Page 11 of Grave Matter

Either way, it’s not unpleasant at all. I keep my hand to my nose as I walk over to the main lodge, the scent reminding me of something I can’t quite place but is comforting nonetheless. Perhaps the smell of my childhood. My grandmother chain-smoked Marlboro Lights for the longest time, and my father always smelled of diesel from his fishing boats.

At the memory of them, my chest aches. Grief is funny like that. It lives alongside you, sometimes in silence, and then a random thought, or memory, or smell will punch through you like a fist, your bleeding heart in its grasp, and you have to relive it all over again. I often think of grief as a cycle from which there is no escape, an ouroboros, a snake of sorrow eating its tail.

My father died three years ago, and most days now, I can think of him without crying or getting sad. We were never that close since he was so rarely home, but we still had a good relationship. We were passing ships in the night, and with him, it was literal. Sometimes I think my struggle with object permanence—the ability to forget that certain things or people exist if they aren’t present—is one reason why I’m not insane with grief all the time. It’s one of the few concessions that my ADHD grants me. That and my ability to hyperfocus and grow obsessive over the things I care deeply about, which is why my grades are so good but only about the subjects I’m infatuated with (which is why that one calculus class I had to take was a bitch).

A raven’s throaty warble draws my attention upward. It’s perched on the top of the totem pole in front of me. I’d walked past the lodge without realizing it.

Instinctively, I reach inside my jacket for my phone to take a picture, since the totem at the top of the pole is a raven too, and with the fog as a background, it would make a stunning photo. But my fingers grasp nothing, and I remember my phone is gone, and I won’t be able to look at it for a hella long time. The idea makes me feel twitchy, like I’m missing a limb, but I remind myself again that it’s for the best.

I take my watch out of my pocket. Still have forty-five minutes to kill. I could go to my room and unpack, but it seems too daunting at the moment. I could wait in the mess hall, but I don’t want to be that early, sitting all alone.

I decide to walk toward the gazebo, following the stone path as it undulates between salal bushes, the wet, rubbery leaves brushing against my legs, leaving damp spots on my jeans.

The mini peninsula that the gazebo is built on is treeless, mostly rocky outcrops and moss, giving an unobstructed view of the inlet—on a clear day, that is. Right now, all I can see is the dock and the blanket of fog. Somewhere beyond it is the wild North Pacific Ocean, reefs and rocks and small islets breaking up their force until only gentle waves roll into the inlet. It’s calm here, peaceful, and I sit on top of the picnic table, trying to do some deep breathing exercises. I hear the cry of a bald eagle, but the rest of it remains a ghost.

I tell myself it’s okay to be sad sometimes. I tell myself that what’s done is done. I tell myself that no matter what happens, even if they find out tomorrow morning that I lost my scholarship and I’m sent back home, I’ll be alright.

And where is home?I think, panic simmering. I have no home anymore. I turned in my keys. I can’t live on campus. I’ll have to find a job when I get back, but until I do, I’ll have nowhere to stay. It’s not like I can afford to live in the Bay Area anymore, but where will I go?

I’m so very fucked.

I run my fingers over the old wood of the picnic table, over the carved initials and tag lines.

EJ+MP.

Nick smells like surfer bro.

Martin loves Amy.

Don’t eat the walking ones, don’t eat the talking ones.

Jessica is a…

Someone had written something, and then it’s been crossed out.

Don’t trust any of them.

They’re all lying to you.

I pause over that one just as I hear a rustle in the bushes behind me.

I twist around to see a flash of a pastel pink hijab and a smiling, warm face.

My heart leaps.

Amani?

“Come on, Syd!” Amani yells at me, waving her hand. “You’ll be late for dinner!” Then she turns and runs off into the bushes.

“Wait!” I yell, getting to my feet and bursting out of the gazebo. “Amani?”

I nearly slip on the moss, but I gain my balance and run down the path, trying to catch up, but she’s damn fast.

By the time the main lodge comes into view, she’s disappeared.

“Amani!” I yell, looking around, only to see Lauren, Munawar, and another guy step out of the building.

“Hey, tuba girl!” Munawar greets.

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