Public Relations

Chapter 26: Brett

We walk in silence, hand in hand, lost in the haze of the humidity and our uncertainties. It's a path I'm familiar with, straight through the wooded area until we reach a sidewalk. Follow that sidewalk six blocks until the cemetery comes into view.

Being in a cemetery on a beautiful day feels backwards. Cemeteries are for thunderstorms, for  icy winter days, for shrouded, looming nights.

And yet, as we approach, the sun wraps us in her warmth. Big, fluffy clouds amble by, white as a rabbit's tail. A gentle breeze whispers through the trees, but it's singing hymns, not casting spells. The cemetery, with its dozens of recently laid flowers and upkept landscaping, almost looks like a park you could go for a relaxing stroll through.

Mia says nothing as we walk along the fence. She says nothing as we slip past headstones for mothers and daughters, husbands and sons, babies and friends and, tragically, a few that are worn away to a nearly blank slate.

I weave my way through the grass, soft and plush like I could sleep in it. I shiver thinking that some people are.

And then we stop at a spot near the back, under a tree so big its branches sag like a man tired from holding up the blanket of shade we're enveloped within. I pat the trunk, thank him for his kindness, as always, and sit down at the grave.

Celeste Archer, it reads, though I could recite it from memory. Beloved daughter, sister, and friend. 1994-2015.

Mia stands back, hesitant and wispy. I fear she might blow away with a strong gust of wind, just a ghost that followed me here.

"Mia," I say, patting the grass beside me. "This is my sister."

She lets out a breath. It's strangled or shocked or thick with grief. I hate this part, where people scramble for the right platitudes, where they say something like, "I'm so sorry for you loss," even if they're not sorry, even if this moment is just something they're waiting to escape. I hate knowing I've just passed this burden into someone else's grasp to hold for just a minute. I hate watching them struggle with the weight of it, anxiously awaiting an opportunity to hand it back.

But instead, Mia says, "Tell me about her."

She takes the seat next to me and places her hand in my lap. Her waves roll around her face while she examines the headstone like it might reveal Celeste's face if she stares long enough.

I smile, lost in the thought of Celeste. "She was older than me but not by enough where she was bigger than me growing up. We used to fight over the toys in cereal boxes and whose turn it was on the GameCube, but we helped each other with homework and fought each other's bullies. Like with our fists and everything."

Mia snorts, then sniffles.

"She got caught up with a different group of people in her high school years," I continue, heaving in the pure morning air with a deep gulp. "They weren't dangerous by any means, just stupid and reckless. The way all kids are. But then they weren't kids anymore, and life started to hold some weight."

A tight squeeze around my hand.

"She went out one night and a police officer came back in her place. Someone's shithead boyfriend waving a gun around like a toy, angry about some texts he'd found on his girlfriend's phone. It wasn't even Celeste's boyfriend. It was barely even her friend. Wrong place, wrong time. It went off and Celeste went down. Then she was gone."

"Oh, Brett," Mia sighs. "I didn't know."

This elicits a light laugh from me, perhaps a bit ruefully. "Nobody does," I reply, running my free hand through the blanket of grass beneath me. I'm tempted to rip it out, to shred it, but some part of it feels disrespectful to Celeste. Like I'm taking the one physical connection we have and destroying it. "It's not something I like to talk about."