We made one stop on the way to the cemetery—for flowers. It just about broke my heart when he ran into a shop on the corner and came out holding two bouquets. It really killed me when he handed me a white rose petal with the words I’m glad you’re here written on it.
The drive to the cemetery took less than twenty minutes, but the light rain outside had turned into a heavy downpour by the time we arrived. I didn’t have an umbrella with me, but I didn’t really care; Kellan needed to do this. He needed closure. The cab stopped on a road that looped around an island of grass with a gigantic concrete angel in the center of it. Kellan told the driver to wait for us, then hopped out of the cab. Clenching both bouquets of red roses in his hand, Kellan immediately started turning his head back and forth, searching the expansive grounds. By the time I exited the cab, he was soaking wet; he looked lost and lonely as he looked around the empty graveyard.
He shook his head when I was beside him and ran his hand through his hair, slicking back the thick, wet mess. “I don’t know where they are.”
There was sorrow in his eyes as the rain streamed down his face. He didn’t know where his parents were buried. Grabbing his free hand, cool from the damp air, I looked around the sea of headstones. The space around us was huge, and a road to our left led to even more graves that I could see through the breaks in the dripping trees. We could search for days and never find his parents. We didn’t have days, though. We had a few hours at best.
Squeezing his hand, I firmly told him, “We’ll find them.”
We were running out of time, so we hastily began our search for the needle in this gloomy haystack. We started systematically going down the rows. We walked down separate aisles, two or three rows apart from each other, so we could cover as much ground as possible. We finished the first lot in thirty minutes with no luck. I glanced at the cabbie reading a book in his dry car, wondering how much this trip was going to cost us in fares. But, much like the limo for my bachelorette party, this was one expense that Kellan would gladly pay for.
Shivering and teeth chattering, we made our way toward the second half of the cemetery. This section was at least twice the size of the other side; I felt fatigued just looking at it. But we had no choice but to keep searching, so we did. With the names John and Susan Kyle blazing through my mind, I scoured the markers of the graves before me. So many people were buried here, each with their own stories, their own loves, joys, and heartaches. It was overwhelming to think about how many lives each person here had touched, in good ways, and in some cases, bad ways.
I was so focused on finding the names of Kellan’s parents that the letters almost escaped me when I did eventually see them. John and Susan Kyle: Beloved Friends, Family, and Parents. I stared at the black marble in shock. I’d found them. I’d actually found them. From the corner of my eye, I saw Kellan a few rows in front of me, still searching. The flowers in his hand were a sodden mess.
I tried to speak above the rain, but my voice felt hollow. “Kellan.”
He heard me and swung his head my way. His eyes lowered to take in the dual headstone at my feet. I watched him inhale a calming breath, then step toward me. It could have been the cold, but he was trembling when he reached my side. He stared at the grave with blank eyes. Without a word, he squatted before them. He brushed his fingers over his mother’s name, then his father’s. Then he placed his hand on the wet grass right in front of their gravestone and closed his eyes.
Even though the rain was pouring around us, spilling down his cheeks, I saw the telltale tracks of tears leaking from his eyes. I placed my hand on his shoulder in silent support. When Kellan opened his eyes, they were watery, and I had to force down the knot in my throat. How long would these people continue to hurt him? Tenderly, lovingly, Kellan placed a bouquet of flowers under each name. The significance broke my heart. After everything they’d done to him, every hurtful word, every brutal attack, after making him feel unworthy of any sort of affection . . . he still loved them. I’d thought “Beloved Parents” was a strange sentiment to have on their headstone, but maybe it wasn’t. Right or wrong, deserving or undeserving, their son had loved them.