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the hall, third door on the right. Let me get you some coffee.”
     

     
    Hi, Dad. It's such a beautiful day today that I thought I'd come and spend it with you. I even brought my lunch — and my journal, of course. Just like when you and I used to take the day off and go fishing, remember? You got the fishing gear together, I packed the lunch, and then we'd jump in the truck and head for the lake. And you'd tease me about bringing my journal along, asking me whether I planned to catch the fish or write letters to them. You always could make me laugh.…
    Melissa set the pen down and leaned her head back against the huge pine tree that stood guard over her parents' gravesites, breathing deeply of the tree's pungent scent and listening to the trilling caw-caw of the bandit blue jay that rested in its boughs. In spite of her pain, it was peaceful sitting here. For some reason, she didn't feel quite as alone as she did at home, especially when Toni was gone and her father's absence seemed to echo from room to room.
    This was the first time she'd seen her father's headstone in place, which somehow made her loss all the more final. “Paul Matthews,” it read. “Beloved husband and father, July 25, 1946-May 21, 1999.” Brief and simple, the way her father would have liked it.
    She glanced over at her mother's grave, obviously not freshly dug like her father's, and wondered, Is this what you've been waiting for, Mom? Are you and Dad finally together again after all these years? Are you happy? Are you in heaven, worshiping God, the way Pastor Michael says you are? Is there really a God? Can he hear me? Can you hear me? She stifled a sob. Mom… Dad… does God care that I'm talking to him, that my heart is breaking? Does he care at all?
    A lone tear escaped, and she wiped it from her cheek as she began to write. I wish I'd known you, Mom, at least long enough so I could remember you. I see you in pictures with Dad and Toni, and some pictures where you're holding me. Everybody says I look like you, and I guess I do. But I don't remember you. I don't know what you smelled like, or how you felt.… Did you sing to me when you held me? Did you pray for me, Mom? I hope so.…
    I know you did, Dad. You told me so. But I never heard you. Carrie's parents both pray for her — out loud. I wonder why. Can't God hear us if we don't talk out loud? I sure wish I knew.…
    She put her pen down again and took a sip of water from the bottle she'd brought along. The sun was almost directly overhead now, and even in the shade, the temperature was rising. If she and her dad had been out fishing, they would have come in with their catch of fish by now and be cooking them over an open fire. The thought sent a shudder through Melissa, and she gasped at the depth of pain it produced. Would it ever get any better, she wondered? Would she ever stop hurting and wishing things had been different, wishing that her dad hadn't gone to the lake, or that she had been out of school and had gone with him, or that someone—anyone—would have been with him that day out in the boat, or… ?
    She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the painful thoughts. As hard as she tried, they persisted. It was then that she noticed the flowers she had placed in the sunken vase between her parents' headstones were beginning to wilt. She reopened her bottle of water and slowly emptied the contents into the vase, pouring until the vase overflowed—even as she gave in to the pain and her eyes overflowed, watering the flowers with tears. What would she do? Would she live with Toni and Brad after they got married? Would she stay in River View forever? Or was there something else for her, something or someplace, maybe even someone who would someday ease her pain and help her find happiness again? Did she dare hope for that, or had her last chance for happiness died at the lake with her beloved father and dearest friend?
     

     
    The coffee was hot, black, and strong. Not