Four Rubbings

Chapter Two: Josie and the Fluffy Distraction

My moccasins travel on autopilot to the grave of Sarah Jameson. As the others shrink into the landscape, I wait for a sweet blast of relief to hit me–the old, familiar one that comes after everyone is taken care of, and I get to focus on me. But nothing happens.

A stone sits in the pit of my stomach and acid bubbles around it. I am worried. Last night I looked up YouTube videos on séances. I lit candles around my room and propped up a picture of my mother in the center of them, a photo from back when she had hair. I asked her to make the candles flicker if she was near.  Nothing. My inane experiment confirmed six years of epic failures. I try to reach out to her, I wait for signs, I use the ghost app on my phone to collect evidence that might confirm she still hovers around my life, but I have gotten nothing. No whiffs of her perfume when I visit her grave, no quiet whisperings as I paint in her art shack, no feelings of closeness when I struggle to fall back asleep after a bad dream. Nothing.

I am hoping tonight will be different. The date on the calendar says Halloween. A rubbing kit given to me by my mom’s sister, a group of friends, and a heart-felt prayer might come together to make some kind of magic thing happen. But, only thirty minutes in and I already feel the hope leaking out of me like a balloon with a pinhole. I’m a leaky, suede-fringed balloon. Curse this stupid costume. Curse Halloween. Curse hope.

When I called and texted the others to set the plan, Seth gave me a quick rundown of the history of Halloween, because that is what he does. He memorizes facts about everything. The part that stuck with me is that October 31st was once thought to be the day when the barrier between the living and the dead became paper-thin; in fact, people originally dressed as spirits to blend in with all the ghostly visitors. Seth’s facts gave me hope. I crossed my fingers and hoped that tonight would turn out differently.

“Is the barrier thin enough? Can you come through tonight, Mom?” I ask the wind. “Please meet me at your grave.”

As I near the gnarled, ancient cedar that stands guard over her remains, I watch my step to keep from breaking my neck on the exposed roots and rocks that riddle the surface of her grave. Every time I visit, they seem to have bubbled closer to the surface and threaten to break an ankle.

Sarah Jameson rests midway up a central hill that separates the haves from the have-nots. Realtors might describe her plot as boasting a peekaboo view of Lake Washington, but a dense growth of pines along the shore leave most of that view to the imagination.

I study my mother’s grave. A granite angel kneels on the headstone and weeps, her face buried in her hands. There is no trace of the smile I saw in my dream last night. Feather wings spread out behind the angel’s slight shoulders. Before my head can catch up with my heart, I run a finger across the feathers etched into the stone. The bumpy chevrons flow from one to the next and tickle my fingertips. I love the wings, always have.

The angel stoops over a smooth, black stone heart that reads:

Sarah Jameson.

1968-2006

Heaven rejoice! Our angel walks with you now.

As I kneel down, I notice the brown, withered flowers that slump over the sides of the vase. The vibrant sunflowers we brought for her birthday only a few weeks ago have exploded with rotting gray seeds. I dig my nails into my palms to keep from tossing the dead bouquet behind a bush. The leaves crawl with gnats and tiny worms that feast on the fetid offering. “You guys are glad I forgot fresh flowers, aren’t you?” I say, content to leave the rotten bouquet in place.

I stretch out across the grave, tossing my satchel and backpack to the side. Goosebumps erupt down my naked arms and legs as the back of my head sinks into the damp, yielding grass that forms a mossy pillow. I suck in the air that hangs thick around my face, a mix of rotting leaves and smoky sweet mulch that tickles my nose and makes me sneeze.