Page 78 of Ebbing Tides
Lilly Jean Meyer.
Her birth year would’ve made her twenty when I was born, aligning perfectly with what age my father had guessed her to be.
She had been forty-six when she died, making me older now than she’d ever gotten the chance to be.
What happened to you?I wondered as the sound of footfalls approached, and I realized I wasn’t alone.
With a glance over my shoulder, I saw an old man, hunched and feeble. He must’ve been every bit of ninety, if not more, and the cane he used to aid him along did little to keep him steady.
I left Lilly’s grave to walk in his direction.
“Sir, can I give you a hand?” I asked.
He glanced at me, his clear eyes twinkling with a youth his body no longer reflected. They were sharp and observant as they traveled the length of my torso before settling on my outstretched palm.
“Army, eh?” he asked, ignoring the gesture as he tottered along, his cane tapping all the way.
Knowing he must’ve read the Army logo on my cap, I said, “Yes, sir.”
“You were in Iraq?”
I shook my head as I walked alongside him, ensuring he didn’t fall. “Afghanistan.”
He harrumphed with a single nod of his head. I couldn’t tell if the sound was positive, negative, or a neutral acknowledgment, so I said nothing more.
We walked along in silence for a few more steps until we came to one particular grave.
“Well, young man, this is my stop,” he said, using both hands to lean against his cane. “You’ve done your good deed; now go on with your day.”
I glanced at the headstone, and there she was again. Lilly Meyer. A flicker that almost felt like hope sparked in my gut as I glanced at the old man, still peering up at me through suspicious eyes.
My hand gestured toward the grave as I asked, “Did you know her?”
Those sharp eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”
“I am, sir,” I replied, then cleared my throat, wishing I’d been more prepared for the moment—but how could I have been? “My name is Max Tailor. My father, Rich—”
“Oh, I know Richard.” The old man’s face twisted into a sneer. The type of reaction I would expect from the general public when talking about my father. “You’re his son?”
My stomach swooped and took a swift nosedive as I nodded. “Yes, sir. I am.”
The old man’s eyes widened for a moment as he studied my face. Then, without another second to spare, he shook his head.
“I-I should be going,” he stammered, then unsteadily turned to make a sad attempt at hurrying away.
“Wait. How did you know Lilly?” I asked, a little too frantic for my liking.
He held up a trembling hand, his back to me. “There is nothing I have to say to you.”
I took a step, prepared to chase after him, if only to get answers. “Sir, I’m sorry, but—”
“I said this is nothing—”
“I just want to know how—”
“I heard what you said,” he snapped. “Now, leave me—”
“Was she my mother?” I finally asked, shouting over his incessant demands.
