Emily Littlejohn - Inherit the Bones

He launched into the scientific explanation of why, in fact, snowflakes are immortal and I felt sorry for the Peanut. She was going to grow up with a father who replaced poetry with logic and a mother who spent her days in very dark places.

The roads were slick and visibility poor. Brody drove carefully, with the radio off and the high beams on. The road ahead came in glimpses as the windshield wipers worked overtime, and I wished I had windshield wipers of my own, to flip on when my road, my path, was not so clear.

I watched Brody in profile. He had a five o’clock shadow, bedhead hair, and a look of pure concentration. I watched him, and wondered what this child was going to bring to our lives. There were three of us now, and I hoped he felt as I did, that our choices were no longer our own. With Brody, I had known joy and pain, happiness and sorrow, laughter and love.

I trusted him with my life.

I still didn’t know if I could trust him with my heart.

It was almost worse that it wasn’t, in the end, Celeste Takashima in Alaska. Celeste was a known commodity, someone I could direct my anger and hate toward. If I wanted to make a voodoo doll, I could do a pretty good likeness. But now, now there was someone new out there, some faceless, nameless woman, ready to shed her bubblegum pink parka to warm his tent and polish his rocks. Brody tells me she is Canadian, married, and unattractive.

He tells me I’m paranoid and being crazy. I remind him I have reason to be.

Grace Julia Sutherland was born at 4:44 a.m., healthy, perfect, and absolutely beautiful. Ten fingers, ten toes, and eyes the color of blueberries.

Brody chose Grace, because he believes it embodies all that we hope for her, and ourselves.

I chose Julia, in honor of the woman who raised me.

In my dreams, the dead can speak. I greet them by name-Tommy, Andrew, Nicky-and watch as they run in a meadow that is soaked with afternoon sun. They play a game that involves lying still, and then jumping up with shrieks and whoops. Before the afternoon is through, the children’s clothes will be stained with grass and pollen from the hundreds of wildflowers that surround them.

Before long, a little girl and a man join me. The girl takes my right hand, the man, my left. They let me whisper good-bye and then they tug, pulling me with them into the woods.

I leave the meadow.

Somehow, I don’t think I’ll be back again.

EMILY LITTLEJOHN was born and raised in Southern California and now lives in Colorado. If she’s not writing, reading, or working at the local public library, she’s enjoying the mountains with her husband and sweet old dog. She has a deep love of horror stories, butter pecan ice cream, and road trips. Inherit the Bones is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.