“Lucky guess.” Mark straightened, regarding her closely. “Beautiful, but I have to ask: why?”
Jane tugged at her sweater. “It’s a way for me to feel close to her again.” She stared down. “I keep thinking that if I’d only been braver and spoken up, everything would have been different.”
“You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s how I feel.” Jane’s jaw tightened. “I’d do anything for a chance to go back and make things right.”
Mark squinted into the wind. “I have an idea that may help,” he said. “Would you like to hear it?”
Jane shrugged, then nodded.
He rubbed the side of his beard. “When you were a kid, did you ever burn secret notes?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s a thing people did for a while. Maybe they still do. A cleansing, empowering ritual. Sound familiar?”
“Not at all.”
“Okay, here goes.” Mark sat back on the bench, stretched out his legs, and crossed his ankles. Elbows out, he laced his fingers atop his head and began, “At summer camp, when I was fifteen, the counselors handed out small strips of paper and told us to write down either our greatest fear or something we wanted to change about ourselves. No talking. No sharing. Totally secret. Then, in a solemn ceremony involving lots of positive affirmation, we took turns tossing our scribbles into a bonfire, watching as each one blazed up into nothingness. It felt pretty hokey when the other kids did it, but …”
He lifted both hands to the air, then replaced them atop his head and resumed talking. “Anyway, you get the idea. Identifying our deepest fears and then—symbolically—destroying them reminded us that we had power over ourselves. That we controlled our impulses, rather than the other way around.”
“Did it work?”
Dropping his hands to his lap, he sat forward. “It did. That’s probably why I remember the experience so vividly, even to this day. What an exhilarating sense of freedom. Now, as an adult, I look back and realize that what I really learned was how to compartmentalize. Although I may not be able to incinerate my negative behaviors so easily, I can control when and how I deal with them.” He waited a beat before adding, “Maybe you should consider a similar symbolic gesture. You know, to deal with your grief.”
The area was the quietest it had been all afternoon. Two kids played and giggled. The old panhandler approached their parents and was rewarded with a handful of change.
Jane glanced around. “I don’t believe a bonfire would go over well here.”
Mark laughed. “Ya think? But there’s got to be something we can do. Any ideas?”
“No.”
Two squirrels scampered by.
“I’ve got it,” Mark said. “A brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.”
“What is it?”
“What if you tell Samantha how you felt? I mean, poured your heart out to her? Wouldn’t that give you closure?” Before she could answer, he continued. “Something brought us both here right now for a reason. I think that ‘something’ wants you to have peace.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“What if …” Mark leaned close. “What if you visit her grave? You can speak from the heart there, for as long as you like.”
Jane played with the neckline of her sweater. “She was cremated.”
“Oh.” Mark fell silent again. A moment later, he said, “Then, what about a quiet place in the park?”
“Here?”
“Not in this very spot, no. But she died in the park, so that makes this a sacred space. Let’s find a quiet knoll, a pretty meadow.” He tapped a finger against his lips. “Do you know where Cedar Hill is?” Again, before she could answer, he went on, “By the Glade Arch. It’s not that far, and once we settle on a location, I promise to give you privacy. Come on.” He stood, offering her his hand.
Jane leaned back. “I don’t think so.”
His face fell. “You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
She didn’t answer.
“You can’t go back in time, Jane, but I promise you can find closure.”
She remained seated.
“I think you should do this,” he said softly. “I believe Samantha would want you to.”
He looked down at her for a few moments before starting around the statue toward the path that lay beyond. She remained frozen for a solid count of thirty. When she finally stood, she hugged her book and whispered, “Closure.”
The old man in the overcoat perked up as she drew near. He made a feeble attempt to beg, jangling his cup of coins. She didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge him.
Mark waited for her at the path’s opening. “Good girl.”
She stopped and stared up at him. “I can do this.”
They’d walked no more than a hundred yards when she whispered, “Is that beggar following us?”
Mark turned. “Probably hoping I’ll cough up another couple bucks.”
“I guess,” she said. “Doesn’t it seem like he’s moving quicker than before?”
He laughed. “I can take him.”