Katie McGarry - Red At Night

He’s sluggish turning his head. Sort of like he’s in one of those action flicks that thinks it’s emo and cool to slo-mo the flying bullets. “What?”

“I like Lydia’s grave. Actually, I just like Lydia. Year after year, dandelions pop up around her marker, even when they spray for weeds. I believe it means she was sweet.”

No response, but he’s still gaping at me. It could be because of my violet hair and not because he’s questioning his reality. There’s not a person on the planet who doesn’t look at another human in a cemetery and wonder for a split second: Is that a ghost?

I normally don’t talk to the newbies. They usually visit in the first two weeks after the burial and then drop off the face of the planet. The seriously grieving continue to visit once or twice a month, but they eventually also move on. Then you have men like Rick who visit daily, waiting until he can be buried alongside the woman he loves.

This kid is my age—high school, maybe lower college. It’s hard to tell with the curved-in lid of his baseball cap hiding a good portion of his face. The black Charger he drives says he’s bankrolled, so he’s either already on the way or is currently college material. Overall, too young to be mourning like Rick.

But then again, I shouldn’t judge. That is, after all, my pet peeve.

There’s a slight chance that this guy could be a freak like me who doesn’t know a person buried here and, if so, it’d be nice to finally have a kindred spirit. I get tired of being alone. “My grandma used to pick dandelions and rub them under my chin and if my skin turned yellow it meant I was nice.”

On the other side of the cemetery, an industrial mower springs to life and happily hums. I pick the largest dandelion of the bunch and hold it out to him. “Come here.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “Because if you don’t you’re going to go home and be ticked because you should have.”

It’s a clear day. Bright blue sky with an occasional fluffy cloud. He takes a particular interest in one that resembles a duck. Obviously he’s going to need more coaxing. “We’re surrounded by a couple hundred dead people. Think there’s someone here who left regret-free? Take a risk and come here. Or are you scared the dandelion will tell on you?”

“Tell what?” He angles himself in my direction now, and I like what I see of his sweet build. He readjusts his baseball cap to expose freshly cut light brown hair, and there’s a sharp ache in my chest when I meet his blue eyes.

I know him. Rather, I know his friends. I also know what he’s going to say about me at school tomorrow and that once he recognizes me he’ll be out of here like a hearse after a funeral.

But his eyes possess the same sadness as old man Rick’s and I have a choice: I can be like this kid and his friends or I can be better...I can be more. That decision is often why I’m here, and if Lydia’s taught me anything it’s that life can be short.

Inhaling deeply, I twirl the flower in my hand, knowing tomorrow I’ll regret this. “Come here and find out.”

Jonah

The keys in my pocket dig into my skin as I grip them. I should go. Leave. I’ve got no business being here, but no matter how I try to continue forward I end up going backward and returning to this grave.

I glance down at James Cohen. Which is it, dude? Would you have gone home or would you have taken a chance and talked to the crazy girl?

“The dandelion is calling your name. Can’t you hear it?” She rests her wrists on her bent knees and flicks the yellow weed back and forth in her hand like a pendulum, then switches her tone. “Hey you, guy over there...come here.”

Her mock dandelion voice is seductive. “You know you want to.”

Because I have no idea how to say no to a talking flower, I walk over and drop to the ground next to her in the shade and I swear the temperature drops twenty degrees. “You look familiar.”

“No, I don’t.”

She has chin-length purple hair that curls in. A fake red rose barrette pulls up one side of her hair and something nags at me like a bad memory stuck in déjà vu mode. I’ve seen her before, only I can’t figure out where. “Yeah, I know you.”

“No, you don’t.” She moves her jaw, exposing her neck. “Put your chin up so I can see if you’re nice.”

“Are you saying we’ve never met?”

“I’m saying put your chin up. Do you make everything complicated or is it just with strangers in cemeteries?”

She’s a petite thing. Very feminine in a white tank and cut-off jeans, but she possesses a commanding presence, bordering on hypnotic. Why I’m doing this, I don’t know, yet I lift my jaw and jerk when she tickles my skin with the flower. She lowers it then pinches her lips.

“Well?” I ask.

“The dandelion says you’ll live a long life, your lucky number is seventeen, and the way to say cat in Chinese is mao.”

“Says all that, does it?”

“Dandelions never lie.” She wildly gestures to the area near her neck. “You should wash before you go anywhere. You’ve got yellow underneath. So, what do you think, is Lydia the understated type or did her husband run off with the money from the insurance policy?”

“What’s your name?”

“Not Lydia. Answer the question.”

Out of all those in the area we’re in, this is the simplest tombstone. Gray stone. Black lettering stating Lydia’s name, birthdate and the day she died. Nothing else. No loving mother, sister or friend. No angel wings or harps or flowers drawn in for effect.

Not-Lydia reaches over and tears out the grass encroaching on the marker. It’s not an irritated motion, but it’s done with enough care that it finally feels weird to be at the cemetery by the grave of someone I had no relationship with. This place should be for those who want to remember. Maybe now I’ll stop coming. “Who was Lydia to you?”

“Didn’t know her.”

My head whips in her direction. “What?”

“Didn’t. Know. Her.”

My insides completely bottom out. This girl had given me a reason to stay away and now it’s gone.

“Answer the question,” she prods.

James Cohen has the word beloved underneath his name and his marker is upright, standing easily two feet in the air. His picture is engraved on it and his image is nothing like the memory of him burned into my brain.

There’s a stark loneliness to Lydia’s stone that I wouldn’t have noticed before James Cohen. “It wasn’t her choice.”

“I agree,” she says in a small voice. “Lydia would have wanted more.”

We’re silent and the wind rustles through the leaves above us. School starts tomorrow. The first day of my senior year. I had plans for how this year was supposed to turn out, but the death of a complete stranger changed me and I don’t like it. I pray nightly that my life will return to exactly how it was before.

“Who did you lose?” She circles the conversation back to me.

This guy haunts me. To the point where I’m starting to believe that ghosts do exist. “Someone.” Someone I didn’t know.

She nods like I told her something deep. “Yeah. That sucks. You know, they wouldn’t want you to grieve like this. They’d want you to move on. Live and let live and all that.”

And all that. I chuckle and dip my head, yanking down the bill of my cap. I have no idea what James Cohen would have wanted. Not a clue. “Why are you here?”

She twirls the flower. “I like dandelions.”

“For real. Who’d you lose?”

“No one here.” She meets my eyes and I’m drawn in. They’re gray—a color I’ve never seen before on a girl. This is crazy. I know her somehow and it’s like an itch in my brain that I can’t scratch because I can’t peg her. How could I forget someone so strikingly gorgeous?