Chapter One
“That’s weird,” Silas says, reading over my shoulder. “Why’s your name got a question mark? Like, what, the guy wasn’t sure you’d be here?”
I look back out to the street. The car’s long gone, but its image sears my eyes. The man seemed more than familiar: the dark features of his face, the hulking way he walked. Even his handwriting looks like something I've seen before: jagged and abrupt, like every letter is a stab.
“Whatever,” I tell Silas, and tear the paper into shreds, right down the middle of my name. I put them into his suit jacket. "I've got bigger things to worry about."
We look around the cemetery together, a summer breeze hitting us square in our faces. I see a headstone that says "Beloved mother." I'm glad no one pressured me to order one like that; Mom's says, simply, "Anna St. James," then her birth and death dates. Short and simple, if not that sweet.
To my surprise—though not Silas’s, who keeps saying, “Woodwork,” in my ear whenever one of the guests is particularly kind—Aunt Jane has arranged a reception. The caterers are already set up in my backyard when we arrive.
“Whoa.” My jaw drops when I see the spread: shrimp cocktails, shortbread cookies, a carving station with roast beef. The hors d'oeuvres are probably the nicest selection I’ve ever seen.
“Aunt Jane,” I tell her, half-scolding, “you didn’t have to do this. You shouldn’t have. Like, seriously.”
“Nonsense,” she says, and spears a thick slice of roast beef onto her plate, filled with buttered rolls. “It’s been so long since I visited—I kind of owed it to her, don’t you think?” She takes a bite, her voice muffled with bread. “Besides, there’s really no better therapy than food.”
I force a smile at the sight of all this therapy; my appetite, which hasn’t been great the last few days to begin with, is totally sapped since my mystery run-in at the cemetery. “Well,” I tell her, “thank you. It means a lot to me. I didn’t even think of holding a reception. I…I didn’t even think that many people would come to the funeral, to tell the truth.”
“Your mother left quite the legacy, Erin Caitlin,” Aunt Jane drawls. She takes a long sip of wine from the plastic flute in her other hand. “She reached a lot of people.”
There’s a blush coming to my cheeks. “I didn’t know.”
“Neither did she.” For a moment, Aunt Jane gets a faraway look in her eye. “I suppose none of us can really know what kind of mark we’re leaving,” she says quietly. “At least, not till we’re already gone.”
We’re both still for a moment, staring at the crowd. Suddenly, Aunt Jane whisks herself away towards someone she knows, and I’m alone.
Your mother left quite the legacy…. She reached a lot of people.
My mother?
I shake the thought out of my head. No, not her. Not the Anna St. James that I knew.
The Anna St. James that I knew got knocked up by a guy she knew was a scumbag, who left before the first sonogram. She let the television raise me. She brought a revolving door of sleazy boyfriends into our apartments. For most of my seventh grade year, she didn’t even bother with an apartment: we lived in her car. Even now, on really cold nights, I remember how it felt, shivering so much in that backseat that I couldn’t drift off.
I knew the woman who drank more wine and grain than water, pretending no
“That’s weird,” Silas says, reading over my shoulder. “Why’s your name got a question mark? Like, what, the guy wasn’t sure you’d be here?”
I look back out to the street. The car’s long gone, but its image sears my eyes. The man seemed more than familiar: the dark features of his face, the hulking way he walked. Even his handwriting looks like something I've seen before: jagged and abrupt, like every letter is a stab.
“Whatever,” I tell Silas, and tear the paper into shreds, right down the middle of my name. I put them into his suit jacket. "I've got bigger things to worry about."
We look around the cemetery together, a summer breeze hitting us square in our faces. I see a headstone that says "Beloved mother." I'm glad no one pressured me to order one like that; Mom's says, simply, "Anna St. James," then her birth and death dates. Short and simple, if not that sweet.
To my surprise—though not Silas’s, who keeps saying, “Woodwork,” in my ear whenever one of the guests is particularly kind—Aunt Jane has arranged a reception. The caterers are already set up in my backyard when we arrive.
“Whoa.” My jaw drops when I see the spread: shrimp cocktails, shortbread cookies, a carving station with roast beef. The hors d'oeuvres are probably the nicest selection I’ve ever seen.
“Aunt Jane,” I tell her, half-scolding, “you didn’t have to do this. You shouldn’t have. Like, seriously.”
“Nonsense,” she says, and spears a thick slice of roast beef onto her plate, filled with buttered rolls. “It’s been so long since I visited—I kind of owed it to her, don’t you think?” She takes a bite, her voice muffled with bread. “Besides, there’s really no better therapy than food.”
I force a smile at the sight of all this therapy; my appetite, which hasn’t been great the last few days to begin with, is totally sapped since my mystery run-in at the cemetery. “Well,” I tell her, “thank you. It means a lot to me. I didn’t even think of holding a reception. I…I didn’t even think that many people would come to the funeral, to tell the truth.”
“Your mother left quite the legacy, Erin Caitlin,” Aunt Jane drawls. She takes a long sip of wine from the plastic flute in her other hand. “She reached a lot of people.”
There’s a blush coming to my cheeks. “I didn’t know.”
“Neither did she.” For a moment, Aunt Jane gets a faraway look in her eye. “I suppose none of us can really know what kind of mark we’re leaving,” she says quietly. “At least, not till we’re already gone.”
We’re both still for a moment, staring at the crowd. Suddenly, Aunt Jane whisks herself away towards someone she knows, and I’m alone.
Your mother left quite the legacy…. She reached a lot of people.
My mother?
I shake the thought out of my head. No, not her. Not the Anna St. James that I knew.
The Anna St. James that I knew got knocked up by a guy she knew was a scumbag, who left before the first sonogram. She let the television raise me. She brought a revolving door of sleazy boyfriends into our apartments. For most of my seventh grade year, she didn’t even bother with an apartment: we lived in her car. Even now, on really cold nights, I remember how it felt, shivering so much in that backseat that I couldn’t drift off.
I knew the woman who drank more wine and grain than water, pretending no
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