8
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, tucking the hem of my white button-down securely into my pants as I give myself a final once-over.
My hair is still a mess, long and overgrown, but the patchy beard of the last three months is gone, and the new aftershave I bought before graduation has finally been put to use. The scar on my forehead has faded, and the redness is now a soft, far-less-noticeable pink.
I wouldn’t say I look good, but I do look like I’m trying.
Plus, I don’t want to go see Kimberly looking like I’ve “never heard of something called a shower.”
I smile to myself, remembering the athletic banquet at the end of junior year. I showed up straight from a touch football game with Sam. She roasted me with that before we even set foot inside, then pulled out a comb from her purse to slick down my hair in a way that only she could somehow manage.
It’s always like this, some memory rooting me to the spot, stopping me in my tracks.
But Sam was right last week. I have to go and see her. I can’t let her think I would forget her.
Sighing, I head out of the bathroom door and into my bedroom, determination turning into uncertainty as my hand hesitates over a bouquet of irises, the purple petals shockingly bright for such a heavy day.
Am I really ready for this?
I think back through the weeks since Mom decided to take my door off its hinges. I guess I feel stronger in some ways. I’m actually going to my PT appointments. Replying to Sam’s texts instead of ignoring them. Not having a freak-out every time I see Kim in empty chairs and across the room and in places she couldn’t possibly be.
But today I’m actually going to see her. Going to the cemetery and standing in front of a gravestone with her name on it and trying my very best to figure out what exactly she’d want me to do.
And now that the moment is here, I’m scared shitless. The same stomach-dropping feeling I had when not-actually Kim decided to show up next to me during that football game two weeks ago. What’s going to happen when I’m actually near her?
I mean… I could do it tomorrow. Or even next week. After my mom gets home from running errands, I could even call Sam to… put it off. I’d just be putting it off.
“Don’t be such a little bitch, Kyle,” I mutter, and I head up the steps and out the door, hoping the super-long walk to the cemetery will be enough time to pull myself together.
Only, of course, today it feels like a block.
Too soon the wrought iron gates come into view, big trees casting shade over the sea of gravestones, a heavy sadness in the drooping branches. I slow down as I walk along the path, taking in each headstone while I put off my destination. Mothers, fathers, sons, grandparents. Even kids.
Fuck, I do not want to be here.
Some of the plots are carefully maintained, fresh flowers looping around the stone, trinkets from friends and loved ones placed underneath.
Others are overgrown, no one left to look after them.
Will Kim’s grave be okay? I sure as hell hope so. While I don’t mind looking uncared for, I don’t think I could stomach seeing anything of hers that way.
I wouldn’t want it looking like… well… like this one.
I stop to study a small headstone with dead ivy crawling over the corners, the inscription just a single word: GOODBYE. No name, no date, nothing.
Damn, that’s sad. My head sears with pain and I have to steady myself, squinting at the individual letters, both of the o’s, the e, until the burning slowly starts to pass.
I wonder what kind of person a headstone like this belongs to. If anyone even remembers them.
When all of the pain dissipates, I pull a purple flower from the bouquet in my hands and place it carefully on the lonely headstone. I don’t really know why I do it, but it just seems like someone should. Especially since the grave next to it is surrounded by a sea of pink flowers growing as far as the plot allows. The big triangular petals are vivid and eye-catching. I really don’t know how I didn’t see it first.
I lightly touch one of the flowers. I think I recognize them from my mom’s garden. She tried growing them a few years ago, their smell strong enough to waft through our kitchen window on summer mornings.
But what were they called?
I’m about halfway through the alphabet of the dozen flowers I do know when I realize how hard I’m delaying.
I urge myself along. Come on, Kyle.
I continue on the path for a few more steps, my mind drifting from those pink flowers to the GOODBYE headstone. Something about it feels wrong. Why exactly? I’m so in my head that I almost miss it.