—
A FEW HOURS later, despite my multiple attempts to divert us, Nolan, Harper, and I slow to a stop along the circular drive of Arlington Memorial Park. Our three car doors open, then close, in rapid succession, echoing in the serenity of the scenic cemetery. My stomach clenches as I steel myself against an onslaught of memories from December 26, 2001, the last time I was here. They come anyway, of course. The biting cold. The sensation of my heels sinking into the wet earth. The gaping red-clay hole in the ground. That solitary bluebird in the barren oak tree overlooking my brother’s coffin.
We walk in silent single file toward Daniel’s grave, Nolan leading the way, Harper between us. She is holding a bouquet of flowers. I have a lousy sense of direction, but I could find this spot without any assistance, that old oak giving me my bearings. Sure enough, I spot my brother’s name, his headstone in the partial shade of the tree. A few leaves have fallen on his plot, and I watch Nolan brush them aside. Meanwhile, I stand awkwardly to one side, clueless about cemetery etiquette, but feeling certain that you’re not supposed to stand directly over a grave.
The sun has been in and out all day, but the sky is overcast now, a slight chill in the air. I shiver, then zip my fleece up the whole way, hugging my arms across my chest before I force myself to look down at my brother’s headstone. The flat gray granite marker bears his full name, the dates of his birth and his accident. Below that is the engraving of a cross and the words my mother came up with sitting in the kitchen with my dad and our pastor. Beloved son, brother, friend.
I remember thinking that the epitaph was too simple. That it left a lot of things out—grandson, nephew, cousin, boyfriend, to name a few. I very nearly pointed this out, in a burst of what felt like post-traumatic stress Tourette’s, but managed to restrain myself. Instead, I went up to my room, where I pretty much remained until the funeral, out of everyone’s way.
Nolan clears his throat now and says in a low, soothing voice, “Harper, honey, do you want to put the flowers down?” He points to the base of the headstone.
Looking over-the-top solemn, like a child actress in a funeral scene, she nods and kneels, slowly lowering the bouquet to the ground. A mix of carnations and roses, the Publix flowers look cheap, borderline garish, the green cellophane wrapper and flimsy rubber band not helping matters. If Meredith were with us, it would be different: the flowers would have been purchased at a fancy florist, and Harper would be wearing a dress, not a stained T-shirt. The biggest difference, though, is that I would not be here—the burden of her expectations too great for me to bear.
“Good job, sweetie,” Nolan whispers, kneeling down beside her, then carefully angling the blossoms toward the stone. “Do you want to pray?”
Clearly accustomed to the drill, Harper presses her palms together, scrunches her eyes closed, and says, “God bless Uncle Daniel.”
“God bless Uncle Daniel,” Nolan echoes.
Although I often think of my brother’s unborn children, I have never really considered the loss from my niece’s perspective. I put it on my long mental list of things to feel sad about later. But for now, I do my best to stay as numb as possible.
Meanwhile, Nolan says the Lord’s Prayer—which I find oddly formal or at least old-fashioned. I know I should say it along with him, but do not. I don’t even close my eyes, which remarkably Harper does for the entire prayer, right down to his Amen. Then she says it, too, a long drawn out Ahhh-men.
Afterward, they both stand, and Harper wanders off, a carefree child again. Nolan’s arm wraps me in a quick but tight, sideways embrace.
“Are you okay?”
Realizing that I’ve been holding my breath, I exhale and tell him yes, I’m fine.
“When’s the last time you’ve been back here?” he asks, as I wonder if he knows the answer.
A breeze blows my hair into my eyes. I corral the strands behind my ear before confessing. “I haven’t,” I say.
“Not ever?”
“No. Not since the day he was buried,” I say, feeling ashamed.
“Oh,” he says, his lips remaining parted.
“You think that’s awful, don’t you?”
Finally closing his mouth, he shakes his head. “No,” he says, though I’m not sure I believe him.
“I just don’t think he’s here. In the ground,” I stammer. It’s the excuse I always give when I’m justifying the decision not to visit my brother—whether to myself or to my mother and sister.
Reliably kind, Nolan nods and says he understands.
I squint up at the sky and say, “I like to think of him up there.”