Even unto death
A Divided Kingdom Short Story!
YAY! Though I’m just WEEKS away from publishing Blossom as Saints, the final book in my Rosary devotional series, I’ve ALSO been getting back into the creative headspace for fiction with this brand-new short story, just over 5k, from The Divided Kingdom universe! This little side project has helped me get back in touch with some of the characters from the long-awaited trilogy conclusion. I’m so excited to share this story with you! (And if you’ve read the first two books, tell me which characters you recognize in the comments!) This is literally like the only short story I’ve completed in forever, so I’d love to know what you think!
Even unto death
I locked up my family’s bookshop, tucking the ring of jingly gold keys into the emerald wool coat that hung past my knees. I bent to the little girl at my side and adjusted the peach wool cap atop her blonde curls before taking her small hand and stepping out onto the uneven sidewalk. I had told my husband I would be late getting home. Today was an important anniversary I couldn’t miss.
With my daughter in tow, we moved slower than I would have desired, eventually making it to the end of the street. We stepped onto the adjacent sidewalk, nodding to the locals I passed. The sun was just beginning to set over the sleepy town; today’s unusual warmth had been a gentle reprieve from the cold winter that had surrounded us for months. My feet crunched through a thin layer of snow, and I breathed in the crisp evening air.
Walking the familiar roads, the winter chill clinging to my skin, we headed towards the town cemetery. I had a strange habit, I had always been told, of finding them: abodes for the dead. I had moved a lot, always with my parents growing up. Now, as a young woman beginning a life of my own, I had finally settled. The three of us had, and in my mother’s childhood town, no less. The past always found a way of interconnecting with the present.
As my daughter and I neared the gate leading to “Rose of Sharon, Lily of the Valleys Cemetery”, a memory surfaced, and I let it pull me under.
I had been visiting cemeteries since I was five years old, not much older than my own daughter was now.
“Why do we have to visit graveyards?” I had asked, hand in hers as I stood in front of a cemetery for the first time, curly auburn hair refusing to be contained beneath my coat hood.
My mother reached down, tucking a strand of red hair behind my ear. “Well, Rose, as God’s people, we show mercy towards others, and burying the dead is one of those ways.”
I shivered. “But I don’t want to bury a dead person!”
“Oh, honey, not literally!” She knelt in front of me, cupping my small hand within hers. “Yes, burying the dead is a necessary part of life, but you aren’t expected to do that part. What we can do is remember those who have gone before us. We pay our respects by visiting cemeteries, placing flowers—physical gestures that show we care. These are corporal works because they relate to the body. Corporal means body, you see. There are also spiritual works of mercy. You know what spiritual means, right?”
I looked into her pretty blue eyes and shrugged. “Sort of.”
“Spiritual things nourish our souls.”
I hopped back and forth on the balls of my feet as my mother fingered a small picture of St. Joseph that hung on a lanyard around her neck. Prayer for a happy death, it read.
“Like praying for those who have died, that’s something you can do, right?”
“I guess.”
My mother smiled and wrapped her gentle arms around me, and I found my body warming at her touch, even as my immature mind was closed to the truths she was revealing to me. “I know you don’t understand now. I didn’t for many years. It wasn’t until I was grown that I really examined our faith and the reverence given to the body both in life and in death.”
As she continued to speak, I nestled deeper into her chest, breathing in the smell of her perfume: lemon and rose. Rose, like me. She used big words. Always had. Words a little girl couldn’t be expected to remember, but it was just her way, and in time, I learned to understand her.
“And I hope, when you’re grown, you’ll have the desire to show others mercy, as our Lord did.” She stroked my auburn hair once more. “And it doesn’t have to be visiting cemeteries. It could be feeding the poor, visiting the sick.” Her eyes twinkled. “Care for your own little one someday, perhaps. All sorts of things, really. I wish I had been taught all that when I was younger.” She placed her hands over my cheeks. “That’s why I’m teaching you now.” Then she leaned into my ear as if sharing a secret. I giggled. “And those who have died can pray for us too.” My eyes widened.
It was always on a Friday when we went to search out the graves where there were no flowers. When we found one, we placed our own: violets from Mother and roses from me, and sat on the grass to sing. I would curl up in her lap and listen; as I grew and learned the words, I would sing too. The older I got, the more I paid attention. Some days, my mother brought various prayers or devotions, reading them aloud to the cold stone names. But the older I got, the more embarrassed I felt. “Bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, you know, that’s why it’s so important to treat all bodies with the utmost care and respect.” I would try to force the words away. My mother was silly. Nobody talked like she did. The cemetery grounds we trod upon each week were places for bones, not flesh.
As our family traveled, moving to new towns throughout my childhood and adolescence, I became accustomed to all sorts of cemeteries. Now, as I stood at the edge of town overlooking this cemetery, just a small plot of land really, tucked behind the oldest buildings in the community, I unlatched the gate and stepped inside with my own little one. The grave markers stared back at us with deafening silence. There were thirty-three in all. I had counted them once upon a time. It was the smallest cemetery I had been in, but it was a small town. I hardly recognized the snowy path, the one that grew yellow and white daisies at the edges during the summer, marking the path to keep people from walking over anyone’s final resting place.
I brushed at the salt dripping down my face from tears that reminded me of where I was and why I was here. I wasn’t really in a cemetery. Sure, all around me were the headstones of people who had passed on, and dead flowers, crushed by the snow, littered the grounds where I walked, but these people meant nothing to me. They were silent names on stones, cold to the touch.
I walked on, pulling gloves from my pockets and stuffing a pair onto my daughter’s hands before my own. I had always thought that at the center of every cemetery should be a bright lamp. While headstones screamed lifeless, light screamed living, and if my mother was right, death wasn’t lifeless at all, but the gateway to a life greater than any other.
I moved on down the path, struggling with my emotions, knowing that at the very end of the yard, closest to the grove of still-living flowers beyond these old gates, was my mother. I pushed my shoulders back and walked onwards. Twenty-five years had come and gone around me, and we had been to a lot of places together, but never more places than these. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but I did now, remembering when she was dying. Our walks through the cemetery gardens grew shorter, and the coats she wore grew longer and less fitted to her form. She laughed more, lingered longer by the dates on the headstones that matched her own, and in all of our songs, she sang softer, but with greater understanding. My father once said that every day we die a little more; I suppose that’s true, but what if you really are dying, right now, in this moment?
“Rose,” my mother said to me in the farewell chapter of her days. We were wandering through the cemetery—this cemetery—that took us over an hour to get to because there was so much snow. She’d never taken me here before. In the winter months, there was always snow, but this year had brought more than I had ever seen. I didn’t understand at the time why my mother wanted to go this far away from home.
“Yes, Mom,” I said, stopping as she did. The headstones surrounding us looked like blocks of ice, so much snow had fallen that I couldn’t make out any of the names.
“I’d like to tell you about this woman.”
I looked to where she was pointing, fresh powder snowfall falling across our hair and hands like manna. My mother reached down, brushing a layer of snow, inches thick, from the stone in front of her. I wasn’t sure how she found the grave she was looking for. I suppose if not for the giant oak tree standing behind it, she may not have. The tree’s branches bent like a thing in pain, struggling beneath the weight of ice and snow. I looked to where her hand had come to rest and furrowed my brow. We had never, in all our years visiting cemeteries, come across a grave of someone we actually knew. I took a step towards it, reading the name on the stone: Ariel Macey.
“I grew up with her,” my mother said softly.
“What do you mean?” My narrowed gaze mirrored my confusion.
My mother traced the name, sweeping her purple coat beneath her as she kneeled in front of it, ignorant of the wet ground. “Ariel Macey was my best friend.”
I knelt beside her, bracing myself for the wet ice, trying to find the meaning behind these words I didn’t understand. “She was eighteen when she died.” She turned to me, tracing the outline of my face. “Your age.”
I swallowed, every bone in my being pulled me to get up, to walk away, to leave this headstone to the silence.
“She died in a high-speed car crash.” My mother’s words were soft. “From a drunk driver.”
I bit my lip, watching the way my mother looked at the grave with longing, wishing I could somehow make it all okay.
“Our high school graduation was just one week away.” Tears leaked down my mother’s face. “I couldn’t wait to see my big sister in her cap and gown.”
“Aunt Ariel …my mother’s twin.” I breathed the name I had only heard my mother speak so rarely when I was very young, when I was a little girl, and she thought I had already fallen asleep. “Mom, this is Aunt Ariel?” I asked.
My mother looked at me, surprise evident in her eyes. “Yes. I didn’t think I ever told you about her.”
“You didn’t. Just sometimes, a long time ago, you’d mention her name.”
My mother nodded, turning back to the grave. “I wanted to tell you about her, but …” Her voice faltered. “I could never work up the courage.” She shook her head, covering her face with her hands. “I suppose it was just easier for me to forget. If I didn’t talk about her, then somehow … somehow the pain would be less real.
“Mom, it’s okay,” I reached for her. I had never seen my mother cry before.
“Oh, how I’ve missed her,” she whispered, words breaking on sobs.
I nodded, wrapping my arms around her. We stayed that way for hours, singing songs and saying prayers, like we always did. But this time it was different. The way the air moved around us, the way the trees swayed, and the snow cried down from the heavens made none of it the same.
“This is where I want to be,” my mother said to me at the end of our final song. “When I die, I want to be here. I want to be beside her. It’s taken me so long ...” she hesitated, looking to me. “To come back here, to my hometown after all these years …” She squeezed my hand. And I wanted you to be with me. So, you know where to take me.”
I drew back, looking at her. “Mom, but you know it will be a long time before then.”
My mother shook her head, running her hand along her sister’s headstone for the final time. “I know you’re ready for me,” she whispered, and I knew she wasn’t talking to me. In that moment, I understood why we were here, and I cried. My mother didn’t tell me not to.
Twenty-seven months later, it seemed both wrong and right to lay my mother in a cemetery. My only condolence was that she had lived to meet Lilly, the light of my life, before her forty-seven-year-old wick was extinguished. I was quiet. A different feeling touched me when my mother’s headstone was propped up into the soft ground, her name staring back at me in smooth lettering. I vowed never to enter another cemetery again.
Three years later, walking the paths now, the first time in a cemetery without my mother beside me, I pulled my coat tighter around myself. We had once walked this same path together, and now, just as it had been then, there was snow. There was so much snow that I couldn’t see the names on the headstones. Everything looked the same as it did when we were last here together. I turned my face to the wind, looking for the oak tree that marked Aunt Macey’s grave.
When Lilly refused to walk, I continued up the cemetery path with her in my arms, bundled against my chest. I had been following to bring her, but I couldn’t turn back now. I ascended a small hill. At the end of the cemetery was a woman. I stopped walking. It was so cold, I was surprised to see anyone else. I frowned, moving closer. As I neared, the woman’s outline became clearer, and I could see that she was bent over with age. The coat she wore was thin and tattered; it did little to keep away the biting ice.
I approached her, wondering when she would see me. Finally, I stepped up beside her. Making one final glance in her direction, I kneeled in front of my mother’s grave and, with my gloved hands, brushed away the snow. “Hi, Mom,” I said quietly to the ground, risking a glance at the older woman. “I’m here.” I swallowed. “Little Lilly, too, and we brought you a lamp.”
The older woman turned to me then. I could see her looking from the corner of my eye. I didn’t look at her but continued talking to my mother in front of her headstone. I took a small tea light from my coat pocket that I had gotten from our shop that morning, placing it in the lantern I held in my other hand. Gently, I placed the tea light inside, setting the lantern on top of the headstone. “Now you will always have light.”
“That’s beautiful,” the woman said. “And so if your little girl.”
I turned to her, forcing a small smile. “I figure if our loved ones are here, we wouldn’t want them to ever be in darkness.”
The woman nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.” She hesitated, “I’m so sorry for your loss. You look so young.”
“I am.” I shrugged, “My mother was too. But you know cancer; it doesn’t give much thought to age.”
The woman said nothing for a while, and I almost thought she had gone back to whatever it was she had been doing. Then she turned all the way towards me so that I could see her in the full: her white hair, thick and tied back, to her hands wrinkled and calloused. Her clothes were grey and baggy, and even her shoes, in the deep winter snow, were slippers.
“I’m visiting my son today.”
I looked to the grave she was standing over, realizing that I didn’t actually know who was buried there; I didn’t know anyone else buried in this cemetery besides Aunt Macey and my mother. The snow kept everything hidden. I frowned. Though, come to realize, my aunt’s grave was in the middle of my mother and this woman’s son.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She nodded. “It’s been many years.” She touched her lifeless white hair. “I come here every year on his birthday.”
“Today is his birthday?”
She nodded again, “It’s his fiftieth birthday, but he only got eighteen of them this side of heaven.”
I frowned, confused at her wording, before saying, “He died on his 18th birthday.” I hesitated, unsure of what more to say. There was something I wanted to ask her, but I was afraid. A small bloom of certainty was growing that I desperately wanted to stomp out.
“I haven’t told anyone this story in over thirty years.”
I turned to her. “What story is that?”
“About my son.”
Little Lilly reached her little arms around me, and I held her tight. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”
“No,” the woman blinked her eyes, frost evident on her eyelashes. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to.”
I shifted back and forth, trying to keep my feet warm as the street lights around the cemetery perimeter turned on. “Okay.” A few more minutes couldn’t hurt. And then I’d get Lilly home.
The woman absently touched her ponytail and looked back and forth between me and her son’s headstone. “I pray for him every day, you know. Not a day goes by that I don’t.”
I said nothing, trying to recall my mother’s words from when I was young, and she took me to that first cemetery.
“He … he was so young. That’s what I remember most about it all. He was young, and he… he thought he could do anything.”
I nodded.
“But that night, he took it too far. His friends … they weren’t good kids, and my son, he wanted to fit in, to be liked,” she released a shaky breath. “You know how kids are.”
“Yes.”
“And he…” The woman looked away, rubbing tears from her eyes. She exhaled, shook her head. “He took my car, and he…” She appeared to be forcing the words to become real. “He… crashed it.”
I closed my eyes.
“And the other car… the girl inside, she …” The woman began to cry, sobbing so much that I knew that nothing I would be able to say would make any of it okay.
“She… she died.”
I looked between the gravestones before me, Aunt Ariel’s and this man’s, and that uncomfortable bloom of certainty blossomed as realization screeched through my head like a freight train.
“My son died that night, and my heart broke into a thousand pieces but…. when I heard that his actions had caused…” Her words broke. “Jonathon Winters was my son,” she whispered, “and not a day goes by that I don’t think of him.”
“Ariel Macey,” I said, seeing that the second date on both stones was truly the same. “They were buried next to each other.”
The woman furrowed her brow. “Of course; they were the best of friends.”
My thoughts went to my mother, of the times she had called her sister her twin, “the best of friends”. I looked between the three stones: Ariel’s, Jonathan’s, and my mother’s.
“She’s my aunt,” I finally said, the words rolling lifelessly off my tongue.
The woman stared at me for several moments, not uttering a sound. She was so still that I almost reached for her arm, wondering what she was thinking about. Finally, she looked at me, her tears like diamonds in her eyes.
“So, you’re Violet’s daughter then,” she finally whispered.
I bit my lip.
“Oh, my dear sweet girl,” the woman said. “I’m so sorry for your loss. But your mother, she always said that one day she would be with her two best friends again.”
In that moment, I realized that the woman had known who I was the moment I stepped up beside her. We cried together for a while, and then, to my surprise, the woman pulled out songs of her own, and we sang together. At the end, we concluded with several prayers.
“You believe in God?” I asked, brushing ice from my pants with one hand, now soaked, as we both rose from where we had been kneeling. Lilly, to my surprise, had fallen asleep in my arms. I should have been freezing, but an unexpected warmth had begun to spread up my toes.
“Yes, and you?”
I hesitated, realizing that perhaps there really was something I had missed all of these years.
“Well, I go to church weekly, but I’ve been on the fence for a while.”
The woman touched my arm. “You’re welcome to attend with me this Sunday. Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, it’s just across the way in the neighboring town.”
“I know, and I might. Thank you.”
The woman nodded, and we walked together back down the once-green path over the bed of snow to the gates.
“It was wonderful to meet you, Rose,” the woman said. And then smiling at Lilly, “You too, little one.”
I opened my mouth to respond likewise and then stopped, realizing that I had never actually told her my name.
“How did you…”
“Violet always said that if she ever had a daughter, she would name her Rose.”
I raised my hand to the gate, pressing my gloved hand against it as my own tears sparkled at the edges of my eyes. Even though snow was falling around us, the gate was warm to the touch, and I felt a comfort that I hadn’t felt in a long time.
***
A week later, I raced across town. The roads were shorter than I remembered, and in what seemed like only a moment, I was standing before the steps. I hesitated before ascending them, even though I had ascended them weekly for months, today felt different: a shifting of uncertain proportions. I stopped at the top, the emptiness hitting me like a cold wave. Once inside, I walked down the aisle, passing row after row of pews. I gazed up at the walls, stunned by the mantles of stained glass that adorned them. I walked to the front of the church, kneeling awkwardly in the first row.
I jumped as a melodic ringing cut through the air, and the emptiness was filled with music. Almost falling out of my seat, I yanked my head up in search of the sound. In the corner of the room, I saw an organ, newly painted with an arched lid and slim legs. I stood up, catching sight of a middle-aged man, my father’s age, his practiced fingers moving along the keys as if they were dancing. His eyes were closed, but I recognized him instantly. Fr. Ezra. My young husband and I had moved back here, to my mother’s hometown, shortly before her death, and she had spoken fondly of him, another friend from childhood. I’d seen him each week at Mass, but this was the first time I had ever considered speaking to him.
***
“Always remember that with God, all things are possible. Many will tell you otherwise, but even death cannot separate us from the ones we love, Rose.”
I looked up, and he had turned away from the organ to look at me. I swallowed. “So, you know who I am.”
He smiled. “How could I not? You look just like your mother.”
I couldn’t help cutting to the chase. “Father…I visited cemeteries a lot with my mother before… well, I just don’t see how a plaque and an old box in the ground can be alive. My mother used to say that the dead could…pray for us, which would imply they are… still alive, right?”
Father Ezra laughed from his musician’s bench, and I smiled.
“Those who die are even more alive than we are, and they still impact life here on Earth with their prayers.”
I nodded. “Sounds like something my mom would have said. She always told me that we should pray for those who have died and that they pray for us.”
“Yes, your mother is quite right in that. Praying for our loved ones not only draws us closer to them, but also to God, and His great love for all souls.”
“And that one day we will be with them, too?”
He smiled. “Be with Him, that’s always first—at home with our Creator. Of course, we want to see our loved ones again, but the Lord should always be the target of our arrow.” He flicked his hand as if casting an arrow towards an unseen mark. “Rose, you know more than you think you do. With a little trust and time, you will understand what your mother meant about the power of intercession. In the meantime, why don’t you choose one person you know who has died, and pray for that person by name every day for three months?”
I blinked. Every day for three whole months?! He isn’t gonna let me off easy, and this isn’t even an official penance!
I pursed my lips but nodded once. “Yes, Father. I’ll do it.”
***
90 days later.
“Father Ezra?”
He stopped where he had walked out of the confessional and smiled, and then noticed my daughter at my side, peering up at him with attentive eyes. “Hello again, Rose—and her twin.”
I tumbled out of my seat, rushing up to him. Lilly followed and reached for him, and he stretched out his hands. “May I?”
I nodded, and he took her up in his arms and held her to him, and Lilly laughed, content.
“What a most joyful child.”
“She is.” I paused. “And it appears she’s quite fond of you.”
His eyes crinkled. “The sentiment is mutual.” He looked away from Lilly and into my eyes. “More importantly, I see you found your way back.”
I ran my hand along the light wood of the organ. “You were right.”
Little Lilly in her bright blue dress was a splash of springtime color against his black cassock. “You’ll have to enlighten me,” he said.
I struggled to say all that I felt. “About the dead, about eternal life, about never really being gone from the ones we love. I...” Thinking of my aunt Ariel, I realized why my mother visited cemeteries all those years and prayed so much for those who had died. It was for the same reason that I did now.
“I realize now that I needed to come here,” I blurted.
“Yes.” Father Ezra stepped closer. “So, you came for Mass.”
“I ... I suppose I did. I…want the communion of the saints. I want to be close to them.” She had been struggling to remember what it was her mother had told her back then, and now she knew.
Father Ezra nodded, his black collar poking up around his neck. He handed my daughter back to me. As he stepped around to the organ and started playing the opening tune to a song my mother loved, “O Danny Boy”.
“Father Ezra.” My eyes filled with awe. “Who are you?”
He laughed, warming my heart. “One of God’s many servants, striving to be humble and faithful in all things. Do you have any prayer requests in mind, for that very same communion of saints?”
I looked up at him. There was nothing overly remarkable about him, but he commanded everything simply with his presence. A small twinkle reflected in his eyes as he regarded me, waiting.
I didn’t know what to say, so I walked back over to the pews, sinking into the front row. Lilly climbed up beside me. “Please,” my words were taken in by the silence. “Please give me the words.” I felt a rush of air blow through the church, and something settled within my heart. “I pray for my mother that she’s at peace. I’ve been doing so every day without fail for three whole months, just as Fr. Ezra asked me.” I stared up at the crucifix over my head and the Lord’s longing eyes, piercing my soul, imploring my heart. “Lord, I pray that she’s in heaven, with you, and that she’s happy. I pray that she never has to suffer again and that she’s hugging Aunt Macey.” I paused. “And Jonathon too.” I finished, “But most of all, I want to be fearless in the face of death. I want to meet it with grace, whenever it comes, and to spend my heaven doing good on earth, just like—”
My thoughts went to my namesake: The Little Flower, St. Therese of Lisieux, and I glanced at the pew beside me where my little daughter gripped a small rose. I immediately yanked it from her hands before she could feel the thorns. I scolded her. “Where did you find…” But she reached again for the flower, enraptured by its beauty, despite the thorns, and I released it to her.
I watched Father Ezra’s expression as his eyes moved to something behind me. I turned my head, glancing over my shoulder at the group of people entering the church. I caught sight of Jonathon Winter’s mother as the first parishioners arrived. She smiled at me before sinking into a pew towards the back. I recognized most who entered, including my husband’s new manager, a stoic man who had recently joined the city hospital staff, an hour drive each day out of the way from our small town. But my husband loved his work, and the drive didn’t deter him. It took me a moment to remember the man’s name: Jeremy Boam.
I glanced at a statue to the right of the altar of St. Joseph, the outstretched lily in his hand, and the Christ Child in the other. “That’s your namesake,” I whispered to Lilly.” I smiled. My husband was also a Joseph.
***
When it was time for Mass, Father Ezra entered to a hymn I remembered from childhood. Father Ezra led, his voice unimaginably beautiful. As the readings were read, I zoned out from the first but caught on to the words of the second. “…Neither death nor life, nor anything in all of creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus, our Lord.” As the Mass progressed, Fr. Ezra moved back to where he had started all along: at the altar. I kept my eyes shut the entire time. I wanted to watch, but I was afraid. With Father Ezra’s smooth voice captivating in every word, I simply listened.
When it was my turn to walk to the front to receive the Eucharist, I felt my heart beat faster. I had walked many aisles in my life; I had stood before many a black-collared man, my hands always outstretched, never fully understanding the true meaning of what I was experiencing until this moment.
Then I was there, standing in front of Father Ezra as he laid the host in my cupped hands. I stared at it for a moment, blinking as I tried to keep my hands from shaking, thinking of the falling snow in the cemetery, like manna from heaven, bringing life to a lifeless people. I lifted Him to my lips, closing my eyes as the host dissipated onto my tongue, vanishing within me. For the first time in my life, I felt true peace. I closed my eyes, seeing my mother’s smiling face in my mind, and I no longer felt I had to reach for her.
