by Lincoln Cole
Richard waited and finally Calvin came out, stepping just past the awning and staring at his eldest son. He didn’t look surprised that Richard was still here. The crowd dispersed around them.
“Come on,” Richard said, heading to his car. Calvin followed. Deborah climbed out of the front seat and helped Calvin into the Lexus, and then climbed into the back with the kids. Richard started the engine, put it into gear, and joined up with the line of mourners.
The cemetery was close. After they parked, Richard made his way back to the hearse and stood with the other pallbearers.
They exchanged glances in silence. The hearse driver waited patiently to slide the casket out. “Do you mind if…” he started to say.
“Of course,” Adam said, stepping away from the line and gesturing toward the front of the casket. “You have every right to be here.”
“I’m not so sure,” Richard said, his voice soft. Nevertheless he stepped forward into the open space and took hold of the casket as it was slid out of the hearse. The sun beat down overhead, baking the tears on his cheeks. The casket was heavy, its weight reassuring. Together they carried it across the line of tombstones to the waiting grave.
Together, they carried Emily to her final rest.
This time only a few words were spoken. The pastor spoke about her life and her works. A few people said their goodbyes. Gradually the crowd dispersed. Richard stood with his family, feeling emptiness in his chest that pulsed with anguish and anger. Anger at himself. He wracked his brain, trying to think of the last thing he’d ever said to his mother. It must have been last Christmas. So long ago. He wasn’t even sure what it was.
He tried, in vain, to remember the last time he’d said something nice to her.
Or that he loved her.
“I’m glad you came,” a voice said from behind. He turned and saw Jason there. He looked hesitant, shifting his feet as if ready to retreat.
“Me too,” Richard said. He kissed Deborah on the cheek and asked her and the kids to wait at the car. Once they’d wandered away he turned back to Jason.
“It’s been a…day,” Jason said, giving up on finding a suitable adjective.
“Yes it has,” Richard said. A moment slipped past. “Listen it’s been too long since…”
“Yeah, it has,” Jason said.
“How about if you came over sometime for dinner. I mean if you aren’t too busy. It would be good for the kids. To meet their uncle.”
“I’d love to,” Jason said.
“And also, if you could ask Bethany. See if maybe she and Adam would like to come over and visit.”
“Definitely,” Jason said. “And, you know, the same goes for you. You are welcome anytime.”
Richard smiled. “Thanks,” he said, extending his hand. Jason shook it, nodded, and then walked toward his car. The rest of the crowd was gone.
He turned back to the casket where his mother rested, waiting for the lot crew to lower her into the ground and cover her with dirt. His chest still ached, and he realized that it was a pain that would never go away. The last thing he’d told his mom, he remembered suddenly, was that this coming winter they wouldn’t make it for Christmas.
He would repair the relationships with his family, he decided. He would rebuild burnt bridges, or at least try. But, no matter what, it was too late for one relationship. The most important one.
“I’m sorry, mom,” he said gently, resting his hand lightly on the carved and polished wood. “I love you.”
He started for the car, and then hesitated. As an afterthought, he turned back to the casket holding his mother: “I forgive you.”
He wasn’t sure, however, if he would ever forgive himself.
1958 - Emily Greenwood
Sometimes, life doesn’t belong to us
Calvin grumbles something in his sleep. He’s sitting in the passenger seat beside me, gasping and delirious. I swerve, weaving through traffic. I hope there isn’t a cop nearby.
Or maybe I should hope there is one.
He can get us to the hospital.
Because we’re going to the hospital, right?
Right?
“Damn,” I say. “Damn it all.”
He starts crying, caught in some riveting dream.
“Don’t try to talk,” I say. “Just hang on ‘til we get there.”
“She didn’t…” he says, “she didn’t know…”
But the rest of the words are garbled and mushy in his mouth. I glance over at him and growl in frustration.
“Shut up, Calvin,” I say. ‘Just shut up ‘til we get there…”
***
Emily stood in front of the door for almost ten minutes. She couldn’t even imagine how she must appear, with her belly protruding and eyes puffy from crying. She wasn’t crying now; she didn’t think she had any tears left.
It was a cold day and she was miserable. She was also scared and alone. The wind whistled by, and her light coat did nothing to protect her from the elements.
The house was nothing like she remembered. Her parents had fallen on hard times, which she had expected. But not this bad. The yard was filled with more trash than grass, the exterior faded from weather, and the paint was peeling. The top floor right side window—the one that used to belong to her sister Janis—was boarded over with crumbling boards to keep out the wind. They hadn’t even removed all of the broken glass.
Her father spent money frivolously, more than they had, and no one was willing to help him anymore. He’d burned too many bridges.
This was a dying place, excessively degraded even for late autumn. No horses ran in the fields, the fences were falling down, and even the barn looked on the verge of collapse. She tried to remember the last time she was happy here and couldn’t.
She raised her fist to knock, and then lowered it to her side.
If I don’t knock, I’m going to freeze to death out here.
The uncertainty and anticipation was horrid. She was here, she’d made it. Miles and miles across the Kentucky countryside—she was grateful that the discussions of moving hadn’t turned into reality—in whatever pickup or car happened to be passing at the time, assuming the driver was willing and able to carry a scared pregnant girl a few miles.
It had been grueling. Her feet hurt, she was hungry, and she was alone. But she’d made it.
Hadn’t she?
But she still didn’t raise her fist. She was worried that she already knew their answer. In fact, she did already know the answer. She’d called first, and they’d left no uncertainty in their response. She was hoping that upon seeing her, and seeing the desperation written on her face, they would reconsider. Didn’t they understand that it was already too late? There was no going back. She couldn’t return…
She hit the door, three light taps with her knuckles, and waited. Voices filtered out past the wood and then the sound of boots on hardwood flooring as someone came to the door. From the sound, she expected her father to be there when it opened, but instead her mother’s face appeared in the crack.
And only a crack. Emily could barely see the gray wall behind her mother with faded black and white photographs decorating the foyer. She looked old, older than Emily remembered, with more wrinkles and gray hair than she could count. But, just seeing her face was enough to embolden her. This was the woman who raised her and took care of her throughout her formative years. She was familiar and safe. She felt relief flood through her.
“Mom,” she said.
“Emily,” her mother replied. She looked worried. And sad. “What are you doing here?”
“I…” she started, but she didn’t know what else to say. I left Calvin, she wanted to say, or, I need a place to stay, or even, I’m carrying your grandchild, how could you have said such terrible things to me?
Instead she said nothing. She just stood, waiting and scared.
“How are you?” her mom asked.
“I’m good,” she said. It was the answer she felt she was supposed
to give.
“And the baby?”
“Kicking all day. Never stops moving.”
“That’s good.”
And then silence. Emily stared at her, and her mother stared back.
It was awkward and disheartening, but her mother didn’t break the tension. Finally, Emily spoke up:
“Can…I come in?”
Her mother’s brow furrowed. “Oh dear, it’s…” she said, clearly struggling for words, “best if you don’t.”
Emily felt her heart sink. “Why?”
“Honey, it’s…like we told you earlier. On the phone. When you called.”
A tear slipped down Emily’s cheek. Apparently she hadn’t run out of them after all.
“What do I do now?”
Her mother looked at the ground then back at Emily. A chilly wind whistled past, pushing Emily’s dark hair across her face. The clouds rolled by. The world was gray.
“Well, you go home.”
“Home?” Emily echoed. “Where?”
Her mother misunderstood. “There’s a bus just up the road that—oh dear, do you need money?”
“I have no home to go to,” Emily said.
“Go back to Calvin.”
“I left him.”
“Then go back,” her mother said. Emily was shaking her head. The world felt like it was closing in on her. This last door, the last refuge she could have sought, was closing on her. She felt like she was suffocating.
“I can’t…”
“Why not?” her mother asked. “He won’t take you?”
Emily just continued shaking her head. How can she not understand?
No, she realized. She understands. She just doesn’t care.
“He…”
“Has he hit you?” her father asked. His hand appeared and pulled the door open wide, but the entry was even less inviting now. He stood there, his massive frame filling the door. His hair was grayer and his face more lined, but it was harder now too. He walked with a slump and grimace. Life had been cruel to him.
Hitting a woman was the only thing her father would understand. If Calvin was abusive to his wife she knew her father would go to him immediately. And he would hurt him. Or worse.
Emily considered lying, but immediately changed her mind. Her father would ask to see bruises, and there were none.
He hadn’t hit her. Not yet.
“No, he’s never hit me.”
“Then what’s the problem?” he asked. His voice was cold.
Hitting isn’t the only kind of abuse, she wanted to scream. He ignores me and mistreats me and doesn’t care about me. I’m a nuisance for him, and the happiest he’s been in months was when I told him I was leaving. I can’t be with him. I can’t go back and just say I’m sorry for leaving, because nothing will change and I’ll still be unhappy!
She said: “He’s unkind.”
Her father just shook his head. His expression was grim. “You came here two years ago, and you asked for our permission to marry that man. I said no. You insisted, and your mother insisted, and now you’ve said your vows. You will honor and obey your husband, or you will no longer be my daughter. Go home, Mrs. Greenwood. Go home to your husband.”
And then the door shut, closing off her last avenue of escape.
And Emily was truly alone.
Edward White
Ripples Through Time
Present Day
I can hear the sound of gravel crunching under my tires as the car rolls to a stop. My sense of déjà vu is strong: I was here less than a week ago for Emily’s funeral, but everything looks different now. Quiet. Serene. Terrifying. This is a place of the dead where the living are only passing through.
My eyes drift to the semi-coherent old man in the seat next to me. Maybe not everyone just wants to pass through.
The Willow Brook cemetery has been here longer than I can remember, and I’ve been to three funerals in the last fifteen years alone. My dad is buried here. And my sister. I haven’t come to visit them in a long time, but I don’t necessarily feel that I’ve let them down. I’ve been busy, and given the circumstances, I think they would understand.
But even that’s not why I’m here now. In fact, I have no idea why I’m here now. I should have kept driving. Right past the graveyard, onto the interstate, and exit at the Van Buren Hospital for the Emergency Room. That was what I should have done. Even what I was planning to do.
And yet…
“We’re here,” I say. I have to repeat myself twice before he responds. Calvin opens his eyes. I can tell it’s a struggle. He can barely stay awake after taking those sleeping pills, and I can’t even guess how many he took. I don’t know what effect they are having on him or how long it would take for him to…
“…here?” he mumbles.
“Mmhmm,” I say. I consider putting the car back into gear, rolling back to the street, and setting off for the hospital. This could be a minor detour and I still wouldn’t be doing the wrong thing.
Instead I shift to park and turn the car off. I let out a deep breath, open my door, and move around to the other side to get Calvin out. “Easy there,” I mutter, lifting him gently out of the seat. His breathing is shallow, but his eyes are still open. And he’s smiling.
God help him, he’s smiling.
No, God help me.
“Where…?”
“Right over here,” I say, carrying him to the grave. I still can’t believe how light he is. How light and fragile. I never realized just how much weight he’d lost these last years.
Emily’s grave is still fresh. Unblemished. Pristine in some macabre fashion. Flowers decorate it on every side, some wilting and others fresher. She was a great woman. Everyone who knew her loved her. The funeral had seen hundreds of people coming out of the woodwork to offer their condolences.
But all of those condolences, I know, are a temporary reprieve. Emily was a great woman, beloved by all, but when I scan the graveyard I see more tombstones than I could count in a day. Some have flowers, wilting in the fall weather, and others are barren within various stages of disrepair. How many beloved people reside here? How many of them had family members who promised to never forget about them? Who still pays homage to their memories?
In a hundred years who will be left, I wonder, to pay homage to my memory?
At a certain point, we are truly alone.
I gently lower Calvin to the ground beside Emily’s tombstone. His eyes are closed again. “Calvin,” I say softly. I have to repeat myself several times before he finally opens them. “Here she is.”
He looks at the grave and tries to put himself up to an elbow. I help arrange him so that he’s leaning against the side of the tombstone. He can barely breathe now, but his eyes are clear.
His eyes find mine. “Do…you…think…she…” he coughs, and is silent for a long moment. “…she ever forgave…me?”
I don’t have an answer. I should say something. I need to say something, but nothing will come. Forgive him for what? He was good to her, better than could be expected given her condition. They were good for each other.
“I think,” I say, carefully weighing my words “that she understood.”
He is silent, as if considering what I said, and then he nods. His eyes return to the grave and his head slips down again. I back away.
“I’m coming Mellie,” I hear him whisper as I walk to my car. “I’m coming.”
I take my phone out of my pocket. I can’t let this continue. Uncertainty is ravaging my chest as I realize what I’ve done.
An ambulance can be here in five minutes, get him to the hospital, and pump the sleeping medicine back out of his stomach. They can save him, give him a new lease on life. Bethany is his power of attorney, and she’s already said she won’t put a DNR on him. Not while there’s a chance of keeping him alive. His DNR—in the envelope on the floor of my sedan—would be useless once they picked him up and notified Bethany.
They can save him. They can keep him
alive.
They’ll keep him alive, never caring what he wants.
My eyes fall to Emily’s grave, with Calvin lying beside it. There is already a plot with Calvin’s tombstone. I hadn’t noticed it before.
It doesn’t hold my attention for long.
My eyes find their way back to Calvin’s face. His mouth is still moving, chewing his invisible food, but slowly now. More relaxed. His eyes are closed. And he’s smiling as the sun catches his face, beautiful and serene.
“I’m coming Mellie,” he says, each word clear despite his waning consciousness. “I’m coming.”
I brush my eyes with the back of my sleeve.
An eagle cries out overhead as it passes, its shadow dancing across the scattered graves.
I carefully type the numbers into my phone: nine, one, one.
My thumb hovers over the send key.
Thank you for reading!
Lincoln Cole
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lincoln Cole is a Columbus based author who enjoys traveling and has visited many different parts of the world, including Australia and Cambodia, but always returns home to his pugamonster puppy, Luther, and family. His love for writing was kindled at an early age through the works of Isaac Asimov and Stephen King and he enjoys telling stories to anyone who will listen.
OTHER WORKS
Literary Contemporary
Ripples Through Time
Second Chances
Science Fiction
Graveyard of Empires
Collision of Worlds – Coming Soon
Thriller/Paranormal
UAV
Raven’s Peak – Coming Soon
Short Story Collection
Schism
ONE LAST THING
Thanks for reading! If you would like to reach out to me about anything, including feedback and suggestions or editorial notes, you can contact me directly at:
I would also greatly appreciate if you would leave a review and share your thoughts.
And if you enjoyed Ripples Through Time, you might also be interested in:
Thanks!
Lincoln
Table of Contents
Calvin Greenwood A Modest Request Present Day