The clinic had set Emma Lee up for a parking lot visit, so they sat in Mayumi’s car, heads nodding to one of her tamer hip-hop playlists. They kept the engine running, air conditioner on high to counteract the heat from the open windows. Emma Lee tried to keep her face turned away. She really didn’t want Mayumi to catch it, whatever it was.
Mayumi said she didn’t care. “That’s what friends do,” she said.
“Friends don’t get friends sick,” Emma Lee protested.
“Sometimes they do,” Mayumi said.
They’d expected to be there a long time. They didn’t have an appointment, and it was late in the day. Mayumi’s mom, a professional with first-rate health insurance, had been forced to wait close to an hour in her personal physician’s parking lot. An urgent care center? Without insurance? Hours, they were sure.
But it was only fifteen minutes or so before a tall man in a clear face shield and blue PPE—blue paper smock, blue latex gloves, blue surgical mask—stepped into the sunlight, located their car, and headed toward them. His name was Ian, he told them, and he was a … well, Emma Lee lost his exact title in the haze of her illness. Physician’s assistant, maybe. He had a syrup-smooth Southern accent that made her feel homesick on top of everything else.
He took her temperature and blood pressure and blood-oxygen level, and asked her the same questions they’d asked on the video conference. He poked a long cotton swab up her nose. It wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t painful, either, as she’d expected from all the horror stories she’d heard.
They’d have an answer in two or three days, he told her, depending on the backlog at the lab. They were giving a lot of tests. In the meantime, she should do as she’d been doing, and get herself to the ER if things took a dramatic turn for the worse.
She also learned, to her relief, that the government was paying for the tests. She might die, but at least she didn’t need to worry about overdrawing her checking account.
Half an hour later, Emma Lee was back in her trailer, sweating and miserable in her bed, alternating between chills and overheating. She drank a lot of water, which resulted in a lot of trips to Mr. Matsuo’s bathroom. She took a cool shower on one of those trips, which seemed to help. She took the towel with her so Mr. Matsuo wouldn’t have to worry about germs.
The next day was more of the same, only foggier. Emma Lee half-remembered Mayumi turning up with a concerned expression and a thermos of ginger tea and honey from her mother. She’d have dismissed it as a hallucination if she’d not found the thermos on the countertop and a glass soaking in the sink.
She slept when she could and sat outside when she couldn’t. Though the awning radiated heat, she still preferred sitting at the picnic table, looking out over the cemetery. It was peaceful, she thought. All those souls resting in peace.
Emily.
The sun set in a cloudless sky, a vague, pale, orange-to-yellow band across the deepening silhouette of the mountains. She watched as the gathering dark overtook the old cypress trees’ long shadows.
When there wasn’t much left to see, she dragged herself back into the trailer, downed another ibuprofen, and collapsed on her bed.
She awoke to a loud vibration on the shelf over the bed. She struggled to extricate herself from the tangled sheets and found the phone. She unplugged it and slid her finger across the green circle just before the call went to voice mail.
“Hello,” she mumbled.
A man with a Southern accent said, “May I speak to Emma Brown?”
She found herself disoriented for a moment, the accent placing her back in Alabama, but the “Emma” placing her in California.
“Emma Lee,” she said.
“Emma Lee Brown,” he said. “My apologies.”
“No problem,” Emma Lee said. “This is Ian?”
“You remember me,” he said.
You transport me, she thought. “Yes,” she said.
“I was calling to let you know we got the results from your test.”
“Yes?” Emma Lee leaned against the back wall of the trailer and closed her eyes, waiting.
“Yes,” Ian said. “We just wanted to let you know that your test came back negative.”
Emma Lee let her head fall back against the window. “Thank you,” she said.
“Of course,” Ian said. “How are you feeling, though?”
Emma Lee paused, touched her forehead. “I think the fever broke,” she said, surprised. “I might just live.”
Ian’s voice seemed to convey a smile. “Now that is good news,” he said. “You contact us if you think you need to, you hear?”
“Yes,” Emma Lee said again. “Yes, thank you.”
The trailer was starting to warm up, but without a fever, it wasn’t too uncomfortable. She kicked her way out of the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed to take stock.
A little tired, but she’d just been awakened by the phone. No headache. Her throat felt a little raw, but not sore. She took a deep breath: still a hint of a wheeze at the end of the inhalation, but no cough. And when she forced a cough, it felt fake.
She was going to live, she decided.
Fresh clothes in hand, she made her way to the house for a proper shower. She dressed quickly and stepped out into the still heat, enjoying the coolness of her wet hair.
She climbed up into the trailer and turned the fans on full. She dropped her dirty clothes into the bin in her closet, slipped into her sandals, grabbed her keys, and headed for the gate.
There was a funeral in progress, way off to the left, visible only as she stepped through the gate. It was in the second oldest part of the cemetery, where tall tombstones leaned in all directions. Old family, she thought. The funeral party was small, which kind of depressed her. She wasn’t sure if it was just a small clan, or if there weren’t many who cared about this death, or if people just weren’t willing to brave the pandemic.
She settled down next to Emily’s grave, facing the funeral, participating from a distance. The minister read from a book, indistinct words floating across the lawn. Two couples—husbands and wives, Emma Lee thought—stood evenly spaced, emulating a stoic detachment. A third woman, possibly older than the others, stood close to the casket, head bowed. Another girl, maybe a teenager, maybe younger, stood with her back to the ceremony, chin almost too defiantly high, surveying the cemetery. Emma Lee couldn’t tell if the girl was actually looking at her; she was too far away to be sure. But she felt her, somehow. She sent thoughts her way.
Whatever that meant. She really was becoming superstitious.
She kept her eyes up, witnessing the funeral, as she let her hand drop to the grass and slide across to find Emily’s warm gravestone. She sat like that until the funeral had ended, until the family had turned themselves inward and trudged to the row of cars parked in the circle.
Emma Lee watched as they drove away. The girl raised her hand as they passed, and Emma Lee did the same. She didn’t know what it meant, but she hoped it might make a difference.
She turned and knelt before Emily’s gravestone, reading the familiar raised letters and numbers with her eyes and her fingers. “Nineteen years and two days,” she whispered.
She tried to imagine Emily, to imagine what she might say. She listened. But in the end, there was only silence, as she’d have expected, if not for the strange coincidences.
The sun gradually became too hot to bear. She kissed her fingers and touched them to the headstone. She stood, took in the browning grass, the rows of graves, the tall redwoods and wide oaks, the angel on its pedestal, and headed back toward Mr. Matsuo’s gate, smiling.
Story by Greg Kemble. Art and animation by John David Irvine (thejohnirvine.com).
In addition to reading the series on the blog, you can enjoy “Emily’s Grave” in a few other formats (you’ll find links to all of these versions at the Emily’s Grave (a story) page):
- Videobook (YouTube) – I commissioned my friend and former student John David Irvine—now an award-winning animator—to create an atmospheric animation to accompany the audio version of the story.
- Audiobook (mp3) – Recorded by the author (that’s me!). You can listen to it on the blog or download it.
- Print version (PDF) – If you prefer to read written text, you can view or download a PDF version.
Tip Jar – Pay what you like, if you like.
A-and there’s merch! If you like John’s cover art, check out the shirts, coffee mugs, stickers (and more!) at Redbubble.
About the author (that’s me!)
Close-to-retirement English prof.
Occasional musician, blogger, and writer.
Mildly Introverted, mostly harmless.
About the artist
Multi award-winning artist/animator/filmmaker John David Irvine is known for his unique style of handcrafted animation and darkly surreal imagery. His cryptic work explores identity, queerness, and generational trauma, wading into the everyday horrors that undulate beneath the veneer of the mundane. His award-winning short film COMMON MONSTERS is currently being expanded into his feature film directorial debut.
Check him out at https://thejohnirvine.com.
“Emily’s Grave” © 2021 (text) and © 2023 (audio and video) by Greg Kemble are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0