They only went to the cemetery once a year. It was just outside of town, only a couple of minutes and a few left turns in the squad car, but even so, that one awful day each July seemed like plenty to Peter. Because as much as he wished to hear stories of his mother, to crack open his father’s stubborn memory, there was nothing worse than standing there on his birthday, staring down at the grave marked with the date he knew so well.
Dad would always get down on one knee and then stay there like that, still as a statue, staring at the gravestone like it had just rejected his proposal. The tree that hung over her plot dropped chestnuts like little bombshells, and the wind carried the stale scents of dried flowers and death. There never seemed to be anything for Peter to do except stand there, stiffly and awkwardly, like the only person who didn’t know anyone at a party, and he wished that he hadn’t arrived so late, or that she hadn’t left so early, so that they might have been introduced—even if only briefly, in passing at the door—and he would then be able to greet her like an old friend.
This year Peter would be away on his birthday, still in North Carolina, or else driving back home, or perhaps somewhere else entirely. He wondered if Dad would even care. The day had always so clearly belonged to his mother, and it often seemed there was no room for anyone else.
He glanced up in the rearview mirror to see that Emma was halfway to falling asleep, her chin bobbing and then jerking upward again, her elbow slung over the dog’s soft belly. He realized that neither of them had spoken since they left the animal hospital, and partly this made the car seem cozy and comfortable, and partly it just seemed inevitable, the natural petering out of whatever it was that had fueled them along the way. There was always a great dramatic flourish before a finale, the climactic upswing before the big fall. And he felt it now, the way it all seemed to be ending, like they were no longer driving so much as coasting to a halt.
It was probably stupid of him to have thought the trip would change anything. After all, leaving home behind didn’t necessarily mean leaving behind the sort of person you were. And now here he was—the guy with all the maps, the one with the directions to anywhere and anything—still feeling completely and utterly lost.
It was the opposite with Emma. Peter could see that something about her had changed. Not just today—though he couldn’t help being impressed by the way she’d sprung to action with the dog, so steady-handed and capable, like she’d been born to do exactly that—but this whole trip. It was like she was being put back together again, one sibling at a time, one memory at a time, and he wondered what would happen when they arrived, whether she’d finally be whole again. He envied her this, the way her story was being spun, her mysteries solved, her secrets revealed, while all of his were just waiting for him back home, nothing about them romantic or exciting or adventurous, just more of the same: a messy tangle of explanations and a very angry dad.
Peter ran his hands along the steering wheel as they crossed the state line into North Carolina. It was clear to him what his next move would have to be. He’d tried his hardest to make this work, had flattered himself into thinking that his role on this trip might be bigger than just the driver, the navigator, the polite chauffeur. If he was being honest with himself, he’d wanted to be something more. He’d wanted to be her sidekick, her partner, her friend.
And if he was being really honest with himself, he’d wanted even more than that.
He’d certainly tried. He’d spoken up. He’d put in his two cents and said his piece. And though he was sorry for a lot of things on this trip, trying to kiss Emma was not one of them. For once in his life, he’d failed at something. But at least he’d done it by trying, rather than standing off to the side like a coward.
Even so, he realized—several days too late—that he probably should have never answered her call in the first place, should have done this trip his own way, zigzagging from battlefield to battlefield, following the lines of history and the paths of ghosts less close to home.
And he knew now what he needed to do.
“Are we close?” Emma asked from the backseat, startling Peter, who hadn’t realized she was awake. Her voice sounded very small; it was the first time either of them had spoken in hours.
“Yeah,” he said. “Almost there.”
“Can we go straight to the cemetery?”
Peter nodded, flicking his eyes to the left and changing lanes, heading toward the cemetery that Emma had chosen earlier in the trip, waving her finger in a little circle like a pendulum above the map. He turned in that direction now, getting off the highway onto a two-lane road that wound its way between sloping, tree-covered hills, past farmhouses and cottages and fields occupied by slow-moving horses.
The dog was awake now in the backseat, his eyes still glassy from the anesthesia, his bandaged foot tucked gingerly beneath him. Emma scratched his ears and leaned in to him, looking nervous as they got closer. At a bend in the road they came upon a small church with a raised steeple, a weather vane at the very top. Peter slowed the car, and Emma sat up to look.
It was nearly perfectly square, made of white clapboard, with a few modest stained-glass windows cut into the sides. There was a circular drive and a few overgrown bushes, and beyond that a small cemetery. Somehow, without really knowing at all, Peter was sure they’d found the right place.
The little parking lot was empty, and so Peter pulled into one of the spaces just beside the church and turned off the ignition. The dog swiveled his head in the direction of the door, as if contemplating jumping up and out, but then rolled over again with a little grunt. Emma, however, didn’t move. She just sat there, her eyes as glazed as the dog’s, blinking out the window. Peter couldn’t tell whether he should say something or not, so he sat very still and looked out at the rows of headstones, their inscriptions worn by years of wind and rain, their edges smoothed over time.
Finally, Emma moved a hand to the door, then stayed like that, caught between moments, waiting—though for what he couldn’t be sure.
“I’m sorry,” she said eventually, still not looking at him. “About last night.”
She didn’t wait for a response, only turned the handle and stepped out of the car, and Peter watched her walk purposefully across the lawn, weaving through the headstones as if she’d always known the way. She paused before an old crab apple tree, and inside the car Peter sighed.
“Me too,” he said.