link fence
separating the graveyard from the private property that would probably
eventually be bought by or donated to the cemetery as the population of the
dead continued to grow and outnumber the living population in
my—literally—dying hometown of Longview, sat the graves. Tangled up in the
fence was a small group of honeysuckle bushes. When the wind would gust, the sweet,
cloying aroma would waft my way, confirming that I was heading in the right
direction. Every step I took, I contemplated turning around and running in the
other direction. No going back. By the time I stood in front of the headstones,
I was sweating, and it had less to do with the June heat or the relentless sun
than the fact that I was wrestling with myself. But my fight instinct had my
flight instinct on the mats… barely.
My mind was racing as I stared down at the
names as if they belonged to strangers. The letters didn’t seem to be working
together to form the words. Maybe it was the font in the marble. Maybe it was
the neurons misfiring in my frantic brain. The cicadas in the neighboring field
were deafening. There was a metallic taste in my mouth.
Shannon Lynelle Greer, beloved daughter and
sister; Nicole Gayle Greer, beloved daughter and sister; Gayle Barbara Greer, dear
wife, mother, daughter, and sister; Robert Leonard Greer, devoted husband,
father, and son.
Jayne Ann Greer, cheater of death.
Because that’s what I’d done, hadn’t I? I
should be here with the rest of them , I remember thinking miserably. I, too,
should be described as the beloved daughter and sister. And I would have been,
had I not—at my mother’s urging—attended the all-night post-graduation party
hosted by the Longview High School Student Council. It wasn’t really my scene,
but all my friends were going, so I didn’t want to be the only one who wasn’t
there, in case something interesting happened.
Of course, nothing did. Nobody in my
graduating class was even daring enough to spike the punch or smoke a joint in
the bathroom. No, the most exciting thing going on that night, unfortunately
for me, was happening ten miles from where I was at the small town’s civic
center, at my house.
Over the years, I’ve tried to imagine, in
split-screen fashion (like in the movies), what was happening simultaneously at
different points of the night. When I was hanging out on the perimeter of the
makeshift dance floor, scoffing with my friends at the slow-dancing
partnerships while secretly wishing Tanner Kelley would ask me to dance, was
the frayed wiring in our old farmhouse smoldering? By the time we’d moved on to
the video game room, had flames developed in the walls, while my unsuspecting
family members slept? As I participated in the water fight in the wee hours of
the morning, was the fire spreading while the defunct smoke alarms looked on
silently? At what point did the flames race up the stairs from the first floor,
where they originated, to engulf the old wooden staircase, the only means of
escape? During the raffle winner announcements? When I was contemplating
leaving early to go home and catch a few hours of sleep in my own bed, were my
sisters and parents finally waking up to the choking smoke, throwing their legs
over the sides of their beds, only to have the soles of their bare feet scorch
against the white-hot floor?
No. I know it didn’t happen exactly like that.
At least, that’s not what the fire chief told me. He said that something—most
likely carbon monoxide—killed them in their sleep before the fire ever started.
He knows this, because there was no smoke in their lungs. Then the faulty
wiring sparked in the laundry room under the stairs. He said the two events may
not have been related at all. As a matter of fact, he seemed baffled and almost
personally offended that the two things could happen within hours of each
other. After all, carbon monoxide robs the atmosphere of oxygen, and fires need
oxygen to spread. He mumbled all this
separating the graveyard from the private property that would probably
eventually be bought by or donated to the cemetery as the population of the
dead continued to grow and outnumber the living population in
my—literally—dying hometown of Longview, sat the graves. Tangled up in the
fence was a small group of honeysuckle bushes. When the wind would gust, the sweet,
cloying aroma would waft my way, confirming that I was heading in the right
direction. Every step I took, I contemplated turning around and running in the
other direction. No going back. By the time I stood in front of the headstones,
I was sweating, and it had less to do with the June heat or the relentless sun
than the fact that I was wrestling with myself. But my fight instinct had my
flight instinct on the mats… barely.
My mind was racing as I stared down at the
names as if they belonged to strangers. The letters didn’t seem to be working
together to form the words. Maybe it was the font in the marble. Maybe it was
the neurons misfiring in my frantic brain. The cicadas in the neighboring field
were deafening. There was a metallic taste in my mouth.
Shannon Lynelle Greer, beloved daughter and
sister; Nicole Gayle Greer, beloved daughter and sister; Gayle Barbara Greer, dear
wife, mother, daughter, and sister; Robert Leonard Greer, devoted husband,
father, and son.
Jayne Ann Greer, cheater of death.
Because that’s what I’d done, hadn’t I? I
should be here with the rest of them , I remember thinking miserably. I, too,
should be described as the beloved daughter and sister. And I would have been,
had I not—at my mother’s urging—attended the all-night post-graduation party
hosted by the Longview High School Student Council. It wasn’t really my scene,
but all my friends were going, so I didn’t want to be the only one who wasn’t
there, in case something interesting happened.
Of course, nothing did. Nobody in my
graduating class was even daring enough to spike the punch or smoke a joint in
the bathroom. No, the most exciting thing going on that night, unfortunately
for me, was happening ten miles from where I was at the small town’s civic
center, at my house.
Over the years, I’ve tried to imagine, in
split-screen fashion (like in the movies), what was happening simultaneously at
different points of the night. When I was hanging out on the perimeter of the
makeshift dance floor, scoffing with my friends at the slow-dancing
partnerships while secretly wishing Tanner Kelley would ask me to dance, was
the frayed wiring in our old farmhouse smoldering? By the time we’d moved on to
the video game room, had flames developed in the walls, while my unsuspecting
family members slept? As I participated in the water fight in the wee hours of
the morning, was the fire spreading while the defunct smoke alarms looked on
silently? At what point did the flames race up the stairs from the first floor,
where they originated, to engulf the old wooden staircase, the only means of
escape? During the raffle winner announcements? When I was contemplating
leaving early to go home and catch a few hours of sleep in my own bed, were my
sisters and parents finally waking up to the choking smoke, throwing their legs
over the sides of their beds, only to have the soles of their bare feet scorch
against the white-hot floor?
No. I know it didn’t happen exactly like that.
At least, that’s not what the fire chief told me. He said that something—most
likely carbon monoxide—killed them in their sleep before the fire ever started.
He knows this, because there was no smoke in their lungs. Then the faulty
wiring sparked in the laundry room under the stairs. He said the two events may
not have been related at all. As a matter of fact, he seemed baffled and almost
personally offended that the two things could happen within hours of each
other. After all, carbon monoxide robs the atmosphere of oxygen, and fires need
oxygen to spread. He mumbled all this
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