Chapter 17: The Grave

Gage read it over my shoulder, out loud, twice.

"Keeper of her mother's legacy," he said. "Is that the one who erased the tape?"

"That's the one."

"Huh," Gage said. "Bold."

Simon put the car in gear.

"The foundation board voted on the honoree last week," he said. "Before the paper, before the club. They'll have printed the programs."

"Can they take it back?"

"They can. They'd have to want to."

I looked out at the sleet on Beacon Street.

"Mother's buried in Cambridge, isn't she?"

Simon glanced at me in the mirror.

"Yes."

"I've never been," I said. "Nobody took me."

Nobody spoke for a block.

"Tomorrow," Gage said. "First thing. I'll get flowers."

He got them at a grocery store on the way, yellow mums with the price sticker still on.

"You don't show up at somebody's mother's grave empty-handed," he said. "Even if she's technically your sister's."

It rained the next morning, a cold, steady Boston rain.

The cemetery was all hills and old trees with their leaves down.

Simon knew the way. He'd been to Father's burial in September, in the plot beside hers.

Two stones, side by side. Father's still sharp-edged and new.

Mother's had moss in the letters.

Beloved wife and mother.

I stood in front of it and didn't know what to do with my hands.

Gage set the mums down and tore off the price sticker and put it in his pocket.

"Hey, ma'am," he said to the stone. "I'm Gage. I'm the one who found her. She's doing good."

Then he stepped back and stood with his cap in his hands.

Simon held the umbrella over me and didn't say anything.

I took out my phone.

I'd listened to all of the July fourths now, alone, on the glider, at night.

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