Swift

Swift

Copyright © 2012 Heather London

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-0615683706

Cover design by Stephanie Mooney

http://www.stephaniemooney.net/

Edited by The Mighty Pen

http://www.mightypenediting.com/

Dedication

For my amazing husband, Ryan, and BFF, Kia.

Chapter One

“Today is not going to be a good day,” I mumbled out loud, opening my eyes and glaring out my window. I could see the black, ominous clouds rolling in, casting a dark gloom in my already melancholy bedroom. Maybe I should have taken the color of the sky as a warning, as a sign that I should have put off what I had been procrastinating on for weeks now. I rolled over and looked at my alarm clock, confirming what I already knew: the large green numbers read 6:32 a.m.—way too early to be up on a Saturday morning.

“Just get it over with already,” I muttered, throwing the covers off and sighing as the sound of rain began to pound on the roof above me. The smell of coffee and sound of banging dishes told me that Aunt Rose was already downstairs in the kitchen, making breakfast. It would be a miracle if I got out of the house without her seeing me. The last thing I wanted to deal with just then was a pity party from her or her telling me how she didn’t want me “doing this alone.” I carefully opened my bedroom door, hoping it wouldn’t squeak if I opened it just right. I tiptoed to the bathroom, ran a brush through my hair, and after eventually giving up on untangling it, put it up into a ponytail.

After getting dressed and gathering all the gear needed to brave the crappy weather I was ready to make my escape. I reached the end of the staircase and peeked around the corner to see Aunt Rose unloading the dishwasher. As she turned to put away the silverware, I made my move. I could just hear her voice:
Meredith Marie, where do you think you are going? There is a monsoon outside.
And that would just be the beginning.

I rounded the corner of Maple Avenue, relieved I had gotten away without being caught.

The few houses I passed on the way were all still dark on the inside, probably because the people were still fast asleep in their warm, dry beds. Why would any sane person be up so early on a dreary Saturday morning?

I wrapped my arms tightly across my chest, trying to secure the little warmth I had left inside my body. Not that I should have been surprised; this was typical East Coast weather. The weather in Marblehead is so unpredictable, especially at this time of year. The closer I got, the more the smell of salt from the ocean burned my nose with each breath, and with each breath, the memories flooded my head and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach worsened. I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, hoping it would help ease some of my anxiety and pain.

Finally I approached the black iron gates of Waterside Cemetery. As I stood there staring at the gates, I debated if I wanted to go inside. There is still the option to turn back, I thought. I haven’t even stepped foot inside yet. Besides, the rain has caused a thick fog; it’s probably not very safe to enter a graveyard when it’s foggy. Who knows what could happen? I could trip over a gravestone, break my ankle, and get trapped inside this dreadful place.

Standing there like a coward, I stared deeper into the desolate graveyard filled with nothing but cold, concrete stones: some tall and slender, some wide and short, and some so small you could barely see them over the overgrown grass and fog. A few graves had fresh flowers on them, but most of them were bare. I sighed, realizing that the bare and empty feeling I was having would soon end if I just got what I was there to do over with. For all those bright and sunny days that I had avoided going there, this was the price for my procrastination.

Taking a deep breath, I put one foot forward and began the walk that I’d become accustomed to over the years. The stone path leading to the far edge of the cemetery is always lined with the appropriate foliage for the season. Since it was late May, there were yellow daffodils along the way.

In the far left corner of the cemetery, where there are no trees for shelter and mostly dead grass, there are four graves. They are so small and simple that it is not even proper to call them gravestones. These graves were not my main reason for going there, but over the years, I’ve made a point to visit them each time I go. You could say I was drawn to them in a way. Most people would probably miss them unless they accidently stepped right on them like I did a few years back. The rectangular plates lay in the ground all side by side, equally spaced apart. They all hold no more information than a single name:
Harper
. They certainly show their age; they are barely legible and worn-looking. I’d always felt pity for the people in the graves because there were no first names to give them each their own personal identity, no words to describe who they each had been as a person—trivial as those things may be after you are gone from this world.

After stopping there for a few moments, I continued on my journey to the real reason for going to the graveyard. Glancing up at the sign, “Angels Passage,” I knew that I was getting close.

After a few more steps, I came to the site where both my parents and twin sister are buried. The largest headstone in the cemetery reads my last name:
Martin.
The names of my father, mother, and sister read below, along with all the sentimental beloved and loving stuff. Not that any of that isn‘t true, but it just doesn’t seem right for them. There is so much more to them than those simple words. Those words don’t even come close to doing them justice.

There was a reason I came to the cemetery that day: I came to tell my family that I was leaving Marblehead. It felt awful telling them that I would not be able to visit them as often, and saying it out loud hurt more than I thought it would. My mind had been made up for a while now, but I hadn’t been able to find the courage to go there and tell them. It’s not that I had finally found the courage; it’s just that I had finally run out of excuses. Those past few weeks, I had had plenty of them: homework, studying for finals, graduation, and then there was my eighteenth birthday. I had decided that going to the cemetery the day before, the day of, or the day after, would not be a great way to celebrate. But I had turned eighteen three days ago, and now that excuse was way past valid.

I tried my best to explain to them why I was leaving, why I wasn’t going to college, and why I wanted nothing more than to get out of this town. It was true; I was the abnormal one in thinking the town was suffocating—once it sucks you in, it never lets you go. There was an overpowering need for me to get out of that place and find the answers I had been looking for my entire life. Maybe the ones I had asked myself a million times since I was eight: Why was I the one to survive the accident? Why had I been given a second chance? I knew that I was meant for something more than being just Meredith Martin, the girl who suffered a tragic loss at a young age. There was nothing I wanted more than to erase that brand bestowed upon me.

While I sat with my back propped up against the cold gravestone, I pulled out pictures from my graduation and flipped through the stack. It took my breath away when I realized how much I looked like my mother. Her longer oval face did not match my rounder heart-shaped face, but her dark green eyes, long brown hair, and pouty lips were exact matches of mine. I hold no resemblance to my dad, but I did inherit his introverted, independent personality. I was what most conformists would call a nonconformist.

After sitting and talking with the three people I loved most in the world, I desperately needed a friend, someone that could actually talk back to me. I called the only other human being that actually understood me … or at least pretended to.

The phone rang six times before he finally picked up.

“Hey, Roger, meet me down at the diner in twenty minutes? My treat,” I asked, sounding desperate, hoping he couldn’t hear it in my voice.

“Mer, it’s Saturday, and you remember that we just graduated a few days ago, right? We are supposed to be using this time to sleep while we still can.” He sighed. I could tell by the raspy-ness in his voice that I had awoken him from a deep slumber. “But since I am in withdrawal of your bright and joyful
personalities
… See you there in twenty,” he finished in a sarcastic but casual voice.

“You’re the best. See you soon.” I quickly hung up the phone before he could ask me any more questions. He would probably not like that I was at the cemetery by myself. He always said that I should never go there alone, that it was not good for me.

I told my family goodbye and promised that I would be back a few more times that summer before leaving town. Then I laid the picture of me and Aunt Rose against the gravestone and ran my left hand along the top of it as one last loving gesture before heading out.

The daffodil-lined path was almost dry now; I hadn’t even noticed that the rain had stopped. When I looked up, I could see the sun fighting to get through the canopy of trees above me. Every few feet, the sun’s rays would push through a thin layer of tree limbs and shine on my face. The feeling of warmth made me smile. It was a content feeling that I had not had in a long time. I had been torturing myself for weeks now to come and talk to them, and now I had done it.

Suddenly my feeling of joy was interrupted by cries of grief echoing throughout the cemetery. I turned my head right and left, searching for the person suffering, when a figure to the right caught my eye. I squinted, trying to see the person more clearly, but she was still too far away. The closer I got, the more I realized I didn’t recognize her at all—and I knew everyone in that town, more than I wanted to. Her long, corn-silk blonde hair would have easily stood out in Marblehead, and her long green skirt and white lace blouse were definitely not the style around here. She was kneeling with her hands cupped over her face as if she were trying to hide her tears from someone. But as I scanned the area around her, I realized there was no one there but me. As I got closer, I could see that she was kneeling in front of the four mysterious Harper graves that I had made a point to stop at during each of my visits. She can’t be crying because she knows them; those graves are ancient, I thought to myself. The people buried there have been gone for a very, very long time.

I cautiously moved toward her, but soon she noticed my presence. The young woman’s head jerked up and her wide-eyed stare stopped me dead in my tracks. In that second, I wished that I could run, run faster than the wind, faster than the speed of light. I wanted nothing more than to get away from the startling green eyes that stared at me as if they had seen a ghost. For the first few seconds, no words passed between us. There was just her cold stare and the adrenaline coursing throughout my body.

As I stood there, frozen, I searched for words to speak. I wanted to say something along the lines of “Sorry for interrupting you” or “Please excuse me,” but the words were stuck in my throat. Anything. Just one word?

Finally, as if a bond had been broken, I found my voice again. “Hi,” I whispered, swallowing hard.
Hi
? That’s all I can say? Here I am staring at this stranger that quite honestly looked like she could have just walked out of the psych ward, and all I can mutter out is
hi
?

But there was no reply, no change in her facial expression.