Chapter 6: Her Own Headstone

The cemetery sat on the hill above the mill, behind a rusted fence.

I walked up the gravel path at noon with my coat buttoned to the chin and a cold wind pushing at my back.

I had told no one I was going.

I only wanted to see where they had put the box that was supposed to be me.

It was in the third row, under a bare maple.

The stone was gray granite, polished on the front.

GENEVA MARIE CASSIDY.

BELOVED DAUGHTER. BELOVED FIANCÉE.

Under it were two dates, and the second one was the day I went into the river.

Fresh yellow tulips lay across the base.

A pink toddler mitten sat on top, weighted down with a small stone.

A man knelt in the dead grass in front of it, with his forehead almost touching the granite.

Stewart.

He was still in his school clothes, a tie loose at his neck.

He didn't hear me until I was ten feet away.

Then he stood so fast he nearly fell.

"Geneva." He wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I come on my lunch hour. Most days. I didn't think you'd..."

"Visit myself?"

"That's not funny."

"It's not supposed to be."

I stopped in front of the stone.

I read my own name again.

He had picked the words, I knew without asking.

Beloved fiancée.

"You had a stone cut," I said.

"Your parents wanted somewhere to go."

"And a baby with my sister, and a ring on your hand, and you still bring tulips."

His head came up.

"Say it," he said. "Whatever you came to say."

"You buried an empty box in under three months, and you were in bed with my sister in less than that."