I Can’t Let You Go 2

I started walking down to the small cemetery about a month or so after moving out here. I used to sit with Stacy, sometimes after work, the quiet punctuated by the occasional train passing by. I missed coming home, to tell her about my day, or just to hear her talk. I’d rest the flowers on the cold stone, wanting to give my whole soul just to hear her voice again. It hurt, to be there every day, but I didn’t know where else to go. I couldn’t go home. She was there, but in so many ways she wasn’t.

When I transferred out here, one of the doubts in my mind was where I would go, when I needed to talk to Stacy. I knew I had to let go of a lot, that not letting go was killing me, something Stacy would never want for me, but I knew, in my heart, that I could never lose that one thing.

Alvarez passed the cemetery, when he dropped me off one day after work. Mountainview Cemetery. About a mile from my house, down at the end of the street, an unimpeded view of the mountains over Juarez in the distance. A small collection, maybe twenty or so, of standing headstones. Angels, and crosses, mostly. A few headstones flush with the brown grass. Two stone benches, little more than slabs of smooth granite, sit across from each other under the sparse shade of one single tree.

I remember standing in front of the opened wrought iron gates, after walking down along the low stone fence. Dropping my head, taking another sip of my beer, wondering what it was I thought I was going to find here. Stacy wasn’t here. She was half way across the country. She was so much farther. The sound of the wind in that one tree, the only sound for miles, only made the loneliness I felt that much deeper. Looking back up the road, towards the house, feeling the sting of tears, and blinking them back. I couldn’t keep sitting in my house and hoping I could drink enough that I would sleep. I needed to let go, and, for me, the only way I could do that is to find a way to get close to her again, no matter the distance. That if I could be close to her, just a little, that I could start to let her rest. I needed to let her rest, for her, and for me.

It was late, the first day I walked down, the sun already starting to set, the shadows long on the ground. I walked past the angels, the crosses, and stones, with their inscriptions, and didn’t feel comfortable. None of these were mine, I didn’t belong here. Finally, I sat down on the stone bench, under the tree, looking out over the mountains. It felt strange to talk to her here, thousands of miles from her grave. It felt strange, but I did it anyway, eventually lying back, on that cold stone, looking up into the branches of the tree, my beer forgotten, along with my need to drink it. I came back the next day, and the day after that. I didn’t need to drink to sleep anymore.

It was about a week later, late in the afternoon, that I first saw her. I had walked down, and taken my usual spot, on the stone bench under the tree. Other than the caretaker, a stooped man in his sixties with a quiet and reverential voice, I had never seen anyone else here. She was standing by a simple stone, a column of grey, with a sphere at the top, that came up to her chest. The grey stone, the dull brown grass, a leaden sky. She was dressed in black, but even the black seemed washed out and pale. Her hair was the darkest brown, making her skin appear delicate and fragile, and fell in a straight line down her back. Her pale hands held a bouquet of bright pink flowers, they looked like daisies from where I was sitting. I couldn’t help but look at them, in this place, it was the only thing with any colour.

I couldn’t say how long I sat, watching her. I watched as she tucked her long skirt under her, in that graceful way that women do, before sitting on her heels before the stone. Tucking her hair behind her ear, as she arranged the small bouquet in the vase. Her head lowered for a moment, hands in her lap, before she started to speak. I couldn’t hear her, of course. She was here to talk to those she had lost, just as I was. I wouldn’t have known she was speaking at all, if I hadn’t been watching her. Leaning forward, her hand against the stone, before getting up, brushing the dust from her skirt.

When she stood to leave, there was a moment where we both looked at each other, the both of us knowing why the other was there. It’s not like running into people in a hospital waiting room, where you don’t want to make eye contact, where you don’t want to see another person’s pain, because you can never know how bad it’s going to get for them. Here, in the quiet of the graveyard, we shared that knowledge that both of us had lost, and that we both came here, to deal with what was gone from us forever. She had to pass close to me, to leave, and I didn’t want to stand, in case I frightened her. For a moment, she froze, just watched me, to see if I was some threat to her. I instantly regretted having brought a beer down with me. Kids come to drink in cemeteries sometimes.

Her eyes were dark, almost black, in the falling light, with thick dark lashes. Hurt and pain had faded the features of her face, thinning her nose, and her cheeks, making her look drawn. She didn’t compensate by wearing a lot of makeup and pretending to be cheerful, the way a lot of women might. She seemed at ease with the pain in her. I couldn’t help but look at her, and see myself. I realized I was staring at her, and that she knew I was staring.

I couldn’t think of anything to say. She was standing only a few feet from me, and would have to walk by, to leave. If she walked away from me backwards, keeping her eyes on me the whole time, I wouldn’t blame her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m not dangerous.” The words felt ridiculous, and, if I was talking to a man, they would have been. Her dark eyes held mine for a moment, the depth of her gaze making me swallow hard. Her head tilted to the side, before she answered, her voice quiet.

“You come here to talk to someone you’ve lost, too.”

Her accent was softer, more muted, than people I have met in Texas, she wasn’t from here. Her voice was clear, the words she’d spoken didn’t feel silly or contrived. It wasn’t a hallmark moment for her. That she said so simply what people I’ve known most of my life couldn’t seem to understand had me staring again.

“I’m sorry. Now I’ve made YOU uncomfortable.” She stepped forward, after catching my eyes again, maybe just to reassure herself I wasn’t a maniac. Her hand was cool and strong, the handshake as firm as can be expected, given how small her hands were. “Jeanette.”

“Sean.” I let go of her hand, so she could take a step back again. The daylight was almost gone, and I didn’t blame her for being nervous, so I tried to be as still as possible. If I moved too quickly, I think she would startle, like a deer. I can’t imagine wanting to do that, or have her nervous about coming back here. “My wife, Stacy. She’s not buried here, but I come here to talk to her.”

Someone else would have required an explanation, or would have offered sympathies and pity. Stacy has been gone from me for a year and a half. Not enough time has passed that I could begin to explain. And too much time has passed for sympathy or pity to be of any comfort. She turned, for a moment, looking across at the mountains, a thin edge at the top, a line of pink, everything else in shadow. Her voice quieter, not quite a whisper.

“My husband John, and my daughter Emily. It would have been her fourth birthday, today.”

I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, to say something, anything, but I know in my heart that some things can’t be eased with a word. Stacy and I never had the chance to have children. I can’t imagine the pain of losing your child as well. There is nothing that can be said, nothing that can come close to the hurt. When Stacy died, people would come up to me, to tell me how sorry they were. Sometimes it got hard to listen. Torn between screaming that they have no idea how you feel, and just crying. Hicks would just sit with me, and sometimes that was best. He knew all there was to know about me, and knew nothing he could ever say would take any of the hurt. I don’t know enough about her to sit and say nothing at all, but I know enough to know that saying I’m sorry is just something people say.

“How long have they been gone?”

“Two years ago last Friday.” Her little girl wasn’t yet two when she died. She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, drawing my eye to her hands. Like me, she still wore her wedding ring, a simple gold band. She took a deep breath, but not all at once. It came in small hitches, like breathing was painful. The skin between her eyebrows bunched, as she took another step down the path towards the gate. “I should get home, Sean…I…”

She blinked back tears, and the instinct was to stand and hold her, to let her cry, but it was full dark in the cemetery, with just the lantern lights at the gates.

“Can I walk you to your car, Jeanette?”

I know what it is to fight crying, being a man I’ve had more practice at it. It was harder for her, and if she were there by herself, she would just cry. Her breath hitched, she bit her lip, and settled again. “I don’t have a car. It’s only a few blocks to the bus stop. It was nice…”

I didn’t let her finish telling me it was nice to meet me. For once I was glad I brought my ID with me. “I’m not a crazy person, Jeanette.” The blue and gold of the DEA shield visible even in the low light. “I just want you to get home safe. Please, at least let me walk you to the bus stop.”

Her dark eyes, still sparkling with unshed tears, flicked up from the ID to meet my eyes. Her panic was panic at crying in front of someone she didn’t know, maybe just panic at the thought of crying at all. Sometimes it’s hard to stop again.

“I’d like it if you walked with me.” Jeanette fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, as she turned towards the gates. I didn’t touch her, as I walked beside her, but kept my pace to hers, enough space between us that our hands wouldn’t touch.

I looked over, at her soft laugh, as we neared the bus stop. Her head dropped a little, almost as if she wanted to hide the fact that she was smiling. “You know, Mr. Vetter, you could just be a crazy man with really good picture ID.” Her voice was richer, when she smiled. I couldn’t help but break out in a grin, partly at what she had said, and partly that I had made her laugh.

“I’m only crazy between the hours of eight and four.” My laugh sounded strange, even to me, it had been a while. The both of us turned, at the sound of her bus coming down the street. Part of me wanted to ask her to stay, to wait for the next one, or I’d call a taxi, anything, just so I could stay and talk to her, but I knew how awkward, how desperate, that would sound. The silence stretched out between us, seeming to take forever, even though it’d only been a few seconds.

Her hand reached out for mine again, it wasn’t a handshake. It was just all that was left for two people that had touched each other in the way we did. If we had known each other longer, we would have hugged, maybe I would have kissed her cheek. All we had was this, made easier because we had already touched once, when she shook my hand. I wanted to ask her if I would see her again, but it felt strange, I felt guilty, like I was betraying Stacy just thinking it. Her bus will be here any second, and she’ll be gone. Torn.

“How often do you visit, Jeanette?” In the end it was all I could think of, the safest question to ask. I never really realized how little experience I had talking to women. I’ve never really dated. Stacy and I had been together forever, inseparable since before we were even teenagers. I had slept with other girls, but that was a long time ago, I was a kid, and, to be honest, I never really had to do much talking to them. I hadn’t had a real conversation with a woman since Stacy.

Jeanette held my hand with both of hers, the gold of her wedding ring reflecting the streetlight. “Not as often as I used to.” She looked up at me, swallowing, as the bus pulls up. I wondered if she was just as nervous and shy about this as I was, if she felt just as awkward, as guilty. The bus doors opened, and she hesitated, for just a moment, as though she contemplated just catching the next one too. A deep sigh. “Jeanette McLean. I work at the University bookstore. I try to visit, when I can get the time off. Sometimes I have to work late.” Her hands squeezed mine, we let go.

“Until next time then, Jeanette.” We watched each other, even as the bus pulls away, her small hand waved at the window when she found a seat, staying still, touching the glass for just a moment. If I had been standing closer, I could have reached out, and put my hand over hers, through the glass, but I’m not. I closed my eyes for a minute, when the bus turned the corner, and the street was quiet again.

That was a week ago. I had butterflies in my stomach walking home that night. Kicking myself for all the things I had wanted to ask her, that I didn’t, that I’d probably not get to now. I felt guilty and happy all at the same time, and I didn’t know which one was worse. It hurt to think that the thought of another woman had made me smile, even for a moment, and, at the same time, I couldn’t help that I felt that way.

She wasn’t at the cemetery the day after that. I would sit at the stone bench, under the tree, and try to tell myself I wasn’t waiting for her. The next day there was a single pink daisy on the seat. She had been here, and remembered me, and was gone before I got a chance to see her again. Some rational part of my brain tried to tell me that someone else left it there, maybe the caretaker, or a kid, but I knew. I left it on my coffee table.

Thursday morning, the next day, the two kids were found in the university parking lot. The cops had written it off as a simple overdose, and seemed a little put out that we were there at all. Alvarez had pulled aside one of the cops to talk to him, try to tell him we weren’t really there officially, and not to get bent out of shape. I told Alvarez I was going for coffee and I’d be back in a minute, before walking across the street. To the university bookstore.

Like a lot of bookstores now, they sold coffee as well. The four small tables outside were taken up by students, talking about what had happened. I caught Jeanette’s eye, as she cleared the cups from one of the small tables inside. Her smile was fleeting and bright, before she dropped her head, feeling awkward at having been caught off guard. She was really busy, I guess that was to be expected, before classes started. I stood outside for a moment, just watching her through the glass, before walking two shops over, to the florist. She buys her flowers here, those same pink daisies. Gerbera daisies, the man behind the counter called them.

I probably could have picked a better time to go see her at work, there was a line up behind me. I was torn between not caring about it, and not wanting to get her in trouble. A teenage boy with purple hair had the tray of coffees in front of me almost as soon as I asked for them. I felt silly, with my handful of daisies, as I paid for the coffee. She blushed, when I handed the flowers to her, our hands touching again, for just a moment. Her mouth opened slightly, and closed again, like she didn’t know where to begin, or how, her eyes holding mine for a moment, and saying with her heart what she couldn’t say out loud. It was hard to leave her. It would have been harder to stay.

—

The card in front of the bookstore said that on Sundays and Mondays, they were closed early. It was Sunday night now, after a weekend that saw six more junkie deaths. I don’t know when Jeanette works, if she works Sundays. She said she visits, when she can, when she doesn’t have to work late. It was a Monday, the day I first met her, and part of me is saying I won’t see her again until tomorrow night. I can’t help the nervous flutter of butterflies, as I sit on the stone bench, knowing in my heart I’m waiting for her.

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