“No,” was Grant’s swift reply.
“Yes,” Lucy replied. “Yes. We can do this. And if Darla won’t help…I’ll go alone.”
“Lucy—” he shook his head. “I’m not letting you go. I’m not letting you or anyone else risk your life for me. There’s no guarantee that it would work or that…in the time that it took…” he trailed off and she knew what he was going to say. She cringed.
“Please.” She cried harder.
Grant shook his head and squeezed her shoulders tightly. “We’re not talking about it. And you won’t change my mind.”
“What do you want to do then?” Lucy asked and she tried to harden herself, stop the blubbering, and regain control.
Grant laughed. His genuine amusement shocked her and he put a thoughtful finger to his lips. “You mean…on your last day to live? What do you want to do?”
“No,” Lucy stammered. Then, “Maybe.”
Without missing a beat, he replied. “I want to bury Salem. Give her what no one else in our school or our lives got when they died. Something proper.” He then looked at her with a sad smile. “Then I want to see you get home.”
Abigail Pine’s body had already started to decay. Not the rapid decomposition the virus caused, but the normal human rate of putrefaction. In an attempt to mask the smell, Leland had dumped two entire boxes of baking soda over her. Everywhere, except her face. And despite her whiteness and bloat, she still looked peaceful as she lay on top of their floral comforter.
With Leland watching, twisting his hand in his robe nervously, Darla wrapped her in a white flat sheet; her body was stiff, but still moveable. They rolled her onto the sheet in stages and then secured it at the ends. Grant grabbed her upper body, lifting her with a mixture of tenderness and sheer strength, while the girls congregated at her legs and feet. Then they shimmied and shifted, maneuvered and backed their way down the stairs, through the family room, out the kitchen, and into the garden—where Leland met them holding two shovels.
They dug two holes. The rain made them a muddy mess and the further down they got, the harder the earth was, slowing down their digging process. After fifty minutes, they had created large and deep enough holes to fit Leland’s departed wife and Salem.
Grant bent down and picked Salem off the floor on his own and laid her to rest in the earth. Mud splattered on her cheeks and clothes and the sides of the grave started caving in almost immediately. Salem’s golden crucifix peaked out of the earth and, spotting it, Lucy dropped to her knees. She reached down into the grave and she dug her hands under the mud until she was able unclasp the necklace from around Salem’s neck. She held it tightly in her hands, the sharp edges of the cross digging into her palms.
Then Grant covered the bodies as quickly as he could. With Darla’s help, they slung the thick sludge over the bodies until nothing on their bodies remained visible.
“I’ll say some words for my wife,” Leland said and gathered them together, where they huddled and listened to his praises, his prayers.
“My wife was a giving soul. And she had a spirit of fire and passion. And love. She loved. With everything she had. This is not how we imagined our end. But here we are. Here will she rest…with me by her side as long as I am able.” Leland stopped. He turned to the group, “You go,” he instructed and he pointed to Lucy.
Rain dripped on her head and she shivered, her teeth chattered. “Salem was my best friend. She…” Lucy stopped and took a second to compose herself, “gave everything she had to me. She was fun and loving. For many years, she was my sister…my only sister. I feel like I’ve lost my heart, my other half. I can’t imagine a world without her.”
Grant walked over to a rosebush and looked to Leland, “May I?” he asked and Leland nodded. He broke a single red rose off of the vine, between the thorns. It snapped easily in between his fingers. Tossing the rose on to Salem’s grave, Grant cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and said, “God our Father, your power brings us to birth, your providence guides our lives, and by your command we return to dust. Lord, those who die still love in your presence, their lives change, but do not end. I pray in hope for my family and friends and for all the dead known to you alone. Wipe away all our tears. Unite us together. And all God’s people said, amen.”
Lucy stammered out a belated amen. And then she looked slowly over to Grant, her eyebrows questioning.
He shrugged. “Catholic.”
“Full of surprises,” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After they left Leland’s house, it took one hour to reach Lucy’s street.
Loaded down with bags of canned peaches, pickled green beans, baby corn, and strawberry jelly—something the old man insisted upon, despite their numerous objections—they wound their way through empty houses, a looted coffee house, a smoldering police station, until they reached Lucy’s neighborhood. Passing by familiar cars and facades, they trekked down the road in the open, their heads panning from side-to-side in an effort to catch movement.
It didn’t surprise anyone that the street was silent.
When Lucy’s house came into view, she tossed her bag with Leland’s food to Grant, who caught with a clumsy grasp. “Take this,” she said and then bolted. She ran, full speed, down the street.
It pained her how much she needed to see Ethan and how much she needed to ask him. They had remained mostly silent as they made their way to the house. Lucy tried to pry details out of Darla, but she had remained focused during their journey, trading only barbs and not information.
Lucy ran past the front door and straight to the side-door to the left of the carport and crashed her way through into their laundry room, pushing off the washing machine, and then she took the steps into her house two at a time. She ran across the family room, past the stairs, calling his name loudly and without reservation.
“Ethan! Ethan!”
“Here Lucy! I’m in here!” came the reply and Lucy followed his call into the den. Ethan rested on their father’s leather couch, the giant throw blanket from their mother’s alma mater tucked up around his legs. He looked at her bleary-eyed and then broke into a giant smile and threw his arms up in response. Lucy rushed into the embrace, crouching down near the edge of the couch to get the best grip and Ethan held his hands tightly across her back and squeezed.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said and Lucy was too overcome to respond, so she just tried to melt her body into his.
From the back part of the house, she could hear Darla and Grant enter from the carport and then slam the door. The house was alive with footsteps and muffled conversation.
“Who is with her?” Ethan asked and he dropped his arms, raised himself up on his elbows and craned his neck.
“Grant Trotter. A friend. But Ethan…” Lucy’s chin trembled and she bit her lip.
Ethan interrupted, “Wait…there’s someone else alive? Did you bring anyone else?”
Lucy shook her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she wiped them away. She wasn’t ready to talk about Salem yet, the death was too recent, too fresh and too painful to mention.
Ethan blew air out his nose, muttered an expletive, and went back to lying down, crossing his hands over his chest and staring at the ceiling. “This is a mess.” He reached a hand out and locked hands with his sister.
“Ethan—”
“We do have much to talk about little sister. So much.” His tone implied disagreement, exhaustion and, Lucy thought, fear. But Darla swung into the room with Grant following behind. He slipped into the matching leather chair in the corner, and she walked right over to Ethan, ignoring Lucy’s presence on the ground beneath him. Without a word, she reached behind his head and grabbed a prescription bottle of pills from a side table and shook the orange container, counting them audibly as they rolled around.