by Cathy Lamb
We dug her grave right under a sprawling, ancient oak tree. It had seen one Ramsay or Mackintosh after another buried there.
I looked up into the branches, bare, tangled, intricate, and saw the protection, if only metaphorically, that the tree offered. The oak tree was the owner of the graveyard, not us.
Toran settled the question on the location of the grave. “She will not be buried by our parents.”
Pherson nodded. He seemed to have aged overnight. He had white hairs where no white hairs had been months ago.
It is an insidious, overwhelming kind of grief that wells up when you’re digging the grave of someone you love.
I shoveled the dirt out.
I remembered Bridget as a little girl, how we ran beside the meandering stream, chased butterflies, played hide-and-seek.
I remembered the imaginary games we played as Clan TorBridgePherLotte. We were fighters, saviors, mermaids and mermen, magical and invincible.
I remembered the Scottish sun tunneling down on our heads and the Scottish rain falling gently as we danced through it.
I shoveled the dirt out. I dug a hole to make way for my best friend.
I remembered how we wrote letters to each other as children and as teenagers before I left, back and forth, how I would write part of a story and she would draw a picture below it, how we wrote to each other for two decades as grown women.
There would be no more letters, ever. My best friend, gone, every breath gone, every thought gone, every dream, every laugh, every memory.
Gone.
I shoveled the dirt out. This was where Bridget’s body would be buried.
I remembered how we felt this graveyard was so spooky, how we read the names on the headstones, how she pointed out Carney’s parents and great-grandparents, and then I did the same. So many Ramsays and Mackintoshes. Some lived to be old, eighty years. One was ninety-four. Others were only babies, a day old, six months old, seven, fifteen.
Ramsays. Mackintoshes.
And now Bridget Ramsay was here, too.
I shoveled the dirt out. My tears fell, my shoulders ached.
We didn’t speak, the three of us, dirt flying, inches from each other. We stopped when a truck drove up. Baen and Gowan climbed out. Toran’s face tightened, and he let swear words stream out, thunder against lightning. Pherson muttered that he felt like smashing someone and those two would be the perfect victims. Pherson’s grip tightened on his shovel. I knew we were looking at a fight. Baen and Gowan would be beaten to shit.
Baen held up a hand. “Please tell me to leave if you wish, man, and I will. But my son and I, we would like to help dig the grave.” He ran a hand over his forehead. “For Bridget.”
“Aye. We’re sorry, Toran. Pherson. Charlotte. We’re ashamed of ourselves,” Gowan said. “You know us not to be too bright, and this time we were dumber than a rat’s arse.”
“Not honorable Scotsmen,” Baen said. “A disgrace. Please, man, let us do this one thing.”
Toran hesitated. I saw him fight with himself, not wanting them near his sister’s grave, but rejecting an offer of help, kindly given, while being asked for forgiveness, that wasn’t right, either. He bent his head, hand on the shovel. He was grieving too much for anger. It would come again, that anger, but not now.
He squared his shoulders. “Come on up.”
Baen and Gowan walked up the hillside, hats in their hands. They nodded at me. “Charlotte. Pherson.”
We nodded back.
“We’re sorry,” Gowan said. “Sorry for the insult to your clan and family. Sorry all the way down to the ground. This ground, right here, under our feet.” Gowan stomped the ground. “Sorry to your sister, your friend. Sorry, man.”
And that was it. There were no more words.
We all dug together, taking turns. I did not wipe my eyes as my tears fell into Bridget’s grave.
No one bothered to wipe their eyes, no, they didn’t, not even Baen and Gowan, but Gowan did give me his handkerchief. It wasn’t too dirty, either.
We dug Bridget’s grave, under the oak tree, away from the parents who failed her but closer to the sunsets she loved, closer to the stars spiraling and arcing across the horizon, closer to the blue skies of Scotland, so close you could scoop out the sky with your hand, like blue cotton candy.
Soon we had a grave for Bridget.
I had shoveled the dirt out, so my friend could be placed inside.
As the sun set, I climbed the hill again to the cemetery, by myself, and stood by the open grave. Bridget would be in my soul, my life, forever. Her essence, her laughter, sharp wit, humor, forgiveness, and her unending love for a baby she had hardly held, those things, they lived on.
They lived in the rocky cliffs of Scotland, the ocean waves that crashed into the shore, the fields filled with bluebells and daffodils, the sunsets that lit the sky on fire and the sunrises that covered the land in a gold and pink glow.
They never leave our hearts, the ones we love.
Where we go, they go. When we cry, they comfort. When we laugh, they laugh, too. When we grieve, when we’re lonely, it’s their hand we reach for, if only in our minds. We hear their voices, their advice, sometimes their reprimands. We hear their words of love and encouragement, of warning. Their love lives on, breathes on, carries on, and eventually gives us peace, the memories holding us in a hug.
“So long, Bridget,” I said to her, crumbling to my knees. “I love you, I miss you. I will see you again.”
“Sweetheart, Bridget asked me to give this to you.”
I took the letter from Toran’s hand late that night, then hugged him. We sat on the couch together, the fire roaring, as I opened it up.
Charlotte,
I wanted to write you one last letter. A short one, you’ll understand. But this one is all true.
You are, and always have been, my very best friend. I love you.
Bridget
I clutched the letter to my chest, the sobs making my whole body ache.
I felt a hole, large and gaping, lonely and lost. True friends are so hard to find. It’s so hard to trust someone completely, to find that personality that blends with yours, and now Bridget was dead.
Toran wrapped his arms around me. “There now . . . there now . . . luv . . . I love you, Charlotte. We’ll get through this. Together we will.”
I wondered if my whole body would ever stop aching.
That night Toran and I had wildly awesome sex. On fire. I was up against a wall. He held my legs around him as I clung to his shoulders. Afterward, we fell right to sleep, me on top of him. In the morning, I woke up cradled in his arms.
“I love you, Char,” he murmured to me.
“I love you, too, Toran.”
Then the tears started again.
Silver Cat did not return. It was one more ache. She was Bridget’s cat, I knew that, and I missed her.
The hearse was late bringing up Bridget’s coffin, so Pherson, Toran, and I were late. When we arrived, stepping over the last rise of the hill, we stopped, shocked at what we saw.
“Damn near looks like the entire town is here,” Toran said.
It did. They probably were.
From the ladies in Gabble and Gobble Garden Gang, to Chief Constable Ben Harris holding Gitanjali’s hand, to teachers and students we’d gone to school with, to friends and neighbors, old and young, to Baen, Gowan, Carston Chit, Stanley I and II, and Lorna Lester, and her sister, Laddy, who looked chagrined and embarrassed, outcasts now in town, Laddy’s business closed for lack of customers, their eyes tired.
They were all there.
Toran bent his head, overcome. I wrapped an arm around him.
We had the vicar, Harold Mosher, who had known Bridget her whole life, a decent and compassionate man, who had seen Bridget many times during her illness, come to lead the service. He would give the prayers, and the blessings, but Bridget’s instructions were for Toran, Pherson, and I to speak.
That’s what we did.
I went first. I talked about our childhood, and my mother’s garden, which had been the start of Bridget’s love of gardening. I talked about the letters we wrote as children and as women, how funny she was, witty and smart. I talked about her artistic talents, her garden plans, her love of Pherson and Toran. I told them how beautiful Bridget’s heart was and how she handled having a terminal disease with grace and courage.
Pherson talked of how Bridget was the love of his life. He could not say much more, too emotional.
Toran talked about his sister’s thoughtfulness and sensitivity, her humbleness, how deep she loved, and how she saw the best in people. He talked about her enduring love for her daughter. She designed the park with her daughter in her mind and heart, for her and the people of St. Ambrose, particularly the children.
Toran played “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes. Rowena and Kenna sang the haunting “Flowers of the Forest.” Olive played her violin, a piece she composed, the notes climbing up the trunk of the oak tree, through the branches, to the blue skies, over the stream and Toran’s farm, across the waves of the ocean, where they swirled up to heaven. It was sad, joyful, mournful, hopeful. I had not even known that she played the violin.
The blessing was given.
We had asked people to bring their favorite flower to drop into Bridget’s grave.
The Stanleys and their wives dropped carnations. The Stanleys said, together, “Go with God, Bridget.”
Rowena dropped a yellow rose and a rock necklace. Kenna dropped daffodils and a note, written on her drug prescription pad, that said, “I love you, Bridget.” Olive dropped tulips wrapped with a knitted red scarf with a butterfly on it. The butterfly had two blue tears in its eyes.
Gitanjali dropped a handful of spices and said a prayer in Hindi, her palms together. Malvina dropped white baby’s breath and stood there as other people passed by. I heard her say, choked up, “I’m sorry, Bridget. I’m sorry.”
Lorna and Laddy stood on either side of the grave, then tipped over a sheet filled with wildflowers. They were both crying, ashamed. I could tell by their flushed faces.
Ben Harris dropped part of a honeysuckle vine.
The reporter, Carston Chit, dropped in red gladiolas and said, “Peace, Bridget. Courageous woman.”
The flowers piled up over her coffin. People hugged us, wished us well, cried.
We waited until everyone was gone, then Pherson took out Queen Bridget’s crown from a bag he’d brought and placed it on her coffin.
Toran dropped in a handful of her colored pencils, his hands trembling.
I dropped in my letter to her. It was short, in a pink envelope.
I love you, Bridget. I will always miss you. You are my very best friend. Love, Charlotte.
What else was there to say?
Silver Cat trotted up and looked in the grave. I picked her up, so relieved to see her again, and held her close in my arms. Toran put an arm around me and petted her, Bridget’s cat.
Silver Cat let out a wailing scream-meow. I swear that cat is a person with fur.
Before I left, I walked over to my father’s grave for the first time. He had a view of the sunrise. My father had loved sunrises. A whole new day, he would tell me, then he would launch into a song or a legend or a story.
“I love you, Dad. I miss you.” I kneeled on the ground, near his gravestone. “I have missed you every day. Your voice still rings in my ears, your advice, your love, your laugh, your bagpipes. I can still smell you. You smelled like Scotland. Like the wind, the North Sea, scones. I can’t believe you’ve been gone for twenty years. Seems like yesterday. It seems like forever. You have been with me my whole life.” I put my hands together. “Dad, the unicorn came for Bridget. I need you to watch over her for me. Take care of her, tell her your legends and stories. She needs you.”
Just then the wind lifted my hair and I heard bagpipes, faint, light. It was “Scotland the Brave,” my father’s favorite. I closed my eyes as it grew louder, as if my father were stepping closer to me, his kilt swaying in the wind. I let my tears fall on his grave.
Sometimes the people who are gone come to us. I don’t know how, there is no scientific explanation for it, but they do. You must only be watching for it, listening closely.
ST. AMBROSE DAILY NEWS
A LETTER FROM CHIEF CONSTABLE
BEN HARRIS
To the village of St. Ambrose,
As all of you know, Bridget Ramsay passed away on Tuesday from AIDS. Bridget was one of our own, her family here in St. Ambrose for generations. She told her tragic story, with eloquence, here, in this paper. It brought tears to my eyes many times. As a man, I’m not afraid to say that.
These last months have been difficult for the village of St. Ambrose. We have wounds that may never heal. People took sides for or against Bridget, and they took them vociferously, sometimes with scant regard for others’ feelings, or for Bridget’s personal rights as a Scottish citizen.
It has caused much soul searching and pain for all of us, which is dwarfed by the pain that Bridget’s family and friends feel. We are, I believe, different people than who we were before Bridget returned home.
Friends, Bridget is not the only villager, the only Scotsman or Scotswoman, who will have AIDS. She was the first, that we know of, in St. Ambrose, but she will not be the last. How some treated her was abominable. They reacted with fear, judgment, and disdain, disregarding medical evidence that she was not contagious. This was extremely regrettable. Others embraced Bridget with open arms, gentleness, and compassion.
We must do better when this happens to us again. We need to do better. We will do better. Not only for the next AIDS victim but for all of us. How we treat others in their moments of crisis tells us much about ourselves.
I will miss Bridget. That she reached out to people who had done her wrong, that she designed a park for all of us in St. Ambrose, that she donated her own money, in particular after what had occurred here, tells of a woman with integrity, a forgiving soul, and a love for the people of St. Ambrose.
When you enter Bridget’s Park, A Place for Everyone, this spring, pause. The scent of the roses blooming will come to you. The flower beds will be a rainbow of color. The children will shout and laugh in the fountain, the orchestra will play from the gazebo, the trees will offer an oasis of shade, the grass a place for all of us to walk barefoot and relax.
Pause.
This park came to us as a gift from Bridget, with help from her brother, Toran; her best friend, Charlotte Mackintosh; her lifelong friend, Pherson Hameldon; and the villagers of St. Ambrose.
Pause.
Think of Bridget.
Thank Bridget.
Enjoy, as she meant for you to do.
Sincerely,
Chief Constable Ben Harris
St. Ambrose
I spent a lot of time thinking at our fort, on the beach, and in my mother’s garden. I repainted two of my mother’s birdhouses—one a log cabin, the other tall and skinny, blue, with a star on the roof—that I’d found under a pile of leaves.
Bridget had been my best friend. It had not been a normal best friend relationship where you would see each other, at least periodically. If I had been a more social person, less awkward, less of a loner, more trusting, I would have had other friends.
But I didn’t. I wrote my books and I wrote letters and looked forward to Bridget’s letters as I would a visit from a best friend. It’s sad, in many ways, I get that.
But between Bridget, my mother, a few quirky neighbors on the island, my work, and my cats, I was content enough. Terribly lonely and alone sometimes, but content.
Yet my friendship with Bridget was entirely false in many ways. She wasn’t even remotely truthful with me about her life. The letters she sent to me were fabricated, by and large. She wrote about the life she wished she had.
The only hobby I know of that she honestly loved, that I loved, was gardening, and she rarely did that.
She lied.
/> She lied by omission and she lied blatantly.
So was the friendship not a real friendship?
In many ways it wasn’t. We didn’t have truth and honesty between us; surely that is key in friendship.
But I understood why she lied. I wish she hadn’t, but she did. She was raped repeatedly as a teenager. She was impregnated by a rapist, a man posing as a priest. They took her baby away and put her in an insane asylum with the help of the rapist. Her father was a punitive, religious fanatic obsessed with her virginity, her mother a weak woman who drank too much.
It’s no wonder she reached for drugs. How was she to tell me that? It’s no wonder there were bad men in her life. How was she to tell me that? It’s no wonder her life imploded. How was she to tell me that?
Bridget wasn’t who I thought she was. She lied to keep me, and our friendship, above the disaster her life had become. I was the one light in her dark life. She danced with me in her head as I danced with her, as we danced together as children. She pretended. She escaped. I would miss her letters forever, miss knowing I had a friend.
I could not imagine my life without her.
She was still, and always would be, my very best friend.
20
“You haven’t written anything. All these months. In Scotland. Nothing. Zip. Zero. Be honest.”
“No, I haven’t.”
Maybelle Courten knew about Bridget’s death. I’d told her the minimum, but it had still been a long story. I gasped and choked and had the ugly cry through the whole thing. She listened. She was compassionate. She said, “Bridget’s your best friend in the whole world and she died. That sucks. I’m so sorry, Charlotte, I truly am.”
