Then I admonished myself for being such a materialistic bitch.
Jesus Christ, no wonder I had to talk to someone. I was a fucking mess.
I glanced over to my chauffeur du jour, a middle aged woman by the name of Sheila. The French fries belonged to her grandkids, she had explained, and further went on to apologize for the aroma. She hadn't been able to locate the offending leftover spuds since their last excursion to Epcot Center.
I told her it was no big deal, I've smelled worse. And besides, her car had a nice high center of gravity. You didn't have to bend down too far in order to get your ass in the seat. Sheila nodded politely, and had enough courtesy not to ask why a young gal such as myself was hobbling around with an old-person's cane.
“Old gymnastics injury,” I explained. Although I didn't have to.
“Balance beam?” she asked, turning left onto the highway.
“Tide pool,” I said, and looked out the window.
The sun was an hour or so away from hitting the horizon. Sunsets were always a favorite time of ours, so I figured it was the perfect time to visit.
I wiped my hands on my pants. I was sweating.
- - -
Sheila asked if I wanted her to wait. She wouldn't keep the meter running, as it were, as somehow she felt that would be sinful. Charging someone who was paying respects at a cemetery – especially a Catholic cemetery – was like breaking an unwritten commandment or something.
I told her no, I was fine, and had her drop me off just down the hill from where Rebecca and Leslie were laid to rest.
I'd skipped my afternoon therapy appointment to see them, and hiking up the winding, asphalt path to where they were would be good for my leg, and my heart.
A sweet, ocean breeze kept the air nice and cool. It blew through the giant palms, and brushed the hair from my eyes.
I kept my breathing in a regulated cadence, inhale two three four, exhale two three four. In through my nose, out through my mouth. And if my leg doth protest too much, keep going, soldier.
The hill had a slight incline, just like the treadmill's Advanced Setting at the sports medicine facility. That piece of equipment was state of the fucking art, and you could chose from walking excursions through Italian villas, Australian outbacks, Mount Everest, the list went on and on. No cemeteries to select from, though. Which was a darn shame. Talk about motivation. Keep on truckin', or this'll be your next stop.
Inhale, exhale.
There were quite a few newly erected headstones since last I was here. I didn't try to count them, as I was concentrating on my respiration. I wasn't much of a multi-tasker.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Inhale exhale, in God we trust.
I recognized most of the granite angels and marbled saints who kept their heavenly watch over the six-foot-under crowd. The same giant monoliths carved with the names of the dearly departed sprouted from the grass like blocky, rectangular trees.
My sister and niece didn't have such expensive, statuesque displays watching over them. Just two crosses – one smaller than the other to let the average passer-by know there was a dead kid in the ground.
Sad as fuck. This whole place was sad as fuck. But pretty, somehow.
My leg was getting tired. And my knee was reminding me of its damaged cartilage by the way the joints creaked and groaned. It sounded, and felt, like two bricks being rubbed together.
A lilting, faint scent of apples carried upon the ocean wind. I took in a deep breath, and closed my eyes. Apple was a funny aroma for a cemetery. It's usually lilies or orchids, jasmine, and definitely roses. Where would apple be coming from? I opened my eyes, the lovely, fruity smell still on the air, and suddenly remembered I forgot to bring any flowers.
“Oh, shit,” I said. You can't visit a grave site without flowers. Well, you could, but it's tacky. And Rebecca and Leslie both loved flowers. God damn it.
I turned and looked back down the hill. The excursion to the gift shop and florist would be about five bridges too far for me. Maybe I should call Sheila. Or ask the grounds-keeper guys if they have any leftover blooms I could have. I didn't see any guys at the moment, but their truck was here. A piece of crap brown Chevy – the traditional work horse of any self respecting landscaper. No grounds-keepers, though. God damn it, again.
A dull stab of pain encircled my knee, traveled up my hip, and down to the pins in the other leg. Maybe this was God's way of reminding me not to swear in His presence, or my edible wearing off. Most likely both, and in any case, I absolutely needed to sit.
I put my hand on the pedestal, giving myself extra support, and rounded the corner.
The bench was already taken.
A man in a denim jacket, head bowed, and hands clasped together sat in reverent repose. A half flat of tulip bulbs and Angelonias was beside him. Well, that explained the apple scent. Angelonias smelled like apples, in a way, and there was a brand new bunch of them in the flower holder in front of Rebecca's cross. A smaller bunch adorned Leslie's. What wasn't explicable, however, was why Maddox was sitting on my bench.
My stomach fluttered, slightly. And for a brief moment, I forgot about the cornucopia of pains in my leg and knee. I slapped the bench with my cane.
“Seriously?”
He spun around. I'd snuck up on him, apparently. How could he not have heard me? The cane and I were as stealthy as a backhoe.
“Ramona?” he said, as if I were the last person he expected to show
