Content Disclosure: Mild language, Death or Bereavement
Rachel’s last semester at the University of Michigan would have been easy if not for the news that reached her six weeks before her final exams.
It wasn’t a phone call—the phone lines were still down from the most recent blizzard to hit Paradise, she guessed. Instead, a rumpled-looking envelope appeared in her mailbox, the ink of her address slightly smeared. She didn’t recognize the return address at first, but anybody mailing her a letter from Paradise must be someone she knew. Paradise was a small town.
Overwhelming curiosity forced her to open the envelope before she could even reach her front porch; in her haste, the sharp edge of the paper sliced into her fingertip, staining the letter with droplets of blood.
“Shit,” she said, sticking her finger in her mouth and sucking. She managed to pull the letter from the envelope with her uninjured hand and flipped it open with a flick of her wrist.
Dear Rachel,
I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but your Uncle Stuart has passed. I know it’s been a while since you’ve been home, and this will probably be painful for you. Stu’s service will be on Friday at 10 a.m. at Our Lady of Victory. I really hope we’ll see you there.
Please let me know if you need anything, hon. You know we’re all here for you.
Much love,
Ruth
Finishing with the letter, Rachel became acutely aware of the rancid copper taste in her mouth left by the blood. She pulled her finger from her lips and wiped it on her jeans, leaving a small streak of scarlet.
Uncle Stu is dead.
The realization sent electrical jolts into her eyeballs, which began vibrating in her sockets as the tears rolled out. She hadn’t seen Uncle Stu since her parents’ funeral four years before. Her mother’s brother had been an enormous source of comfort as she grappled with the most severe tragedy of her short life. Stu had acted as gatekeeper in the living room, accepting gifts of casseroles and condolences from neighbors as Rachel worked through her grief in her second-floor bedroom, twisting her sheets into knots and screaming into her pillow. He’d forced her to eat even when nothing sounded good, insisting that she needed to keep her strength up, and some calories would make her feel just a tiny bit better. When words weren’t enough, he sat with her on the couch in silence, offering solace with his presence without the complication of language.
How had Rachel thanked him? She’d driven off into the new dawn of college in Ann Arbor, making empty promises to call and write, to keep him apprised of her life. At the time, she’d felt too grief-stricken to keep her connections to Paradise strong. Looking back, she realized with a shameful ache that just as he was hers, she was the only family Stu had left. She’d been too selfish to realize that Stu was hurting, too, mourning the death of his only sister right alongside her.
Now Stu was dead, and Rachel hadn’t spoken to him in years. He’d tried to call on a few occasions—birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving—but as soon as Rachel saw the 906 area code, she muted her phone and let everything go to voicemails she never listened to. That could be the other reason behind the letter Ruth had sent; word had gotten around that Rachel Regal never answered her phone.
I’ve been such an insensitive shit, she thought, dropping to sit on the splintery wood of her front porch steps. She cradled her head in her hands, and the small tears of blood still leaking from her sliced fingertip left red smudges on her cheeks, like the world’s most lurid blush.
The day of her parents’ accident, Stu was supposed to be on the boat with them. Mary and Carl had invited him along to cruise around Lake Superior before heading over to Tahquamenon Falls for a hike and a picnic lunch. It was early May and unseasonably warm; everybody was out and about, hiking the state parks, playing on the beach, biking through town. Rachel had to study for her upcoming exams, the last ones she had to take before graduation, before setting off for the full scholarship awaiting her at U of M. Getting in had been a breeze. She had three major things going for her: she was from a poor, rural county; she was in-state; she was a woman interested in mechanical engineering. On top of all that, of course, she was the smartest one in her grade, which wasn’t too hard in a
