42. Beth

I don't stop shoveling until the plots for Butterfly, Goofy, and Garfield are all dug up. And when I do, I collapse, staring straight up at the tangled branches, the dark sky above them. The wet mud isn't the dirtiest thing I'm covered in—it's the deceit, the grief, the shame. Rain slithers through the natural-formed canopy, splashing onto my sweaty skin. I know it's thundering because I can feel the vibration in the soil, but I can't hear it. I can't hear anything except my own heart pounding inside my chest. Every thump feels like a warning—run, leave, tell someone, do something. But I just lie there, gasping for air, trying to understand how this could have happened... all of it.

I think I might be crying too. It's hard to tell. It's like I'm numb but I can also feel everything. My fingers ache from gripping the shovel. The palms of my hands are covered in blisters, already torn open. A sob lingers in my throat, stretching out the walls of my esophagus as it builds. I swallow hard, trying to force it down, but it's not going anywhere. Rolling onto my side, I glance into the freshly dug holes.

It didn't take long to figure out Butterfly's identity. Susan used to call Emma that because she was bright and always fluttered around. Her skeleton is small and frail. It's all that's left, as her body has decomposed and her clothes have disintegrated.

I'm not sure who Garfield is, and I don't recognize the nickname. I just know it's an adult who's been dead long enough for there to be nothing remaining but a skeleton as well.

I weep for Goofy. It was what Mom used to call Dad because he could never keep a straight face, even when he was mad. I know it's him because of the gold wedding band hanging loosely from the bones of his ring finger.

My mother's warning comes back to me, but now I understand what she was saying, at least part of it.

Your father. He didn't disappear.

A familiar voice shouts my name but it's like I'm hearing it underwater, a muffled call. I sit up and wipe my face. The tears, rain, and dirt smear together. I try to calm myself, so I can slow my heartbeat enough to get to my feet without falling over. I hear my name again. Louder this time.

"I'm here," I cry out as I peel myself out of the sticky mud.

Twigs snap. Shoes clomp through wet grass. Overgrown weeds softly rustle as they're pushed into one another.

"Hey," I hear again.

The wind whips and whistles through the branches, carrying my mother's final words to me one last time. It whispers, "Don't trust..."