“Abby?”
Abby jumped, heart thumping, adrenaline shooting through her veins. Whipping around, she almost expected to see her father, magically resurrected.
What she saw made her shoulders slump forward. “Morton. What are you doing here? This is, after all, a graveyard, and you’re not dead. Not yet.”
Morton stood, contemplating his untied sneakers in silence.
“Hello? Who’s the one with attention problems now?”
“Look, I know you don’t want anything to do with me,” Morton said. “At your own house, you got a right. But this is public property.” He stopped, put his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, and studied his black high-tops again. His chubby cheeks flushed in two bright red spots, his nostrils flared, and his breath snorted in short, asthmatic gulps as if drowning.
Abby picked at a scabbed-over zit on her forehead, under her bangs. “Sorry. Really.”
“I get it.” Morton nodded. “You got issues, your dad and moving and stuff.”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
Morton considered the question. “Who doesn’t have issues?”
“Yeah, okay.” Abby took a step, wincing as she moved.
“Hey, you’re hurt.” Morton reached to steady her. “Sit down.”
“I’ll live.” Abby pulled away from him, but she limped to a tree stump and rested on the uneven surface. She rubbed the back of her head. “Just a little lump.” Flinching, she touched her cheek then brushed gritty limestone dust from her legs.
Morton examined her knees. “Road rash. And you should’ve worn a bike helmet. That’s what they’re for, you know. It’s not responsible to ride without one.”
“You sound like Lisa.”
Morton shrugged. “She’s right. I’ll take care of the cuts. I have antiseptic wipes in my backpack. Wait here.” He trotted across the cemetery, shoelaces flapping, and returned with an orange backpack.
Abby took out her ponytail and ran a hand through her tangled hair, finger-combing out bits of leaves and grit. She winced when her fingers brushed against her sore scalp. “What are you, some kind of Boy Scout?”
“Yeah, you know, always prepared.” Morton started to clean Abby’s cheek.
“Ouch.”
“Don’t be such a baby. Actually, you look more like a raccoon, with that black make-up stuff under your eyes. Your cheek’s okay, but I have to get the gravel out of your knees. Infection is a big problem with injuries like this. Hold still. I got a merit badge in first aid. I know how to clean it without making it worse.”
Abby jerked her leg away at the sting of antiseptic. “Why are you hanging out in a cemetery?”
Morton gently pulled her leg back. “The Boy Scout troop I belonged to fixed up a campsite down by the river.” Morton tucked the soiled wipe in his pocket and pulled out a fresh one. “It’s called Dravo Landing; there’s a sign and everything. It’s pretty awesome. And Civil War soldiers are buried here. I read some of the inscriptions on their headstones; they tell stories, you know—the stones, not the dead guys. That’s the ones you can still read. A lot of them are worn away from the weather. It happens after almost 150 years.”
“My Dad was into the Civil War,” Abby said. “One time we went to Gettysburg and he made me tour the battlefield on horseback. I didn’t want to; it seemed stupid so I refused at first, but he made me. Then we had to ride bikes up some major hills he called ‘long grades.’ I whined the whole way. I wish I hadn’t been such a pain in the ass.” Abby sighed and made an effort to re-focus. “Why’s this cemetery in the middle of nowhere?”
“Dravo Methodist Church used to be here.” Morton gestured to the area beside the cemetery. “It burned down, like, a hundred years ago from a train engine spark—they used burning wood or coal to make the engine run. Weird, huh?”
“But the train tracks are on the other side of the river.”
Morton shook his head. “The bike trail used to be a train track. That’s why they call it rails-to-trails, get it? The trains back then came right past the church and the cemetery.”
Abby looked at the towering trees surrounding the cemetery, the river below, and the wildflowers here and there. “It’s beautiful, but you have to admit it’s weird to hang out in a graveyard. What if you skidded in on your bike during a funeral?”
“Not likely.” Morton covered Abby’s knee with a gauze pad and taped it in place. “There hasn’t been a burial here since 1942. But no one knows too much about these old graves. The church records got burned up in the fire.”
“You know a lot about it.” Abby groaned as he patted her knee, right on top of the torn skin. She pulled her leg away.
Morton stuffed his supplies in his pack. “You’re a total girl, you know that? Just put some antibiotic ointment on this tonight and a clean Band-Aid. No charge.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, I think. But seriously, it’s kind of cool that you know so much about this place.”
Morton blinked rapidly, eyes magnified by his glasses. “I like history, and there’s tons of neat stuff around here. Maybe even a stop on the Underground Railroad. Down in West Newton there’s one for sure.”
“Our house is supposed to be from the Civil War era,” Abby said. “But it’s nothing special.”
Morton beckoned to Abby. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Abby meandered through the small, unkempt cemetery behind Morton.
Grass and weeds surrounded the graves. Headstones tilted this way and that as the ground sloped toward the river. Old-growth trees cast gloomy shadows, perfect for ancient spirits and decay. The fragrance of wildflowers perfumed the air, a sickly-sweet aroma reminiscent of a funeral home. It brought back memories of the long day spent by her father’s coffin, mumbling mechanical “thank-you’s” while people mouthed their repetitive condolences.
The breeze picked up, swirling the humid, sticky air. A rumble of thunder rolled through the accumulating clouds. Little swirls of twigs and leaves raced through the cemetery, and Abby’s hair blew into her face.
Morton studied the sky, wet his index finger, and put it to the air. “I’m out of here.”
Abby’s eyebrows went up. “It’s just a little rain. It won’t hurt you.”
“I, uh, I’m—I don’t like storms, okay?” Morton jogged toward his bike. “Make fun of me if you want, but I have to go, right now.”
Abby followed him. Images of dancing with her dad waltzed through her mind, flickers of memory like flames in the fireplace. She shook her head and raised her voice to compete with the wind. “Everyone’s afraid of something. I used to be terrified of storms, too. Sometimes you just have to suck it up. But I hate heights, so we’re even. You go ahead. My bike is destroyed, so I’ll have to walk.”
Morton swallowed hard and scanned the darkening sky and tree branches rustling in wind gusts. “Let me see. Maybe I can get it going. It’ll take you forever to walk back.”
Abby pulled her mangled bike out of the ditch and wheeled it to the trail.
“The front fender’s bent, and the tire’s flat.” Morton pulled a portable pump off his bike and put air in the tire, then straightened the fender. “Try that.”
Although it wobbled and the tire still rubbed, it worked.
“Thanks,” Abby said. “Come on, before the rain starts, and you have a panic attack.”
A bolt of lightning cut across the sky above the trees. A fireworks-style clap of thunder boomed. Morton whimpered, then shot past Abby on his bike. He disappeared through the mist.
The wind picked up even more, bending tree branches over the trail. Slow at first, then with increased intensity the rain began. Abby rode with her head down as much as possible, wet strings of hair dripping into her eyes. Her leaden feet fought both the impaired bike and sodden shoes. Sore and tight, her skinned knees flexed, pumping the pedals. The rain-soaked tape over her bandages let go; the gauze disappeared on the trail. Damp foliage gave off a pungent odor—of rotting brush and something even more foul, maybe a dead animal.
Finally, the old house materialized through the curtain of rain and fog. Electric candles in the windows emanated a soft glow. Her mother peered out the screen door, waving in welcome.
Abby blinked the water out of her eyes, and an unbidden smile blossomed on her lips.
She rode to the barn, stored her bike, and stomped into the mudroom where Lisa waited with a towel still warm from the dryer. It surrounded her with comfort and the smell of a fresh summer day.
“Honey, I’m so glad you’re back,” Lisa said. “I worry about you.” She stopped and frowned. “What were you thinking, being out in a storm like that? What happened to your cheek—and your knees? And where’s your bike helmet?”
“I had a little bike problem,” Abby avoided the helmet question. “I’ll just take a hot bath and get changed.” She trudged upstairs to the relative peace of the claw-foot tub, filling it almost to the brim. Leaving her wet clothes in a heap, she slipped into the water, cringing as her skinned knees submerged.
She reclined in the steaming bath until only her face floated above the surface. The scent of lilac bath salts combined with the rain’s staccato drumbeats on the tin roof, a combination that should have been relaxing. But her thoughts refused to rest. They bounced from Civil War soldiers at the cemetery, to Lisa, to her dad.
As if in slow motion, Abby’s eyelids drifted closed and she fell asleep. Her head sunk below the water, a line of bubbles ascending to the surface.
She dreamed of her father, laughing as his bike skidded into the Dravo Cemetery. “Hurry up, slowpoke.” He disappeared in a ray of bright sun behind a tombstone.
“Dad, wait for me.” Abby dashed through the cemetery, dodging tombstones. “Where are you?”
A clap of thunder pierced the sunny afternoon. The humid air made it impossible to breathe, but Abby’s feet wouldn’t move. “Dad. I can’t breathe.”
Then she saw it—him?—floating above the grave where she had hit her head. His translucent face and neck extended from a tattered Union Army uniform. Dark brown hair peeked out from under his cap, a curl dipping over one hazel eye highlighted with gold flecks. His morose visage brightened as he smiled, revealing bright white teeth; a deep dimple opened in his right cheek.
She had the crazy thought that she loved him at first sight.
“Abigail … it ain’t your time. Go back.”
She choked trying to get words out, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t force any air into her lungs. Willing her leaden feet to move she walked toward the specter, drawn as if by a magnet. As she got closer, he drifted away into the storm clouds.
Abby’s heart shriveled as he disappeared. She feared, from a place she had never explored deep inside, that he had left her forever and taken the best part of her away with him. “I can’t breathe …”
The line of bubbles in the tub ceased, the surface of the water unbroken. It became still in the small bathroom, the only sound a drip-drip-drip from the old faucet.