The Cemetery Trail
Friday afternoon. Restless. Amy was at my mother’s. The house screamed silence. James should have landed. Where would he go? A reckless impulse seized me. Snatching car keys, I raced out. I drove towards the airport but veered onto the road leading west. West… to the large cemetery. Lucy was buried there. James visited alone twice yearly—her death anniversary and her birthday. He’d never asked me to come; I’d never insisted. It was his past.
Respect it. I killed the engine, heart pounding in my throat. Time crawled. Finally, a familiar black SUV pulled in. James’s car. Parked. Driver’s door opened. Out stepped James, wearing a dark coat, holding… white flowers. Then, the passenger door opened. A woman emerged, clad in cream cashmere, posture erect, hair immaculate, radiating an aura of composed elegance even in the vast parking lot. Vivian. My blood turned to ice.
The Tombstone’s Truth
They walked side by side, distanced, silent. Vivian’s head was slightly bowed; James’s back straight but his steps leaden. I was paralyzed in the driver’s seat. Breathing grew difficult. They stopped before a headstone. Too far to read, but the location… James had described Lucy’s plot. Vivian’s shoulders seemed to tremble.
James offered her a tissue. After a long moment, he bent, placing the bouquet of white daisies gently on the grave. The petals gleamed starkly white against the gray stone. They turned to leave. As they pivoted, the headstone’s face angled towards me. The photo centered atop the stone—a young, radiant smile. Lucy. Beneath the photo, the inscription: Lucy Greene. Greene. Vivian Greene. Vivian was Lucy’s mother. Lucy was her daughter. James’s "confidante" was his late wife’s mother. My husband’s former mother-in-law. A wave of crushing absurdity and cold terror seized me. The world fell silent except for the frantic drumming of my own heart.
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Friday afternoon. Restless. Amy was at my mother’s. The house screamed silence. James should have landed. Where would he go? A reckless impulse seized me. Snatching car keys, I raced out. I drove towards the airport but veered onto the road leading west. West… to the large cemetery. Lucy was buried there. James visited alone twice yearly—her death anniversary and her birthday. He’d never asked me to come; I’d never insisted. It was his past.
Respect it. I killed the engine, heart pounding in my throat. Time crawled. Finally, a familiar black SUV pulled in. James’s car. Parked. Driver’s door opened. Out stepped James, wearing a dark coat, holding… white flowers. Then, the passenger door opened. A woman emerged, clad in cream cashmere, posture erect, hair immaculate, radiating an aura of composed elegance even in the vast parking lot. Vivian. My blood turned to ice.
The Tombstone’s Truth
They walked side by side, distanced, silent. Vivian’s head was slightly bowed; James’s back straight but his steps leaden. I was paralyzed in the driver’s seat. Breathing grew difficult. They stopped before a headstone. Too far to read, but the location… James had described Lucy’s plot. Vivian’s shoulders seemed to tremble.
James offered her a tissue. After a long moment, he bent, placing the bouquet of white daisies gently on the grave. The petals gleamed starkly white against the gray stone. They turned to leave. As they pivoted, the headstone’s face angled towards me. The photo centered atop the stone—a young, radiant smile. Lucy. Beneath the photo, the inscription: Lucy Greene. Greene. Vivian Greene. Vivian was Lucy’s mother. Lucy was her daughter. James’s "confidante" was his late wife’s mother. My husband’s former mother-in-law. A wave of crushing absurdity and cold terror seized me. The world fell silent except for the frantic drumming of my own heart.
NEXT >>
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