stop and a second later, a car door slammed.
Rising, I walked quickly away. I couldn’t explain it, but I didn’t want to be found at those graves. Since I didn’t have time to make it all the way back to the car, I stepped behind a tree and hoped no one would come my way.
Huddled behind the massive trunk, I watched as the visitor came through the arched entrance, walking with shoulders forward and head slightly bowed. I knew him instantly.
It was Devlin.
Sixteen
As soon as he was inside the gate, his head came up and he paused to scan the cemetery, as if sensing my presence.
More likely, his years as a cop had made him wary of isolated places. Whatever the case, I jerked back and pressed myself up against the bark. When I didn’t hear footsteps coming toward me, I chanced another glance.
He had moved over to stand between Mariama and Anyika’s graves. He was turned away from me so that I couldn’t see his expression, and I was thankful for that. I hated myself for spying on him in such a private moment, but I couldn’t look away. Or maybe I just didn’t want to. Maybe I’d convinced myself that because of my connection to the ghost child—to him—I had a right to be there.
He gazed down at Mariama’s headstone for the longest time, then knelt and placed something on Anyika’s grave.
The cemetery was very quiet. I fancied I could hear his voice.
After a moment, he rose and strode from the cemetery. Out on the road, I heard his car door slam.
I waited until the sound of the engine faded before I emerged from my hiding place. It was to my shame— and later, my bitter regret—that I didn’t leave the cemetery right then and there, but instead walked back to the graves to see what Devlin had left.
In the center of the cockleshell heart, he’d placed a miniature antique doll, hand-painted with a dusky complexion and adorned with lace parasol, silk bustle and buckle-up shoes. She was the most exquisite thing I’d ever seen.
The offering stirred something deep inside me. Tears stung behind my lids and I tried to blink them away.
Then, as soft as the whispering trees, I heard a voice. A name…
“Shani…”
For a moment, I thought I must have imagined it, but then I glanced up and saw that I was no longer alone. An old woman and a girl of about ten stood beneath the drooping tree branches, watching me.
Awkwardly, I stood. “Hello—”
The woman put up her hand and I fell silent.
She wore a faded red skirt that flapped about her ankles and a green shirt buttoned all the way up her throat. Her hair was gray and wiry and she wore it in a loose bun at her nape.
The girl was the epitome of youth, all arms and legs in cutoffs and a lemon-colored blouse that set off her beautiful skin tone. A mane of wild curls framed an angelic face made all the more stunning by a pair of light green eyes.
The study in contrasts couldn’t have been more striking, and yet there was no less beauty and elegance in the weathered face than in the child’s.
They were both barefoot, but the twigs and pinecones littered over the ground didn’t seem to faze them as they walked toward the graves.
The woman paused between the headstones, mumbling something I couldn’t understand. Then she took a packet from her pocket, poured something into her palm and blew. I saw a tiny blue flash before the breeze carried the shimmering particles away.
Her eyes came back to me, taking my measure in silence.
“I’m…Amelia,” I finally said, because I could no longer bear the quiet.
The girl skipped over and looped her arm through the woman’s. “I’m Rhapsody. And this is my grandmother.”
“Rhapsody. What a lovely name,” I said.
“It means excessively enthusiastic. A state of exalted bliss.” She preened like a peacock, then leaned down to scratch the back of her knee. “Did you come for Shani’s birthday?”
“Who’s Shani?”
She pointed to the tiny grave.
“Why do you call her Shani? It says Anyika on the headstone.”
“Shani’s her basket name.”
I remembered reading about the Gullah tradition of dual naming. Every child was given a formal name at birth, along with a more intimate moniker used within the family circle, a secret name assigned to them when they were still small enough to fit inside a rice basket.
Rhapsody twirled a dark curl around one finger. “My basket name is Sia on account of I’m a firstborn girl.”
“What does Shani mean?”
She made a symbol with her fingers. “My heart.”
My knees went weak as a numbing chill went through me and I thought again of that heart traced on my window. Shani had wanted me to know who she was. She’d used her basket name to connect us, bind us…
It was daylight, hours before the veil would thin. But at that moment, I could feel the child’s presence as strongly as though she stood at my side.
Unaware of the emotions storming through me, Rhapsody nattered on about other basket names in the family.
Her grandmother pinched her arm.
“Ouch! What the heck!”
She shook her finger in the girl’s face. “Hush, gal. I swat dat b’hin’ luk e’ wuz a muskituh.”
Rhapsody held her tongue, but her jutted lip spoke volumes.
“And don’ gimme dat longmout’, edduh!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
To me, the woman said with an imperious note, “Oonuh! Come’yuh.”
“I’m sorry?”
Rhapsody, already recovered from her sulking spell, came over and took my hand.
“Granny wants you to come with us.”
“Come with you…where?” I wasn’t at all sure I liked that notion.
“To her house.” She nodded toward the gravel road. “It’s just down yonder.”
Her grandmother said something else, very rapidly, but I didn’t understand a word of it.
Rhapsody obligingly translated. “She says if you want to know about Shani you better come with us. I’d listen to her if I were you,” she added with a sidelong glance. “Granny says without her help, Shani won’t ever leave you alone.”
The invitation had suddenly become irresistible.
We walked down the gravel road together. Or rather, Rhapsody danced along between us, her movements so light and airy, she almost appeared to float.
All the while she chattered nonstop about her father, who was on some sort of extended trip to Africa. About their house in Atlanta, which was like a million times larger than Granny’s old place. They had their own pool and Rhapsody could have friends over whenever she wanted. Granny didn’t even have television, much less cable or the internet. If Rhapsody wanted to chat with her friends, she had to walk all the way into Hammond and use the
