I planted a red oak tree where he was buried.
To me, it was better than leaving flowers. Flowers get stepped on, wither away, decay into the dirt. But red oak trees were our favorite—they reminded us of warm summers swimming in the lagoon, enjoying a picnic in the shade of the red canopy of leaves. This is how he would have wanted it.
The rain soaking the tree makes the leaves look like they are on fire, and the bark is almost black from water absorption. I did not have the means for a headstone, so I found a rock the size of a baby and carved his name.
Jack Ambrose.
I lean against the tree, avoiding the downpour as I process being here again. The last time I was here was the same day I said goodbye to Scarlett. The same day I watched her body light up with fire, and the last time I held her hand.
“Happy birthday,” I tell him, wondering how old he would be if he were still alive. “I’m not entirely sure why I came. I didn’t think I would have ever come back after—after we were here last. I partially blamed you for her death, but I mostly blamed myself.” I fidget with my wet hands uncomfortably. “She died that day, Jack… And it was not a peaceful way of parting this world. It was ugly and sad and unnatural.”
A fist of hard anger clenches inside my chest. I want to scream at him. I want him to rise from beneath the mud and stand before me, so I can tell him all about Scarlett’s life—abused, molested, locked in a closet, starved, maimed, depressed, hating herself, hating me, and hating the world. But he is dead now, decayed and one with the earthworms.
“I still love her.” Fat drops of water fall from leaves overhead, splashing against my cheeks and drizzling down my scalp. “And I still love you, despite everything you’ve done, despite your abuse. I still love you. And when you died, I hope you left your ugliness behind in this world, so you can take care of my sister wherever you are now.”
I pause briefly. A shiny gold object catches my attention on top of his stone. I stand and pick it up with my index and thumb and let it settle on my palm. A gold locket that says: Until the End, engraved in cursive. I push my thumbnail between the crease and prop it open.
My neck stiffens, and I gasp.
I haven’t seen my father’s face in far too long, but it’s a face I could never forget. Bright, practically glowing, forest-green eyes, thick black hair, and the defined features of a pointy nose and square jaw. The picture on the right is of a woman who incites fire in my heart when I think of her face. Her hair is hanging down her shoulders in long, blonde waves. The sharp, poised face of a princess. She isn’t smiling; she is glaring. The circles under her eyes are ashen, as are the shadows under her cheekbones.
She’s sick.
This woman gave birth to Scarlett and me.
It’s hard to comprehend that this is only the second time I have ever laid eyes on her. The pit of my stomach stings with an unrecognizable growth of resentment. I’m suddenly aware of my surroundings. Could this locket have been left here today? It would make sense. Our mother, Violet, was here on the day Scarlett died. She was drenched in tears for the anniversary of my father’s death. It was the first time I saw her in person.
A wave of sickness fills my stomach at the thought of her stare aimed at Scarlett. My sad, sad Scarlett. She only ever wanted to be loved by Violet.
I tuck the locket into my pocket and take a step toward my father’s stone and rest my hand where the locket once was. A flashback of the back of his hand striking my cheek shoots pain down my spine. Then another flash of my father sitting with me on the edge of a cliff—watching the sunset bounce across the lagoon under the red oaks.
