Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“She’s talking about Alistair Lennox,” Mom explains to Grandma’s grave. “You remember the scandal. That poor boy. He was so young.” Then she turns to me. “Inge was a royalist. But she preferred the Danish royal family over the English, of course. She threw such a party for Margrethe’s coronation.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Do you have any interest in royalty?”
“I don’t mind the occasional funeral or wedding. All the pomp and pageantry, the pretty dresses and hats.”
“Yeah, but the king always seems like such a miserable ass.”
Mom clicks her tongue. “And yet he’s still your friend’s father. Though, to be honest, I never liked the man either. I detested him for his behavior. For not publicly claiming Alistair as his son or acknowledging him in some way. It was obvious the boy was his. His affair with Lady Helena was common enough knowledge. They were pictured together in the gossip magazines all the time. Inge used to buy them. She lived and breathed all that nonsense. Said she bought them for the crosswords, but we all knew better. Of course, I told her they were trash and then read them when she wasn’t looking.”
I laugh.
“They caught him coming and going from her apartment at all hours of the day and night. And Alistair looked exactly like him when he was little. Though he grew out of that and started to take more after his mother’s side as he got older. But I don’t know how you could have a soul and treat a child that way. I can’t imagine what it does. To be rejected by your father and then hounded by the press.”
“I think it’d cause a whole heaping lot of trauma with a side order of trust issues,” I say. “Why didn’t the king acknowledge him, do you think?”
“The focus was supposed to be on him and his shiny new fiancée. How expensive and over-the-top their wedding would be. Their entire existence is about clinging to outdated traditions. I think they’re fighting a losing battle with the modern world, and that poor little boy got caught in the cross fire,” she says. “It always struck me as curious timing, though. How news of your friend’s existence was leaked at just that moment.”
“Yeah. I agree. They never did find out who did it. Or they never said publicly who did it.”
“But the king reaped what he sowed. It’s not like he and his missus look particularly happy when they’re together these days, do they?” she asks. “I don’t even think they share the same castle.”
“No, they don’t. Not according to the gossip sites, at least.”
Cemeteries are kind of cool. I can’t say that I’ve spent much time in one before. But in full daylight, they’re not so spooky. There are lots of trees, and apart from the occasional person visiting a loved one’s grave, it’s peaceful and quiet. I could get used to this. Guess we all do in the end.
“I hope you’ll come and visit me and tell me all the news when I’m dead,” I say without thinking.
Mom laughs. “I’ll be gone long before you and buried just over there.”
“You bought a plot?”
“Your father and I did a while back.”
“Huh.” I run the palm of my hand back and forth over a dandelion. “I didn’t know that.”
“It’s not a secret.” She sits back on her haunches. “I might have been a little upset when your grandfather announced he wished to be buried next to his second wife. But I understand. Or I try to. It’s been a while since Mom passed, and he’s moved on with his life, but...”
“You don’t want to leave Grandma on her own.”
“No. Your father believes the spirit world doesn’t exist and there is no great beyond. But on the off chance there is, I hate the thought that she’s waiting. Hoping for someone who will never come.”
“Love sucks.”
“Sometimes,” she agrees. “But not all the time.”
“I don’t have any strong feelings on final resting places. Can they just throw me in with you?”
Mom smiles. “The more, the merrier.”
“Make sure they play ‘Someone You Loved’ by Lewis Capaldi at my funeral. That’ll get everyone crying for sure.”
Mom’s smile is bemused. “A very important consideration.”
“And don’t bake anything nice for them to eat at the wake either. The day should be one of complete and utter misery.”
“Got it,” says Mom. “I’ll give them stale sandwiches and that awful tasteless meat loaf your uncle insists on making. I gave him a spice rack for Christmas and everything. You would think he’d take a hint.”
I try to smile, but it slips straight off my face. Hard not to wonder if this is another last moment right here and now. A bit morbid that my final conversation with my mother might take place in a cemetery. But oh well. My father has this method of coping with difficult situations. He decides what the logical and rational worst scenario looks like and makes peace with it. He prepares himself for possible failure or whatever. (This inclination of his might explain where my own occasional pessimism stems from.) So, if the worst possible option is me dying and being buried here, is that so bad?