Normally no one visited the cemetery on a Monday. So as Grub made his rounds on the mowing tractor, he was surprised to see a woman park at the gate and get out of her car.
Grub knew by sight most of the people who made regular visits to their dearly departed, but this woman was a stranger. She looked a bit older than him and wore jeans with an untucked blue shirt. Her thick hair—dark brown with streaks of gray—was shoulder length and wavy. Though he wasn’t finished with the mowing, Grub drove the tractor to the side of the field and cut the motor to give her some peace and quiet.
With extra time on his hands, he took the opportunity to water the new rosebush. He thought it seemed happy in its new home. In Bobbie’s garden it had been one thing of beauty among many. Here it stood out like a jewel. The sight of it gave him what his mom used to call a “warm fuzzy.” He should have done this years ago. For a moment he closed his eyes and soaked in the heat from the sun, the cheerful trilling of a male robin, the lingering scent of cut grass. The natural world could be as cruel as the human one, but there were also many compensatory times like this one when all was serene and practically perfect.
The next time he looked the woman was a lot closer. She was making her way systematically along the rows of grave markers which made him suspect she was searching for someone specific.
He cleared his throat first so he wouldn’t startle her. “Can I help you?”
She glanced his way and gave an uncertain smile.
“I’m the caretaker. Are you looking for someone in particular?”
“I guess I am.” She tucked her purse closer to her body which made Grub suspect she came from a city. “Do you know if Odette Singleton was buried here?”
Of course, he knew. Without a word, he made his way to a solitary plot, not far from where his family lay. On the anniversary of her death, her brother Leif Karlson and Mrs. G would visit and bring flowers. Other than that, she had no visitors. An English ivy had been planted by the granite marker. If he didn’t cut it back regularly, it would have completely covered the inscription:
Odette Singleton
How lovely
the silence
of growing things
November 9, 1957 – April 29, 1980
“She has one of my favorite epitaphs.” Grub wished he’d thought of something so eloquent for his own family.
“It’s very poetic,” the woman said. She was beside him now, her grip on her purse not quite as fierce. She gave off a subtle, sweet scent. Like the orange blossom honey George put in his tea every morning. Now that she was closer, he guessed she was in her mid-forties. She wasn’t pretty, but he thought her face looked kind.
“Was Odette a relative?”
“I bought her house recently and I’ve been working on her gardens. I’m just curious about the woman who designed them. They’re very beautiful. Or they were. I’m trying to restore them.”
He knew the house. When he was growing up kids had talked about the woman who had committed suicide. They’d speculated that her ghost still haunted the house and whenever he drove by, he felt like the upper-story windows were gazing sorrowfully out at him.
“My name is Fern Sinclair,” the woman said, sounding a little self-conscious.
He looked at her curiously. In his experience, the visitors he helped rarely introduced themselves. “George Linderman. People call me Grub.”
“That’s an unusual nickname.”
He felt his neck grow hot. “My family used to have a turkey farm. It smelled pretty bad.”
It took her a moment to make the connection. “Sounds like a mean nickname.”
He shrugged.
“Have you worked here long, George?” she asked, emphasizing his proper name.
“Since I was seventeen.”
“So young. What drew you to this particular job?”
She had a really nice smile. “My family died in a house fire. I didn’t know what to do after that. I only needed one more year to get my diploma, but I couldn’t face going back to school. One of my old teachers helped me get this job.”
The words just flowed. He didn’t understand why. He didn’t know this woman, yet he was telling her things he normally wouldn’t tell anyone.
“You lost your entire family? I’m very sorry, George.”
Hearing his name—his real name—spoken in her kind, gentle voice, undid something tight and knotted inside of him. “Yes. My parents and my younger sister Susie.”
“How much younger was Susie?”
“Four years. She was a sweet kid. She liked helping my mom bake and doing crafts. She always followed me when I was doing chores on our farm. Mom called her my little shadow.”
“It sounds like you miss her a lot.”
“It’s been a long time, but yes, I do.”
“Time helps heal the pain. But you never stop feeling the loss.”
“That’s true. But I also feel guilty because I wasn’t there. I was out for a walk when the fire started.”
“What happened, George? How did the fire start?”
“It was late Halloween night. The investigators said the candles in our pumpkins burned through to the straw bales they were sitting on, and that fire spread to the house.” He rubbed his wrist, then found himself adding the part that he’d never told anyone. “But when I set out for my walk, I blew out those candles.”
“Did you tell the investigators that?”
“I was afraid they would blame me. Or blame my father.”
He took a deep breath. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said all that. You’re too easy to talk to.”
“I used to work in a care home. Lots of the residents didn’t get many visitors so I’ve got plenty of experience with chatting and listening.”
“You don’t work there anymore?”
“After twenty-five years in that profession I…needed a change.” She put a hand on his arm. “Is your family buried here? Will you show me?”
The fact that she asked told him, more than anything, that she really did care, that she wasn’t just being polite. He led her to the spot. “I wish I had written a nice epitaph for them. Like Odette’s.”
“What would you have said?”
He’d thought about this a lot and had a ready answer. “Those we love and lose are always connected by heartstrings into infinity.”
Fern was silent for a long time. “That’s lovely. And perfect.” She gazed back at the grave markers. The names. The dates. A simple REST IN PEACE.
“Some losses are just too big to move on from, aren’t they, George?”
He had never felt so understood by another human being. “Is your family from this area?”
She looked out at the forest then back to him. “I moved here from Kelowna. My parents are gone, and I don’t have a husband or children.”
“You don’t mind living in that big house all alone? So far from town?”
“I’ve grown used to living alone. But it is a lot of work. I’ve noticed the deer starting to munch on my vegetable garden. Do you know anyone in town I could hire to build a fence?”
“I could do that for you.” He didn’t know why he made the offer. He already had a full-time job. Yet now that the words were out, he didn’t regret them.
“Really?”
She sounded hopeful. It made him feel good to think he could do something nice for this kind woman. “Sure. If you don’t mind me working after hours and on weekends. In fact, I could drop by after work today and you could show me what you want.”
“That’s wonderful, George, thank you.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. Then gave him another of her kind smiles. Looking into her face now he thought his first impression had been wrong. She was pretty.