“I know.” Zeth takes a deep breath and it’s as though he comes back to life. Unwillingly, but…alive. He opens his door, and then with the greatest care, climbs out and lifts his sister’s body from the backseat. It’s cold out, but it’s not raining. The sun spears down through the tightly packed trees, golden pillars of light that seem to be holding up the sky over our heads. Michael retrieves the shovels from the trunk and heads into the forest first. Zeth clenches his jaw, watching him go for a moment, and then nods, some inner battle waging inside him perhaps, and then he follows. I am last. I watch the muscles in Zeth’s back twist and shift as he walks ahead of me, and I want to stop him. To hold him. To comfort him. But I can tell he doesn’t need that right now—he needs a moment to figure out what he’s feeling. We all do.
I feel like shit. My body’s hating the fact that I’m still demanding more of it, when I should be resting in a hospital bed. The blast was just the icing on the cake. I’m still in pain from being shot, from running, from abusing my body a hundred different ways since I met these people. But it’s my heart that hurts the most. I don’t know how it will ever stop hurting.
Michael stops after a while. The trees have thinned out into a small glade, which overlooks a brook, carving its way through the mountainside. The ribbon of water throws sparks of light from its surface, gold and white and warm.
“Here?” Michael says.
“Here,” Zeth agrees.
I wish they’d brought three shovels. The men get to work, digging slowly, clearly hating the job. I sit with Lacey, brushing my fingers through her hair. Her body’s started to stiffen. The doctor in me knows it will be well over twenty-four hours before the rigor mortis loosens its grip on her muscles and we’ll be able to move her arms and legs again, so I gently settle her so her hands are resting across her chest, her legs out straight. Michael sees what I’m doing and climbs out of the hole.
“She always slept on her side. All curled up,” he tells me. “Like this.” For such a lethal man, he moves Lace with so much care and love. When he’s finished, her body is arranged in the fetal position, hands pillowing her head, knees tucked up into her body. She really does look like she’s sleeping. I turn to find Zeth, but I can only see the very top of his head. He’s sunk down, sitting in the hole they’ve half dug, his back to us. I try to stand, to go to him, but Michael takes hold of my hand.
“Don’t. Just…give him a moment.”
Michael and I sit with Lacey, listening to the birds singing, and for all the world it sounds like they’re crying. Michael sits with an arm over Lacey’s body, as though he’s protecting her.
“You loved her, didn’t you?” I ask.
He smiles down at the girl who was only in his life a short while longer than she was in my own, and breathes in deeply. “Didn’t you?” he whispers. “How could I not?” And he’s right. How could he not?
Eventually Zeth stands up, reclaims his shovel, and begins to dig again. This time he moves more quickly, with a purpose. I stay with Lacey, because it feels wrong to leave her alone now.
When Michael and Zeth are done, the sun is almost setting. The sky looks like it’s on fire—like Heaven itself is burning. The men collect Lace, now cold and so very gone, and they carry her between them. The hole they were digging is no longer a hole but a grave.
I am weak. I am a coward. I am hollow and shameless. I cannot watch them lower her in. I walk down to the brook and I cry, hoping the rushing of the water will drown out the sounds of my tears. Michael comes to get me a little while later. The grave is no longer a grave but a patch of freshly turned earth. “You used to go to church, right?” he asks softly. “We don’t know what to say. Could you…”
Being asked to say something for Lacey is perhaps even worse than having to watch the dirt cover her pale, delicate skin. But I can’t refuse. The three of us stand together, staring down at the ground, and a wave of terror hits me when I realize I can’t say the words Michael asked me to say. The words my father would speak:
Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting? Now the sting of death is sin: and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who hath given us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast and unmovable: always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.
Ashes to ashes…
Dust to dust…