“Laurel not here?” I ask, curiosity corrosive on my insides. Ellen closes her eyes momentarily—wearily—then opens them again as she stands tall to face me.
“Michael, she wasn’t able to get away. She wanted to, but…” Her voice trails off, the explanation obvious. Yeah, I don’t buy it for a moment. Laurel’s putting off our confrontation yet again. Here I’ve dreaded seeing her almost as much as the anniversary of Al’s death, and she bails without a warning to me? I can’t believe it.
Ellen steps close, wrapping her graceful arms around me. “Hello, son.” She reaches up to pat my cheek, her charm bracelet tinkling musically.
“I can’t believe she didn’t come,” I blurt, thinking of what today means. No matter what’s happened between Laurel and me, we should all be together today. A family.
“She wanted to, darling,” she explains as I step away. “You know that.”
I doubt it, I’m about to grumble, when Andrea lights up, her gaze falling on a package tied up with a dazzle of ribbons and paper. “Look!” she squeals in excitement. “It’s got my name on it.”
“From Aunt Laurel, darling.”
“What’s the occasion?” I can’t resist jibing, even though I know Laurel’s only assuaging her guilt for skipping out on us today.
Ellen doesn’t answer me, but walks to the antique Chinese credenza, where the present rests prominently. “Open it, sweetheart,” she encourages. “A little bird told me that you will love what’s inside.”
Andrea’s eyes sparkle as she tugs on the gathered rainbow ribbons. Her small hands pull and wrestle, but it takes me stepping forward with my pocketknife to get the damn thing open. Guess I’m not completely useless just yet.
“Thanks, Michael,” Andrea murmurs, the paper unfolding within her hands.
She squeals, “It’s an American Girl doll!” as the package comes into view. “Felicity!”
Felicity, the little redhead doll I’d been thinking of getting her last Christmas, but never did. Just great. Laurel’s gone for true bribery now. Proffering expensive gifts, more reminders that she’s more thoughtful than I am. Of what a terrible substitute I am for the mother and daddy she should have in her life.
“Great, sweetie,” I mumble, wandering away from them and into the adjoining parlor as Andrea chatters with her grandma about how much she’s wanted a Felicity doll, how she’s looked at the catalog and wished.
Their joyous laughter chases after me, haunting me as I sink heavily into the plush velvet sofa beneath the front window, burying my head in my hands. And I have to wonder—is it really possible that a thirty-nine-year-old man can feel this brittle and worn out? I’m not sure if it’s realizing Laurel’s never going to fade away, or maybe it’s just being back in this house again. All I know is I haven’t missed Alex so much in a long damned time.
***
The cemetery is hot. Way too hot, despite the leafy palm trees scattered throughout the graveyard, offering slight shade from the blistering sun. My shirt’s clinging to my back in a terrible, sweaty outline, and I just wish we could head on home. But Andrea’s taking her time, quiet and thoughtful, and I can’t rush that, no matter how restless I might feel about being here. She’s kneeling in the grass, running her open hand over the prickly blades that cover Allie’s resting place. Back and forth she swishes her pale hand, letting the grass tickle her palm. Blotting my forehead and neck with a McDonald’s napkin from the truck, I notice the freckles sprinkled across her fair shoulders. They’re peeping out from beneath the shoulder straps of her flowered sundress, even crawling up the nape of her pale neck. Eventually, if she’s not careful, she’ll be as covered with them as Alex always was.
Ellen holds fast to my arm, teetering beside me in her high heels. Even at seventy-six years old, when we’re trudging out here, in the damp grass, she refuses to give them up.
“My precious boy,” Ellen murmurs under her breath, as if she were cradling Alex in her arms. “We miss you so.” Tears immediately burn my eyes, and I blink them back, not moving. Not even when she whispers, “And we love you so. Always.”
“Grandma? Why do you talk to Daddy whenever we come here?” Andrea doesn’t look up, just continues to stare at the monolith atop his burial place, reaching with her fingertips to touch that, too. Maybe she needs to know that where he stays is solid, corporeal, even if he is not.
Ellen gazes up at me, the quiet blue eyes filled with emotion. I speak for her. “Sweetheart, don’t you?” I ask. “Talk to him whenever we’re here? Maybe not out loud, but in your head?”
I can tell she’s thinking about the question pretty seriously when she finally whispers, “I talk to him in my dreams. ’Cause that’s when he talks to me.”