I bit my lip and then put the car in drive.
We didn’t speak as we drove. He seemed comfortable with the silence. I needed it. There were too many thoughts—ideas, stories, memories—running through my head and cluttering my mind. Everything I never let myself think about, which overloaded me on this day. I was the queen of compartmentalization, but when I stepped back and looked at the file drawers of memories categorized in my mind, everything just tumbled out. Rows and rows of cards and videos and letters that just took over. I let myself feel it, breathe it in. It ached like nothing else. But I needed to feel it to stay sane.
We pulled into the cemetery a few minutes later, and Landon inhaled sharply. It was the biggest cemetery in Lubbock with enormous headstones and even a crypt or two. And everyone knew someone who lived here.
I maneuvered into a huge parking lot and killed the engine. I’d deposited flowers in the backseat before coming to get Landon and grabbed them as we got out of the car. He wrapped a strong arm around my shoulders as we silently threaded through the tombstones.
My mother was waiting in the center of the stones.
MARY ELIZABETH MARTIN
JUNE 21, 1969—OCTOBER 17, 2000
A GOOD MOTHER, WIFE, AND FRIEND
I placed the flowers in front of her gravestone. Orchids—her favorite.
The worst part was, I never knew what to say. It was why I didn’t visit as often as I probably should have. Because, when I talked to my mom, it was hard not to mention my dad. She’d asked about him. And the answers hurt too much.
He’s not the guy you knew.
He’s not a good dad anymore.
He gave up on you. On me. On himself.
You’d be ashamed of him now.
Landon gently rubbed my back. I was glad he was here. Even if it was hard for him since both of his parents were buried here, too.
“Hey, Mom,” I whispered. “I, uh…just wanted to stop by and introduce you to Landon. He’s, uh…a, uh, Wright. You probably knew his dad.” I glanced over at Landon, and he just smiled. “He’s kind of my boyfriend, and I thought you should meet.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Martin. You have a real great girl here,” Landon said. Then, he turned to face me. “So, I’m kind of your boyfriend, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m looking forward to the day we can get rid of that kind of part.”
“Me, too,” I whispered. “You know, few years I’ll be as old as my mom when she died. It’s scary to think that I’ll live longer than she did.”
“I know how that feels. I was only seven when my mom died. I was older than her almost two years ago. It was disorienting.”
“Do you want to see her while we’re here?”
He kissed my forehead. “How about we do it when I can introduce you to both of them as my girlfriend…not just kind of?”
I grinned, despite myself. “I’d like that.”
“What else do you do on this day?” he asked.
“I usually do all the things that I would have done with my parents before my mom died. It’s like I get to mourn them both on the same day. It’s kind of like…I give myself permission to be a kid again. It’s dumb. I know. I never tell anyone about it.”
He placed a finger on my lips. “The way you grieve is never dumb. It is unique to every person. Allowing yourself the time to do it is what’s important.”
I threw my arms around his middle and held him tight. I didn’t know how I had gotten so lucky to have someone like Landon Wright. But I was thanking all things holy for sending me a person who understood me so completely.
We left the cemetery with an improved mood and headed out to The Orchard, which was an apple orchard about twenty minutes outside of town. They always held the Apple Butter Festival, an apple-picking event, this time of year.
Landon carried the basket while we walked around the orchard and filled it with apples. And, the whole time we meandered through the craft vendors, listened to music from local artists, and even tried to hit an apple with a slingshot, I told him stories.
The stories I always replayed in my head as I did this alone every year.
“Dad used to put me on his shoulders when I was kid so that I could reach the high branches in the trees. It was my favorite part, getting to throw apples down to my mom,” I told him.
He smiled at the fond memory.
“Sometimes, I would swing back and forth between their arms. We came every year, you know. My mom adored fresh apples. Later, when we got home, she would make me a homemade apple pie. She’d always remind me to blow on it to cool it down. As a kid, I always wanted to eat the ice cream, but now, I would kill for a slice of her pie.”
“Let’s make one when we get back,” he suggested.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t have her recipe. It’s different. I tried.”
“All right, love,” he said, kissing me on the cheek.
“Ready for our next stop?” I asked.
He arched an eyebrow. “There’s more?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Lead the way.”
We left the festival, only to stop halfway to our next destination to get ice cream from Dairy Queen. I ordered both a large M&M Blizzard and a Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard and set them both in front of me. Landon got a chocolate-dipped cone.
He curiously eyed the extra Blizzard.
“For my dad,” I whispered.
“You used to come here a lot?”
“Over the summer, he would bring home extra super-large DQ Blizzards that would last me the whole summer. My mom hated it, but she’d sneak some of his ice cream when he wasn’t looking.”
“And, normally, you’d come and eat one of these alone?”
“Yeah, well, it was a reminder of happier times, you know? Before the…drugs and…and everything.” I hiccuped over the last word and glanced away.
“I get it,” he said, covering my hand. “I like knowing this side of you.”
“Thanks for being here with me.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it. If you need me, I’m here.”
I nodded my head and then returned to my Blizzard. Truly, there was no way I was going to finish it, but I couldn’t bring it back to the apartment with all the memories it held. So, when Landon finished his cone, I dumped the rest of the Blizzards, and we headed out.
“I hope you know how to roller skate,” I told him as we pulled into the parking lot.
He laughed. “Uh, I haven’t skated in years.”
“Just don’t break your back.”
“Too late for that.”
We each rented a set of crappy skates and laced them up on a black, neon-green, and neon-pink carpeted bench that glowed in the black lights. A couple of regulars, middle schoolers, who could skate circles around everyone in the place, were already showing off to the shitty techno music blaring through the speakers. But the stale smell of burned popcorn, overloads of sugar, and cheap pizza, coupled with the feel of wheels under my feet, brought me to a different place. A different place.
It was as if I had been transported.
“I’m really not good at skating,” Landon admitted as he eased onto his feet.
“Color me surprised. A Wright actually isn’t good at something.”
“We’re bad at a lot of stuff.”