From inside the vehicle, I watch him take his time, smooth down his tie, and calmly assess the neighbourhood, the park across from us, and the flats to our side.
He rounds the black bonnet and opens my door for me. The air is stale and lacking as it enters the car. Everything in Connolly smells like something: flowers, lawn clipping, cigars, roses, but here, there is little to settle on.
Nothing and too much all at once.
I climb out, and my nerves spike, butterflies taking flight, seeing the world I no longer belong to reflected at me in the stares of the men now swaggering slowly towards us.
Clay faces them, his expression as impassive as the Devil’s might be staring at angry stray dogs. Unimpressed. Unaffected.
Our driver appears beside Clay, halts by the car, and sweeps the sides of his black jacket back when he grips each hip. Guns on both sides flash in the sun.
The gang of men freezes on a patch of dried lawn. A new memory collects there. The day Clay Butcher came to town. The men converse quietly and then return to their spot on the steps, deciding not to cause trouble.
Staring across the street at the open park with the old tombstones, I take a big breath and thread my fingers through Clay’s. I lead him across the street and into the cemetery. It was the cheapest one in the District at the time.
I only had the money from the sale of the caravan to use, and it all went on this plot. “Cremation is cheaper,” they had told me. But how would she become a butterfly if they burned her body? It was an unbearable question.
It still is.
It represents my innocence.
It instils my ideals.
The parts of me that are ‘her.’
My eyes start to scorch, hot pokers of sorrow sliding in while tears are wanting out. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m suddenly affected by this place, by her. I just wanted to introduce Clay to my mum. Thought he might talk about his if he knew more about mine.
We get to the spot—at least, I think. I use my sandals to move the overgrown grass on the metal plates until I find her. Then I sit down on the grass, folding my legs below my backside.
I read the plate. “Ashlee Harlow… mymum.” I pause and look up at Clay. His dark brows are pinched together, a thick worry line protruding between them. I like his frown. All his emotions, really.
Every. Single. One.
“Mum, this is Clay Butcher.”
Smiling sadly, I look back at her name. It cost extra for more letters. So, I only put her name. Not ‘beloved mum or friend or… whatever.’ Just her name.
“I know it’s been a while.” I pull my hair over my shoulder and play with the ends at my waist. “But then, we spent so little time together when you were alive; it doesn’t seem that strange. I didn’t really miss you—” I’m suddenly choked on that redundant lie as it moves to the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow around it. “I do miss you,” I admit aloud and to myself. “It’s just easier to miss you now because I missed you so fucking much when you were alive. I miss youlessnow because I don’t expect you… but Idostill miss you.”
Suddenly, Clay sits down behind me. He pulls me back to rest my spine on his hard, packed torso, with his long muscular legs bracketing mine. He’s processing today, and I understand. He’s still present, though, and he’s making sure I know it.
“I’m pregnant,” I say to the plate and the patchy grass, and Clay’s heart thumps faster behind me. “The happy kind, though, Mum. Not the mistake kind.”
I lean further into him, rolling my head along his hard chest. “Sir?” I muse, and he hums in response. “I think… you didn’t know your mum very well”—I twirl my hair around my finger— “and I can relate. But we shouldn’t lie anymore. I miss my mum. I missed her when she was alive, and I miss her now. And I think that you should ask questions this time. That you should find the truth and not let the lies keep everyone apart.”
He hums. “Are you taking care of me now, sweet girl?”
I smile at that. “Yes, because you’re letting me, Sir.”
“Thistruth is dangerous, little deer. There is no good that can come from—”
“I thinkyour brothers need you to do this. I think, they need you to be their protector now. It’s not too late.”
“What would you suggest?”
I swallow and whisper, “Make her liable. I wish I could make mine see what she did, understand it. She killed herself and left me to the system. Shewasnever liable for me, alive or not. And now shewillnever be liable for me. Make sure your mum is.”
“I have my father to consider.”