"I notice you've filled out."
"Yeah, he gave me more muscles but didn't bother with the cowlick."
"You always hated that cowlick."
"Until I didn't have it anymore."
"It's strange the things you can miss. Like my two inches. My memory was shot at first too. That made it even harder. It took months for it all to come back."
"But at least it did."
"And then there was the matter of shelf life."
"Shelf life?"
"How long I would last. Father had no idea. Can you believe a scientist wouldn't know that? He guessed anywhere from two to two hundred years. He undershot it a bit."
"Gatsbro calls it an end date. We didn't find out about that until three days ago. I haven't even begun to try to wrap my head around that one. Four hundred to six hundred years."
"Holy--" She glances sideways at me.
"Yeah."
"As old as a tree."
"Of course, with the way you're going, you may be around that long too."
"Hm." She shrugs. "I don't think so."
I hear the change in her tone and stop walking. "You're ... okay, aren't you?"
"Of course. I just think perfection and lasting through the ages is for Greek statues, not us mere humans." She grabs my hand and pulls me along the path. "Everything and everyone has their weakness--except my Kayla, of course--she is perfection."
I smile. "Of course."
"And Kara?" she asks. "What about her? Are there changes in her too?"
I try to maintain my pace. Keep walking. Look straight ahead. I already told her that Kara is angry. I made that clear. And if she's asking only about physical changes, somehow in that regard, Gatsbro got everything right.
"Locke?"
"No," I say. "Kara's the same. The same old Kara."
Chapter 49
The mission surprises me. I don't know what I expected. The world has surprised me in so many ways--from Bots to Vgrams to transgrids to disappearing doorways--that I guess seeing something so old and yet intact seems out of place. Its bright whitewashed stucco is near blinding.
"Over this way," Jenna says as she leads me to an area adjacent to the church with high walls. Jenna reaches for the twisted iron handle on a large wooden door, but I grab it and pull it open before she can. If my mother were watching she would smile, and that somehow reassures me, like I am doing something right. Or maybe it's just the vague hopeful notion that my mother is watching and aware of what I'm doing at all.
The world behind the wall stops me again. I take in the bright green grass, the neat gravel pathways intersecting it, and the headstones of plaster, granite, and sometimes simple worn wooden crosses. A cemetery. I haven't been to one since my uncle died. That cemetery was just outside Boston, and the sky was dull gray, and frost crunched beneath our feet as we stood before the casket. It was closed. When your brains are blown out, there is only so much a funeral home can do.
This cemetery is warm and bright and tearless. No one I care about is here. A fountain trickles in the center, almost making it cheerful. Jenna turns right and I follow her until she stops before a weather-streaked headstone.
LILY HELENA BISHOP
I was wrong. There is someone here I care about. I remember Lily. She was easy to be around. We took the train up to her house in Kennebunk a few times and stayed the weekend with her. She wasn't afraid to hug us, or laugh with us, or just to let us be. She took long walks on the beach picking up worn bits of colored glass, stones riddled with holes, and smooth pieces of wood, and she would tell us outrageous stories of how they came to be there. She tucked a piece of sea glass in my palm before I left one weekend. It was green and frosted by years of tossing on the sand. She told me it was one of the eyes of the Statue of Liberty. The statue originally had eyes, but when they were installing it, they both fell out and into the ocean. This is all that's left. I laughed and said, You sure this isn't part of a beer bottle? She had feigned offense. Dream big, Locke. Keep searching. Maybe one day you'll find the other eye. It's still out there somewhere. I kept that piece of glass in my sock drawer until-- I guess it was there until someone finally packed up my stuff and threw it away because as far as they were concerned I was dead.
"I always bring flowers on her birthday. Better to celebrate that than the date of her death, I think." She lays a bundle of purple wildflowers on the grave.