Four Rubbings

Chapter 18: Josie Visits the Forbidden Place

I WALK TO LAKEFRONT CEMETERY on this mild Sunday morning under a blue sky, but my mood is anything but sunny and bright. I long for the typical gray Seattle skies to return, because they make a better backdrop than sunshine when one wants to ruminate on their difficult parent and complicated life. Where are my gray skies when I need them?

Seattle wears its gray skies like New Yorkers sport black clothing, daily, but with subtle variety. Some days our Northwest sky is a canvas of primer gray, sprayed on with a celestial air gun and flat, drab paint that is easy to overlook. I call those the blah days.

On more drama-filled days, foreboding charcoal clouds sag above the skyline, barely keeping their fat, rain-gorged bellies from scraping the tops of buildings. I call those the green days, because our palette of trees and moss-carpeted terra firma never appears more vibrant than under those ominous formations.

Then, there is the winter sky, where earth and atmosphere meld together into a single milky entity. The fog lifting off the ground blends into the muslin-draped atmosphere. You spend the day with your mind and body entombed in clouds, as if watching the world through a shroud. Those are the times when locals long for a sunny island or a quick jump off a high bridge.

My favorite sky, the one I call the birthday cake sky, is filled with gravity-defying pillows of white and pink like a Rousseau landscape set in motion. This is the sky that accompanies me to Lakefront on this Sunday morning, a week after Halloween. A blue sky usually brightens my spirits and inspires me to unearth a sketchpad and pencils from the dusty bottom of my bag. But as I near the thorn-encrusted wall that marks the Ghost Forest, my father's voice rings in my head.

"You're going to the cemetery again? It's the fifth time this week, Josie. Your preoccupation has to stop. You are absolutely forbidden to go to Lakefront!"

I grind my teeth as I think back to our one-sided conversation. I tried to tell him two of those visits were for other people, but he wouldn't listen.

Casey's been here every day since Halloween. She's practically on Grace's payroll. I haven't been here nearly enough. While I stand by and watch the Baby Group unlock mysteries, I've made no progress. Seth's made more progress on my search than me! But, let's cut to the chase, Dad. This isn't some new preoccupation-with-death phase. News flash, it's a lifestyle. I've been preoccupied with dead people since I lost Mom six years ago. You just never cared to see that until now. Why didn't I think to say that earlier? That would have shut him up.

As I step onto the soft mossy earth of the Ghost Forest, I spot a tiny figure toiling under the rose trellis in the distance, the lake shimmering through the archway. "Is that you back there, Grace?" I yell.

"Yep!That you, Josie? I knew I'd see you today." She snaps at a thick cord of woody thorns with long pruning shears. Her pinstripe overalls hang off her small frame and her hair frizzes out wildly around her face."Hey, can you give me a hand? I'm up to my elbows in roses." She wipes the back of a gloved hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt behind.

I reach the arched trellis in quick strides. Rays of rare autumn sunshine sparkle and dance across the choppy waters, past the pile of dead roses, gardening tools, and Grace. I glance up at the oak limbs that weave a spider web above our heads and a chill ripples down my back as I think back to the freaky dream I had of me hanging from a limb.

Grace shakes her head. "My hands won't cooperate today. I thought the sunshine would drive off the bad of this place, but it's getting the better of me. You might be my saving grace, girl." She reaches into a front pocket of her overalls and unearths a pair of pruning shears. She hands them to me, and then stuffs a coil of hair into a fuzzy red cap, frowning.