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"There is no book and your fathers are dead in the ground."
-Cormac McCarthy, The Road
When she opens her eyes on Sunday, her lashes stick together with sleep and dry tears.
Last night when he called, they talked about Charlie.
She had been so good at keeping it at arm's length, just on the periphery, never interrupting the soft laughs and secret smiles from their whispers in the dark. But then he asked if she ever visited his grave, and she couldn't keep the walls from cracking and closing in.
Because she hasn't visited. Not once. Not since the gray morning they laid him to rest.
You must think I'm terrible.
It's okay if you're not ready, Bella.
I just—when I think about going and standing there and seeing his name, I can't do it.
You will. When the time is right, you will.
She told him she was tired. That she had to go. And he asked over and over if she was sure, if she was okay, if she needed him to come over, because he would.
Of course he would.
But there are some things even his strong arms and sweet words can't fix.
And when she hung up, she cried into her pillow so the sound wouldn't echo and remind her all over again of what she lost after her father left.
And before.
So when she rubs her eyes in front of the bathroom mirror, the girl who looks back is not the same one she saw yesterday morning. She misses her already.
She showers and dresses slowly, her thoughts a jumble that keep coming back to the same thing.
She has to do it.
Because there is no "right time" for a 22 year old girl to visit her father's grave.
…
The drive to the cemetery is too short for comfort, and she listens to an entire song on the radio before she turns off the engine.
She walks with her head down, her hands fisted in the pockets of her coat, trying to avoid the names and dates that surround her. And the thought of what lies beneath her feet.
She's only travelled this path once, but somehow, she knows the way by heart.
Some things, you just don't forget.
She sees the tree first, a great Sitka spruce that towers above the rest. Strong and solid. Like him. Like the man he was before.
Below the branches, a figure kneels, and as she gets closer, she recognizes the long gray braids and broad shoulders of Billy Black.
"Billy?"
He turns sharply at the sound of her voice, and starts to get up when he sees her.
"Bella—"
"Please don't get up." She notices the leaves in his hand.
"What are you doing?"
"Just cleaning up a bit."
"Oh. Thank you."
"It's no problem, sweetheart."
She feels awkward in her body, in her bones, and he must sense it because he says,
"It's good to see you here."
"It's good to see you, too. How often do you come?"
"I try to get here ever Sunday."
And then it's shame and guilt and every other awful thing that weighs on her heart, and those walls that were just beginning to fragment now shatter. She thinks she says "I'm sorry" and "I should have come" but she can't hear herself for the roaring in her head.
When she opens her eyes, she's shaking, and Billy's arms are around her.
"You need to stop being so hard on yourself."
"But I should have—"
"Girl, you took care of that man better than anyone else. There are no rules for dealing with this."
She sniffs and wipes her nose on her sleeve.
"I still should have been here."
The old man steps back and holds on to her shoulders, and bends down to look her in the eye.
"He ain't here. This is just a place for us to come when we need to."
She nods and hugs him hard.
"You want me to stay?"
"No. Thank you. Thank you for everything."
He tousles her hair and it always makes her smile.
"I gotta get home anyway. You be good."
She nods again, and then it's just her and the cold morning air and the small stone in the ground beneath her.
She kneels. She breathes. And she touches his name.
"Hi, Dad."
She tells him about school, how much she likes her students—even Tyler Crowley—how they read Of Mice and Men and yawped on top of their chairs, how Mike Newton is still an asshole.
And then she tells him that she met a boy. That his name is Edward and that he's good and decent and kind and she thinks they would have liked each other. That she wishes they could have known each other because even though it's new, it feels permanent somehow.
She tells him not to worry.
She tells him "I miss you."
When she stands, her jeans are wet, but she feels weightless.
She looks up at the tree, at the light breaking through the branches.
She says "I'll be back soon."
…
On the drive home, a song comes on the radio, and it's one of Charlie's favorites. She remembers how he'd play it on their record paper, saying "it just sounds better this way," and how he'd try to pretend he wasn't singing along.
In her memories, he's healthy and strong and he takes up the whole room.
She turns the volume up, rolls down the window, and sings.