Page 5 of Come Break My Heart Again

My mom climbs into the passenger seat without waiting for a response.

I slide into the back seat. “Sorry. Bad traffic. Hi, Dad.”

“Hello, Elodie.”

My mom clicks her tongue as she buckles her seat belt. “You should have left earlier.”

“Sorry,” I repeat.

I don’t defend my excuse. She’d be more understanding if I mentioned I ran into Mrs. Williamson and Archer at the market. She’d get more annoyed if I mentioned the cemetery is only ten minutes away and open until sunset, so there’s not exactly a strict deadline regarding our departure time.

Instead of saying anything at all, I stare out the window at the passing houses of the neighborhood I grew up in. The stately homes look larger than I remember, like my perspective has shrunk—instead of grown—as I’ve gotten older. The thought is depressing, almost as crushing as the omnipresent silence sitting in the car like a fourth presence.

It’s so quiet that I can hear the steady hum of the engine and the soft hiss of air-conditioning blowing out of the vents. It can’t be more than sixty-five degrees out. But that’s my parents—cold and impractical.

I rub my arms in an attempt to combat the bumps rising, the rasp of skin against skin audible in the silent car.

The cemetery where my sister is buried is small, the gravel road to reach the rows of graves narrow. A silver Jaguar partially blocks the thoroughfare; my father’s annoyed huffs as he maneuvers around the sedan the only commentary, aside from the car’s noises.

My palms dampen with sweat as we draw closer to the massive oak tree that marks the prime plot my parents paid an outrageous amount of money for. The wet stems of the tulips I’m holding don’t provide any absorbance.

This annual visit—on the anniversary of her death—is the only time I visit Rose’s grave.

I wish I wanted to come here more often. Wish I felt like there was something here, aside from stone and sorrow.

I was twelve when my older sister died. I’m twenty-five now. More than half my life, I’ve felt like an only child. My most vivid memories of Rose are these annual visits to the hunk of rock that marks her final resting place with my parents.

The walk to Rose’s grave is short and as silent as the car ride. Between us at least. A few birds chirp overhead. It sounds like they’re celebrating the weather, and I wish such a beautiful day hadn’t dawned on this particular date. Today has always felt like an anniversary more fitting for heavy rain. It poured the day of her funeral.

We stand as a somber trio, me between my parents, all staring at Rose’s grave. The gray surface is flawless, unmarred by time or the elements. Polished to a sheen resembling glass. Sunshine glints off the smooth stone, making me squint behind the shield of my sunglasses. I crouch down to set the bundled tulips on the grass that’s growing green again, brushing my fingers against the carved letters that spell out Rose’s full name.Beloved Daughter and Sisteris written below the dates of her birth and death. I linger on the last word, then let my hand drop and stand.

“Pretty tulips,” my mom says.

The pink flowers are a vibrant spot on the ground against the green and gray of grass and graves.

“They didn’t have any roses,” I reply softly.

Most days, my mom would take that as an opening for criticism. Ask me how many stores I stopped at. Mention that many flower shops allow you to place orders ahead of time, that it just requires minimal planning in advance. Frances Clarke has a gift for finding criticism in any situation.

Today, all she says is, “The thought is what counts.”

We’re very different, my mother and I. She and Rose were similar, both effortlessly poised and endlessly critical.

I’m not much like my dad either.

I’m some strange combination of my parents, which means neither understands me. I have my dad’s drive, but not his detachment. My mom’s charm, but not her composure.

The invisible barrier that often separates us is thinner here. There’s no mystery behind my father’s stoicism or my mother’s lack of judgment.

They’re grieving. They lost a child, suddenly and senselessly.

And if there’s one thing I understand, it’s sudden and senseless loss.

2

The eight becomes a nine, meaning I only have a minute left. I pull in a deep breath, then release a long exhale. I wait until my lungs are burning to inhale again. The slight discomfort isn’t the shock to the system I was hoping for.

Today is the first day of senior year. The final first day of high school. The start of the last chapter.

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