Searching Lucas

46 days—not that I have much time.

I'd been loitering on the cemetery grounds for almost an hour. Waiting for Margaret—at least, whoever I assumed was.

I was idling by the tombstones: calculating the age of the dead—secretly deducing how young is too young to die. A distinctively high percentage passed away above the age of sixty years old. The ones who died later were minimal, from five years below. Those graves had more memorabilia surrounding the dullness in bright colors, like bunny plushes, a frame of an infant and its supposed mother, helium balloons shaped like footballs, red roses, pressed baby clothes, and little white shoes. I even saw the grave of a three-year-old with a shoe box and above it the picture of a hamster.

The only graves I didn't approach were the ones with surrounding families. A wife sobbing quietly, or a family of three visiting their father's grave with a bouquet of dahlias.

Everyone deserves respect and privacy during the stages of mourning. But when Mom and Terrance died, it was different. We barely had time to grieve, as we had to deal with an inconvenience. Our parents hadn't signed a will. And because of the lack of money, the arrangements could only cover the expense of a day in the wake, followed by the burial of Mom and Terrance the following day—both sharing the plot six feet underground.

Michael was there during the wake, without Sylvia, like that made a difference. He rented a suit to achieve cost efficiency as all he had to do was stand above the artificial grass, bow his head in silence, and pay respects. A soft rain poured on the few people who knew my mother and Terrance. Neither of them was a close relative. We were the last to arrive and the first to leave. I didn't make a fuss over it. But I did sob quietly in the backseat of the car.

When I circled back to the architectural fountain in a roundabout—a bed of flowers and benches that contrasted the cemetery's gritty aura—a woman in the same nun attire as the girl from yesterday was on her knees, hands clasped. From behind she looked slightly hunched, as if age had weakened her posture and made her bones brittle.

I took a few more steps, making sure she could hear me.

"Sister Margaret?"

When she spun around, all I noticed was her face. Unlike the girl, this woman had an impurity, a look in herself that yelled: iffy.

It became even more formidable once she got on her feet. Wrinkles, droopy-like eye sockets, a smile she forced, and an arched back. White skin and blue eyes, but none of the fairness that made the nuns traditionally pure. I shot her a stare—not anger, not displeasure—a cautious one.

"Yes?" Up close, her teeth were slightly yellow and crooked.

"My name is Jess Jones. I'm Lucas's sister—he attends Sunday school." It was an effort to get the words out of my mouth. Her body language slammed any attempt at me into being concise.

Her laugh—more like a cackle—didn't soothe my frailed nerves either.

"Aren't you a lovely young lady? Yes, I have taught Lucas. Are you here to inscribe him this year?"

I blinked. It was as though she caught me pissing into the fountain or dissecting a grave. It stunned me very briefly. I don't know why, but it somehow did. "Excuse me?"

"Well, we have found it strange that he has stopped attending out of the blue." Margaret took two steps forward. They felt cornering, and I retracted slowly, shaking my head. "Are you OK, dear?"

"Has his mother called?" I asked quickly.

"Yes. She told us why." Her niceness melted into a scowl, along with a decrease in her vocals, which at first sounded like pretentious politeness. "They were here during last week's sermon. His mother never explained the reason for the removal. I believe it's because of the rumors," She lingered as if the memory of these sacred grounds scared her straight.