Falling From Grace (Grace Series) by S.L. Naeole

Author:S.L. Naeole [Naeole, S.L.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Juvenile Fiction
Publisher: Crystal Quill Publishing
Published: 2009-11-08T16:00:00+00:00

91

By the time Graham honked his horn, announcing that he was ready to leave, it was well past nine. As soon as I told him that Janice and Dad weren’t home, all motivation to rush on over were gone for him since he knew that meant no hot breakfast would be waiting him in the kitchen. I was content with a bagel and some orange juice while he needed hulking amounts of everything.

I wrote a quick note to let Dad know where I would be, not wanting to have him come home to an empty house and not knowing where I was. I made sure to grab the vase that contained Robert’s flower before heading out the door, opting not to take the crutches, and instead expound on the perceived wonders of painkillers. I was still feeling overwhelmed by Robert’s gesture that did wonders to push me closer and closer to that edge where friendship ended and something else that I knew I wanted desperately began.

Graham eyed the solitary blossom with speculative eyes. “Where’d you get that?”

I placed the vase between my knees as I buckled my seat belt. “Robert brought it over this morning to place on Mom’s grave.”

He looked at me as though I had just told him that the world was rectangular in shape and was governed by two headed goats. “He brought them over this morning?”

“Yes. He said he wanted me to put this vase and flower on her grave, as a way of thanking her for giving birth to me.” I enjoyed hearing the words come out of my lips. It solidified the sentiment, cemented it. I was even more pleased with Graham’s reaction.

“Wow. Even I never thought of something like that. Score one for the new guy.” The muttered statement went a long way to keeping the smile I had on my face.

We rode in near silence to the cemetery, the thought of where we were going and why heavy in both of our minds. Mount Calvary Catholic Cemetery was a few miles out of Heath in Newark. It was a simple cemetery that boasted no fancy entrance or signs. The sign that greeted visitors was quite rudimentary: Simple wooden planks were painted brown, while the name had been painted on with streaky white letters.

Mom used to bring me here when I was a little girl. There were many old civil war graves here, and we would play a game where we’d pick a headstone and create a story about the person’s life. I was always saying things like how they were mythical creatures, or super heroes whose alter-egos had to die in order to protect their secret identities. She would always give them normal lives, but that they had made small, but significant impacts to the lives of those around them.

I remembered one particular headstone, where a mother and child had been buried together, their dates of death the same.

“Annaleigh and Katherine MacDonnell, died on June 12, 1890.” Mom had read, her fingers

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