The dreaded day arrives. Mom buys a twenty-pound turkey and three pumpkin pies on Saturday afternoon. Charlotte’s parents, Herb and Sandra volunteer to bring vegetables, and the Bachinskys promise cheese cauliflower. My mouth waters at the thought. It’s been a long time since we’ve eaten turkey, but I sure dread seeing Mr. Bachinsky again since I haven’t so much as raised my violin since the lesson.
To add to my worries, Mom invites Uncle Jack to bring a date, and I have a pretty good idea who his first choice will be – Kate McDonough!
Then to make matters even worse, Mom announces that Dad’s headstone is up and that we should all visit his grave. I vow to be strong and not to break down and embarrass myself, but I’m not sure I can handle it.
We had taken time selecting Dad’s headstone before he died. It was difficult with everyone crying behind closed doors where he couldn’t hear. After many tears, we decided on a black, polished stone with a chain of snowy peaks chiselled near the top since it was the mountains that had drawn Dad to Hope in the first place. Then Mom had ordered Dad’s grad picture from medical school to be placed underneath the mountains with the words Dr. Paul Montgomery, M.D. engraved below it.
Charlotte’s family arrives at the same time as the Bachinskys. The stuffed turkey has been cooking for an hour, and a slight aroma wafts in the air. Dylan’s doing target practice in the backyard with all eight of his Dead-Eye Dart Guns. He made the mistake of pointing one of them at Mom earlier, and she ordered him outside after picking up dozens of orange darts everywhere.
“I’ll just prepare these vegetables before we go,” Monica says as she slips off her black dress shoes, leaving her tweed coat on to transport the two rustling paper bags to the kitchen.
“I’ll help you,” Mom says. “Kira will take everyone’s coats. Right, honey?”
Nodding, I reach out, one by one, to each guest, mumbling polite welcomes and hanging their jackets neatly in the closet.
The sound of casserole dishes clinking echoes from the kitchen, and soon the smell of frying onions drifts to my nose.
After everyone moves to the living room, Charlotte whispers in my ear, “Did you get my e-mail?”
“No.”
“Seriously?” She looks like she’s going to explode with some kind of news, so I motion her upstairs, and we slip into my room.
Charlotte throws herself on my bed while I leap onto my wicker chair.
“So what is it?” I ask, propping a fist under my chin.
“I saw Peter yesterday in Chilliwack … at the mall,” she whispers, “and he asked about you.”
“Really?” I lean forward to catch her urgent words. “What did he say?”
“He wanted to know if you were playing violin again.”
“And that’s it?” I turn my palms up and shrug.
“Yeah, and I said that you weren’t ready to play yet since your dad died. I told him all about Danny Boy ...”
“What?” I draw in a sharp breath. “You didn’t!”
“Yeah, I did, and he’s worried about you. He says he hopes you’re feeling better.” Charlotte jiggles her fists and a squeak escapes her throat.
I bounce up and down, the wicker chair creaking. “So then what happened?”
“Nothing. He was with his parents and they were shopping, so he had to go.” She pauses and raises her brows at me. “So?”
“What?”
“Do you like him?”
“Well ... maybe.” I wag my hand.
We break into giggling, and then screaming, until we hear a sliding sound at my bedroom door like someone’s leaning against it.
Whispering, “Shhh,” I tiptoe to the door and fling it open. Dylan tumbles in, landing on the rug with a loud thud, his arms laden with Dead-Eye Dart Guns.
He leaps off the ground and scrambles to his room, dropping one of his guns as he runs. I take off after him.
“You were eavesdropping, weren’t you, you little brat!” I holler, grabbing at his striped t-shirt.
“No I wasn’t.” He dumps the rest of his guns on the ground and pounces on his bed, smiling like he knows a good secret.
“Were too. What did you hear?”
“Nothing,” he says, lying on his back and pedaling his legs in the air.
“Did too.” I start poking him while avoiding his feet. Dylan’s really ticklish. And not just on the stomach, but everywhere, especially the legs. I take aim at his most vulnerable spots. He rolls around in agony.
“Don’t you dare tell anyone,” I warn, “or I’ll tell Alice that you secretly love her.”
“No!” he screams, gasping for breath.
“Oh yes, I will.” I dig my fingers in harder.
“Okay, I won’t!”
“Pinky swear?”
“Pinky swear!” He barely squeaks out.
I stop tickling him, and we wrap our little fingers together.
Mom calls from downstairs, “Kids. It’s time to go.”
“Oh, quick.” We unhook our fingers.
Clambering down the stairs, we find the adults pulling on their coats and shoes. My stomach growls, and the smell of turkey lingers in my nose as we pile into Mom’s blue van, and drive off to the cemetery.
As our vehicle crawls up the road that leads to the graveyard, a lump threatens to form in my throat.
Mom parks the van under the yellowing leaves of a shady tree, and we stroll across the well-kept lawn. I see Dad’s monument from a distance. Thin sprouts of green grass are beginning to claim the upturned ground of his grave. The polished tombstone reflects the surrounding mountains.
The lump in my throat grows as we approach it despite my attempts to swallow it.
When we get to the grave, Mom steps around the front to admire the work of the artist, but there’s something wrong. Her eyes are wide with horror.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice shaking. Mom doesn’t answer. She just stands there, her face a frozen mask.
I hurry to her side to see. The mountains are there, the picture, Dad’s name and dates, but covering the entire front of the stone is the word ‘LIAR’ spray-painted in bright orange.
“Who could have done this?” Charlotte’s mom exclaims.
“I don’t know, Sandra.” Mom sputters. “I just can’t imagine. He was so respected.”
Mom breaks down in tears. It’s the first time I see her cry since Dad’s death. I know she secretly cried while he lay wasting away because sometimes I’d hear her late at night in the kitchen when she thought no one was awake, but I’ve never seen her break down like this.
“Mom?” The lump in my throat bursts and we melt into each other’s arms. Dylan joins us.
“I’m gonna kill him,” he vows between sobs. “I’m gonna find that guy and kill him!”
Mr. Bachinsky shakes his head over and over, and then kneels down. “Wait a minute. It’s still wet.” He pulls out his white handkerchief and wipes off some of the paint. It smears. “Here, all I have to do is rub some more, and it’ll be gone completely.” His handkerchief ruined, he steps back to see the effect.
Mom calms down as the paint disappears, but I can’t stop crying. All the emotion I’ve tried to hold in pours right out.
“Who would do such a thing?” Sandra asks again, scowling.
“I don’t know,” I say, hiccoughing.
Charlotte bends over and whispers in my ear, “Travis?”
I don’t answer, but it makes sense. He tried to pass us off as liars at school, and it didn’t work, but on Dad’s tombstone, he can write what he wants. I clench my fists.
The Bachinskys place two bouquets of red carnations into special vases planted into the ground.
“Hey, Paul,” says Charlotte’s dad, Herb, speaking to the tombstone, his voice wobbly. “How are you doing? You have no idea how much we’ve missed you.”
“It’s true.” Sandra dabs at her eyes. “You were such a good friend.”
The Morins stoop to add white roses to the vases and stand quietly for a few minutes, lost in their private thoughts.
After everyone wipes their tears, we say our good-byes to Dad and wander back through the wet grass to the van. I’m fussing with the flowers a bit more when something rustles in the woods. I turn sharply and glimpse a blurred face. Remembering the creep who chased me in the park, I break into a run and catch up with the others.
We climb into the van, and Mom turns on the ignition. As we drive away, I see a flash of orange from the corner of my eye. Turning myself completely around to stare out the back window, I catch sight of a figure trudging toward the road. Is that Kate McDonough?
I squint harder, but the van is hurrying away. If it is, why is she in the cemetery? Is there someone buried here that she knows? Or … is it Dad’s grave she’s here to see?