Элизабет Чандлер - Don't Tell

“That’s what happens when you’re not running everything,” he remarked. I heard a muffled laugh in the corner of the room.

“But we need contrast for the photos,” she insisted. “I told them that They’ll be sorry when they see their spread.”

“There’s always Adobe Photoshop,” Nick suggested.

“Yes, of course,” Holly replied, “but that will take time.”

Nick smiled at her. “I was joking, Holly. This is a yearbook. We’re supposed to be preserving memories, not creating them.”

“Some people just don’t get it,” she said. “Well, I warned them.” She leaned back against a desk and drummed her fingers.

“Listen, Holly,” I interrupted, “I have a few more things to do.”

She hopped up. “I’ll walk you out.” When we got outside the room, she asked, “So, how’s it going today?”

“Pretty good.”

“Have you visited your mom’s grave yet?”

“That’s where I’m going next,” I replied.

“Want me to go with you?”

I was surprised and touched by her offer. “Thanks, but no.”

“I’ve got time,” she told me. “The cemetery is right across the street. Don’t get snowed by my busy editor-in-chief act. It just makes me feel important,” she added, laughing. “Why don’t I go?”

“Thanks, but this time I’d rather be by myself.”

She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Oh, and I transferred the money.”

She grabbed my hand. “You’re a lifesaver!”

“So I’ll see you at home.” I turned to walk away.

“Holly,” one of the kids called from inside. “Holly, tell Lauren to wait. We’ve got a great idea!”

Holly raised an eyebrow at me, then stuck her head through the door.

“We’re going to fix her up with Jason,” a girl said. “What do you think?’ Holly was quiet for a moment, then smiled. “I think it’s brilliant.”

“They’ll look good under the arch, red roses or not,” the photographer needled.

Holly ignored him. “I’ll dig up a dress for you, Lauren, so don’t worry about that. Shoes, too. One of us will have something from last year that’ll work.” To the group she announced, “I’m taking one-night donations — formals and shoes.”

“Whoa! Wait a minute, what are we talking about?” I said, stepping into the doorway.

Karen, my guide, pointed to a photo of a great-looking guy in a basketball uniform. “Jason Deere. Star forward for W.H., just ditched by his yearlong girlfriend. He needs a date for tonight’s prom.”

“Well, thanks, but I’m busy,” I said.

“Doing what?” Holly asked. “Come on, Lauren. It will be good for you.”

“It will be better for Jason,” Nick observed.

I glanced at him.

“You date, don’t you?” Nick asked with a sly smile.

“I go to dances.”

“What’s Jason’s cell-phone number?” a guy hollered.

“Wait a minute,” I protested.

He picked up the phone and someone called out a number.

I didn’t want to talk to some guy I had never met in front of a room full of people.

“If he wants to, fine,” I told Holly, walking away as fast as I could. “Tell me when you get home.”

Just before the hall’s double doors closed between us, she gave me the thumbs-up sign and called out, “I’ll pick up an extra boutonniere.”

My car was parked on the church side of Scarborough Road. I stopped there just long enough to open the trunk and throw in my purse, then followed a brick path that led past the church to the cemetery beside it. Grace Presbyterian, built in the 1800s, had a deep sloping roof and a simple bell tower on one corner. On a sunny day its graveyard, shaded by a huge copper beech and tall, lacy cedars, felt ten degrees cooler than the street.

My mother had been buried here because Aunt Jule had said it was her wish. The day of the funeral I’d been too upset to notice anything about her plot, including where it was. I knew the church office would have a map for locating graves, but I wandered up and down the rows, reading names and dates. The dappled light fell gently on stones smoothed by decades of rain. Old trees rustled soft as angel wings. I suddenly felt hot tears in my eyes. If only my mother could have known this kind of peace when she was alive.

At last I came upon her grave, a polished granite stone, and knelt in the grass beside it. For a moment I hurt so much I couldn’t breathe. My heart felt squeezed into a small, sharp rock. Then the feeling passed. I wiped away tears I hadn’t realized I was shedding.

I sagged back against the marker next to my mother’s.

How cold these stones felt on a summer day, I thought. I ran my fingers over her name, then turned to see who was lying next to her, for the marker was very close. It was pink granite and slightly smaller than hers.

DAUGHTER, I read.

Daughter! Me! This was to be my grave.

I felt as I did when I was a child — smothered by her. It was just like her, not caring who else might be in my life, counting on my coming back to her.

When had she made these arrangements? I wondered.

When she wrote the new will? That had been a week or two before she died.

A terrifying idea crept into my mind. What if my mother’s fears were not as groundless as we had thought? What if someone really had been after her and she, with no one to believe or protect her, had made these preparations?

That’s crazy, I told myself, rising to my feet, heading back to the car. There was another explanation for the grave. My mother had given birth to me here, having left my father for a time and run to the sanctuary of Aunt Jule’s arms. Perhaps she had made the arrangements then.

When I reached my car, I retrieved my purse from the trunk, then opened the driver-side door. A sheet of white paper lay folded on the front seat. I gazed at it, puzzled, until I realized I had left my window cracked for air. Someone must have slipped the paper through. I picked up the note and flipped it open. The message, written in block letters, was simple: YOU’RE NEXT.

I spun around to see if someone was watching from behind, then quickly surveyed the street, church lawn, and school area. Several groups of kids lingered on the school steps.

Two people dressed like teachers leaned on a parked car, talking. No one appeared to be interested in me.

I stared at the note. Was it just a prank or a warning to be taken seriously? Was it Nora’s?

She knew I was coming here, but then so did Aunt Jule and Holly, and I wasn’t eager to blame either of them.

Perhaps I was being unfair to Nora. Perhaps, but Aunt Jule and Holly hadn’t locked me in the boathouse. They didn’t keep a cache of my mother’s things and didn’t silently stand by as I fell from a swing.

I refolded the note and placed it in my purse.

When we were children, Nora had been a gentle friend; I could easily believe she was harmless — harmless in her heart. But people act according to how they see the world outside them, and she saw it in a very distorted way. In her mental state, would she understand the real-life consequences of her actions? Had Nora pushed my mother in anger and watched her float in the river, not comprehending the finality of what she had done until it was too late?

If that were true, I’d learn to come to grips with it and accept that Nora wasn’t mentally responsible. But that wasn’t the only thing troubling me now. How did Nora see me? What if I were an unnerving reminder of my mother and she needed to get rid of me, too, without comprehending all of what that meant?

I was more shaken than I realized — it took several tries to insert my key in the ignition. At the grocery store I had to check and recheck my list, unable to concentrate on the task. When I finally arrived home, I didn’t see Nora in the garden or greenhouse. I called for her in the house but it was Aunt Jule who responded, saying she was somewhere outside.