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He couldn’t remember ever visiting Hurricane before.
Never had a reason to—not after everything that happened. Everything he didn’t even remember, and only heard secondhand, from his mother. But his birth town was close by. Maybe they’d come here for holiday shopping, together, as a family. Or at least passed through it on the way to St. George, where the population tended to gather, so close to this edge of the state. Other than the geography snippets he’d read on the pamphlets, he didn’t know anything about Utah, or Hurricane. He’d spent the majority of his life in New Mexico, a little over eight hours away.
Eight hours that bridged an entire, lost, lifetime.
It hardly seemed fair. To him—and to the family he never knew.
He parked his beat-up pickup truck at the end of the gravel parking lot, close to where it connected with the street. But he didn’t kill the engine just yet. Didn’t even take his foot off the brake or hand off the gear shift, as his courage wavered. He could still turn around and just—go. Pretend he’d never even come here, and set out on that weekend road trip to Phoenix he’d lied to his mother about because anything involving Utah sent her into a full-blown depression, even years after the fact.
But—no. He wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t. He killed the engine and yanked the keys from the ignition before he could second guess himself again, and threw the door open, stepping out fast, because the first step was the hardest, like ripping off a band-aid.
Once his shoes hit the ground, he kept walking. Only stopped, briefly, noticing the other car parked near the gate for the first time. He hadn’t expected anyone else to be here. Hoped no one else was around, in fact, to intrude on this pilgrimage.
No. If anyone was the intruder here, it was him.
He hesitated at the metal gate, rattling his keys in his hand, before steeling himself and walking through, letting it drift shut behind him with a low and rusty, creaking clink. No going back now. No matter what.
He stuffed his keys into his jacket pocket and exchanged them for a small, folded photograph. On the back, in faded blue ink, someone had scrawled a brief and trite cursive message: A keepsake. Just in case. Not his mother’s handwriting, but someone who’d been close to his family, obviously. He ran his thumb over the words before unfolding the photo and—his breath hitched. Annoyed, and partially embarrassed, he cleared his throat and cast a quick glance around the cemetery, before looking down at the photo.
Two plain tombstones sat together near a chain-link metal fence and the bottom of what looked like a telephone pole. The names and dates were a bit blurry, but he could still read them—didn’t, but could, if he wanted to. Instead, he focused on the bundles of bright flowers set in front of them, and felt a stab of shame that he hadn’t thought to bring even a single flower.
He shook his head and glanced up again, trying to match the photo to its counterpart in the cemetery. From where he stood, all he could see were more tombstones, of similar and varying shapes, all dotting the well-managed lawn, some even sporting bouquets, both fresh and wilted. Taking another look at the photo, he headed toward the fence surrounding the plot, knowing he’d find them sooner or later if he followed along its path.
The cemetery was ancient—or, at least, over a hundred years old. His eyes drifted across old, crumbling stones with death dates in the 1800s and birthdates in the 1700s. To pass the time, he tried matching the photo to the tombstones at the end of each row, even knowing none would. Until, abruptly, they did.
The sight jolted him to a stop. Not just because he’d reached his destination, but because he wasn’t alone.
Go figure, the only other visitor around would be visiting his family, too.
…But what did he expect? Was a lonely grave any better?
The visitor hadn’t noticed him just yet—only stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, considering the two graves. Unlike in the photo, they were no longer decorated with bouquets. The grass that was once so green was green no more—only a smattering of dirt at the edge of the cemetery, out of range of the automated sprinkler system that kept the rest of the lawn fresh. A couple of weeds provided a pop of color but seemed like more of an insult than anything. Behind them, a telephone towered, casting a long, thin shadow.
He folded up the photo and returned it to his pocket, hitting the keys and making a sharp, metallic jingle that drew the visitor’s attention like he’d been slapped.
The visitor turned with wide eyes, startled out of a nostalgic daze. Then squinted—and shook his head, running a hand over his face, then through his dark hair. He muttered something inaudible.
He watched the visitor, fighting the urge to turn and pretend he’d wandered to the wrong plot. He spoke without thinking. “Didn’t think I’d see anyone else here. You knew them?”
“Yeah,” the visitor said, an odd catch in his voice. “Uh, have I—have I seen you before? Sorry. Weird question—forget it. I’m John.” He took a moment, blinking rapidly as if he’d seen a ghost and never quite recovered. “You knew them, too?”
“In a way. I can’t remember either of them.” He looked from the tombstones to John, and nodded. “Sammy.”
“Sammy…?” John repeated faintly, looking back to the two tombstones, face pale.
“Yep. Apparently I’m a twin, but… grew up alone. Figured it was time I visited my sister. And dad.” He walked toward the tombstones, stepped carefully around John, and crouched down to run a hand over the dusty name and its few, short years. “Charlotte, huh?”
“Charlie,” John said abruptly from behind him, then cleared his throat. “…He called her Charlie. Henry did. Before…”
“Before,” Sammy repeated, catching onto some phantom meaning, glancing toward his father’s tombstone. “Yeah. It was hard on him, or so I heard. Mom never really went into detail. Couldn’t. I didn’t even know about them until a couple years ago. Found a photo, and…well. Family secrets are hard to keep secret.” He pursed his lips, trying to keep from rambling. If no one else had been around, he wouldn’t have said a word. But once he started, it was hard to stop. Like he had to say it, to make it real.
“Sometimes you wish they stayed secret,” John said, shoes crunching on the dirt as he stepped back to give him space. “So things could go back to how they used to be.”
Sammy shrugged. “It’d be easier that way. Mourning people you never knew is strange.” He rose to his feet and glanced at John. “I’m sort of glad I ran into you here. I thought I wanted to be alone for this, but… I’m glad Charlotte—Charlie—and Dad have the company. Do you visit often?”
“No,” John admitted honestly, gaze trained on Charlie’s tombstone, but staring beyond it. “But I think I will.”
“Yeah,” Sammy nodded, reading over the names, the dates of beginning and end, wondering how different life would be if they'd continued on and wishing he could know. “I think I will, too.”