“ANNA? Anna!” Madlin’s mother, Estella, abruptly interrupted my thoughts as she turned sideways in the passenger seat and patted my arm. I had been in Houston on business, and Madlin had asked if I could give Estella a ride back to Dallas.
I tapped on the brakes to slow the car.
“What is it?” She stared at me, her eyes quizzical.
“It’s —well, um, I recognize this cemetery.”
“You do? Has Madlin brought you to Alex’s grave before?” Estella’s face pinched slightly when she mentioned her son’s name. Alex, who had died in a car accident at twenty-five, was her oldest son. I had many fond memories of Alex from our days at Spring Branch Academy, where I had met Madlin, my best friend for more than thirty years now. The smallness of the school meant our relationships with each other were close and our lives were intertwined. Understandably, Alex’s untimely death devastated his entire family. Alex had been my friend, too, and I had not been able to attend his funeral. This was my opportunity to pay my respects.
I could sense my emotions building quickly. Alex isn’t the only person I know who is buried here. My mind was flooded with snapshot memories of a notorious funeral in 1981 —my father’s.
My thoughts became jumbled, but I didn’t feel like sharing them with Estella. At the same time, I knew her tenacity. She wouldn’t let it go until I told her what was making me zone out.
I pulled inside the large iron gates at the cemetery’s entrance, stopped, and slipped the car into park. “This is the same place my dad is buried.”
I had been to my father’s gravesite exactly three times —in 1981 for his funeral, in 2001 during my self-titled “journey of remembrance” after reading the book The Sacred Romance, and now today. Three times I had been here, the same number of times I recall seeing my father when he was alive.
“Ervil LeBaron is buried here?” She practically spat when she spoke his name aloud.
Tingles ran up and down my spine at his name, and I saw goose bumps on my arm. I felt as if I’d swallowed a rock and it was sitting in my stomach.
“Listen, I’m sorry I said anything. Let’s just find Alex. I mean, let’s find his grave marker.” My voice sounded uncharacteristically high.
Estella looked away for a long moment before squinting at one of the little metal signs where two lanes intersected. “Take a right here. And then another right.”
We drove ahead in silence, each of us deep in thought for very different reasons.
Estella reached for her car door even before she spoke. “Stop. This is it.” She pointed in the direction where we would find a small headstone with Alex’s name on it.
I jammed on the brakes, and she stepped out of the car. I’ll give her a few moments alone before I join her. I turned the rearview mirror to steal a glance at myself. Tired eyes and a furrowed brow greeted me. That’s how thinking about my dad always affected me. I quickly readjusted the mirror.
The cemetery was deserted except for us. When I glanced at Estella, I saw her body language had changed. I got out of the car and hurried to her, reaching her side just as she began to sag to her knees.
Estella wept quietly, not wanting to draw attention to the grief that consumed her. We both knelt on the grass, and I wrapped my arms tightly around her. Her breaths became ragged as she sobbed, lamenting in Spanish —“Alex!” and “Why, God?” I don’t know how long we were in that position. I could feel my knees going numb, but I wasn’t about to move. I spoke in soothing tones and reassured her that it was okay to cry, to let it all out.
Finally, she sat up straight and retrieved a handkerchief from her small purse. She blew her nose, then breathed in and out slowly and deliberately. “I’m okay now, really. Thank you, Anna.”
As I helped her to her feet, she touched Alex’s headstone one last time and walked back toward my car. I followed in silence. We had no sooner gotten inside when she said, “Why don’t we see if we can find your father’s grave?”
Now it was my turn for my breath to get caught in my throat and my pulse to quicken. I don’t want to visit my father’s gravesite, even though Estella wants to bear my grief with me, as I have just done with her. I willed myself to become calm before I answered. I couldn’t find the words to explain my hesitation, so I simply responded, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It might be good for you.” She stared at me as though she could see right into my heart.
“I disagree. When I think about him, I don’t feel much of anything. I’ve been to his gravesite before, and it didn’t do anything for me. There’s no reason for me to go there again, you know?”
“I understand. I really do. But sometimes people find great comfort by confronting their fears.”
I laughed awkwardly. “I don’t want that kind of comfort.”
“Then would you do it for me? Please?”
Why did she have to say that? As much as I wanted to start the car and get out of the cemetery at that moment, I couldn’t disrespect her by dismissing her suggestion. I smiled at her. “How can I refuse? Besides, I don’t need you tattling on me to Madlin.”
I looked left, right, and then behind me to get my bearings. “I know he’s buried in section 13.”
“Let’s go find it.”
Easier said than done. The setting sun made it difficult to see any section markers, and the shade from the trees scattered throughout the cemetery added to the darkness. We finally found section 13.
I stopped the car, and we both got out, met by the sweet smell of honeysuckle wafting in the warm Texas breeze.
I knew my father’s grave was located somewhere near a towering pine tree, but there were so many of them. We walked up and down rows and rows, and then spotted it at the same time.
Estella pointed and exclaimed, “Here it is!” My throat constricted. I had never experienced any emotions here before and was confused about what was happening now. It has to be because I was just grieving for Alex.
Estella came alongside me, clutched my right hand, and pulled it to her chest. We silently read the words etched into the stone.
Beloved Father
ERVIL M. LEBARON
Feb. 22, 1925
Aug. 15, 1981
I nearly laughed out loud. Beloved father? Beloved by whom? I gently pulled my hand free from Estella’s and crossed my arms on my chest, as if defending myself against the situation. I don’t want to be here. I don’t know what to say.