”

“Is he mad at me?”

She crossed her tiny arms over her chest. “He won’t stop, and he has work to do. He’s very behind.”

Rocket’s work, if one could call it that, was carving into the plastered walls of the asylum the names of all those who pass, which contributed greatly to their crumbling and dilapidation. Thousands upon thousands of names lined almost every inch of the interior of the asylum, a fact that Cookie was just noticing. She made a slow circle, taking in the décor. I had to reposition my hand over her arms and shoulders to keep my footing as she circled. It was quite awkward when I grabbed hold of one of her girls, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“This place is incredible,” she said.

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s just so creepy and yet cool at the same time.”

“Right?”

Strawberry jammed her fists onto her slim hips. “Well?” she repeated.

When Cookie took my arm into hers again, I refocused on Strawberry. “He won’t stop what, honey?”

Her chin raised a notch. “I can’t tell you.”

I was getting used to this beguiling creature, much as I hated to admit it, and I asked, “Can you show me, then?”

One shoulder lifted and her attention flitted to Cookie as though just noticing her. “Who is that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Cookie. Cookie, this is—”

“Her name is Cookie?”

“Yes, and it’s not nice to interrupt.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she studied my BFF. “I like her.”

“I like her, too. Can you show me what Rocket has been up to?”

After another one-shouldered shrug, Strawberry led the way, asking Cookie question after question. I held a flashlight and interpreted as we made our way through the perilous halls. By the time we found Rocket, Strawberry knew just about everything there was to know about Cookie, including the fact that she had a daughter. Strawberry wanted to meet her immediately and made me promise to bring her to see them.

We rounded yet another corner, which led to the infirmary, and found Rocket standing against a wall, scribbling another name into it. Rocket was like a human version of the Pillsbury Doughboy. He towered a solid foot over my head when we stood toe to toe, and he had kind, inquisitive eyes that never quite registered what was going on around him.

“He’s very behind,” Strawberry repeated, pointing to the wall he’d been carving up. But I wasn’t concerned about the names on his list. I was concerned about him. About how I’d left things between us. I wouldn’t blame him if he never spoke to me again. At least Reyes had bought this place for me, so I could keep Rocket and his sister safe here. While he was incorporeal, the property damage he did was quite corporeal. If this place was ever torn down, I didn’t know where he would go.

“Rocket?” I said, inching toward him. He paused and glanced at the floor before continuing with what he was doing. He held a piece of broken glass in his left hand, scoring the wall with it until his scratching resembled a letter of the alphabet, only not ours, not English. I didn’t pay much attention as I glanced around for a sign of his sister. It had taken me years to get a glimpse of her, and I’d scared the life out of her—so to speak—during my last visit. I would probably never see her again.

Though he was very aware of my presence, he continued working.

I let go of Cookie’s arm and stepped closer. “Rocket, I’m so sorry about how I behaved. I had no right to get mad at you or to threaten your sister. I have no excuse.”

“That’s okay, Miss Charlotte,” he said, keeping his gaze averted. “But he shouldn’t be here.”

He was talking about Reyes. “He died yesterday,” I said. “And he came back. Was that why you wrote his name on the wall?”

“He’s very behind. People are crossing over to the other side, and he’s not writing their names down.”

“Strawberry, he’s working like crazy. See all those names?” I asked, pointing to Rocket’s artwork.

“No,” she said, growing frustrated. “Those aren’t people who have died. Those are people who are going to die.”

I blinked in realization. We were in the room he was saving. The only room that, until recently, had pristine walls. Not a scratch on them. Not a single name had marred their surfaces. He’d told me once that he was saving these walls for the end of the world. For when Reyes was going to end the world if I kept him here on earth with us. He’d told me his being here was breaking the rules. It went against the natural order of things.

Rocket spoke over his shoulder. “I told you not to bring him back, Miss Charlotte.”

I stepped away from him for a better view. Strawberry was right. These were all new names, all new carvings. “I don’t understand,” I said to him.

He stopped scribbling at last and turned toward me. When he spoke, his words were a mere whisper echoing in the large chamber. “I told you, he’s not supposed to be here. He’s breaking the rules.” He put an index finger to his mouth as though to shush me. “No breaking rules, Miss Charlotte.”

“Who are these people, Rocket?” I asked, stepping forward to run my fingers along the jagged lines.

“They are the people who are going away soon.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

“You didn’t kill him. You were supposed to kill him. It wasn’t your fault, but you were supposed to. Now they’re all going away.”

“How many people are going away?”

His mouth thinned as he scanned his work. “All of them.”

“This can’t happen, Rocket.”

“You broke the rules, Miss Charlotte. You brought him back.”

“Bullshit,” I said, getting angry with Rocket again.

He took a wary step back as I drew in a deep breath, tried to keep hold of every ounce of calm I could muster. “I’m sorry, hon. I just don’t understand. How is Reyes supposed to cause the deaths of all these people?”

“Not how,” he said, reverting back to his old standby. “Not when, only who.”

He could only tell me who died. Not how or when or why. Only who.

“No breaking rules,” he said, his voice now shaky.

I narrowed my lids, the shards of anger that nipped along the edges of my psyche slicing through the barrier I’d put up and slid silently inside. “I make the rules, Rocket. How is Reyes supposed to cause the deaths of—” I glanced around. “—thousands of people?”

“Not thousands, Miss Charlotte. Seven billion two hundred forty-eight million six hundred twenty thousand one hundred thirteen.”

Stunned, I shook my head. “How?” I repeated through teeth that were now welded together. “That’s everyone on Earth, and that’s not possible. How?”

He frowned and glanced down in thought. “Or one.”

“What?” I said, blinking back to him.

“Or one. If one dies, everyone lives.”

“Who, Rocket? Reyes?”

“No, Miss Charlotte. Not this time.”

“Wait, I changed destiny, right? I brought Reyes back. But now someone else has to die?” When he nodded, I asked, “Who?”

We’d been here before, and it did not end well. Rocket didn’t want to tell me, but he’d lost some of his innocence since our last encounter. He now knew better than to hold back.

He swallowed hard and whispered, the word like brittle paper in the air, thin and so fragile, I was afraid it would crumble before it got to me. But it didn’t. It reverberated in my mind like a crash of thunder.

He looked at me, his eyes round, and said again, “You, Miss Charlotte.”

And there it was.