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  Okay, if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to lose it, then what kind of a support system would I be? Not a very good one.

  He stands, not letting go of my hand which means I stand with him.

  “Would you come with me, Allison? I want to show you something. I need to show you something.”

  That old cheesy saying about how I’d go with you to the ends of the earth definitely applies right about now.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ashton drives us to Stone Mountain Park. Stone Mountain is a huge granite rock. Carved into the side of the rock are Confederate President Jefferson Davis, General Robert E. Lee and Lieutenant General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson. The park has turned into a major tourist attraction in the Atlanta area, featuring a laser show shown on the side of the mountain nightly.

  The park is crowded today. Ashton has found a parking spot and his hand has latched onto mine again, a fact I will not complain about, and we are walking toward something, exactly what I don’t know.

  People give us funny looks. I’ve still got my knee-length turquoise blue dress with the little white polka dots on it that I wore to church along with my white, high heeled sandals. And here’s Ashton, worn jeans, cowboy boots and a collared pull-over.

  We stand in line to buy tickets for the cable cars. My knees want to shake. I hate cable cars. I’m somewhat claustrophobic and not real fond of heights.

  But Ashton seems bent on some mission. And he’s hurting, so I’m not going to protest like I would if this were anything besides what it is, which what it is I’m really not sure yet, but I guess I’ll know in a little while.

  We have to stand in line again after he buys the tickets. The longer we’re in line, the more nervous I’m becoming. But we don’t talk. This is his hurt and I’m following his lead.

  Finally it’s our turn to cram into the cable car. Of course they shove as many people in as possible. I try to stay close to the door, but since we were one of the first people on, I’m pushed further and further away by the moment.

  The only good aspect is because it’s so crowded I’m pretty much molded against Ashton. He’s wrapped his arms around my waist, and I find a small amount of comfort in him. I wonder if he’s finding comfort in me?

  We lurch to a start, the car slowly moving up toward the top of the mountain. Tourists have plastered their faces against the windows, pointing here and there. Some people speak in languages I can’t understand. The ones whose faces aren’t plastered against the glass are taking pictures. The car is moving really slow.

  The granite mountain is framed by a bright blue sky dotted with white clouds. Hesitantly, I look out the glass panels, and see people milling on the green lawn, with colorful picnic blankets spread out. A few kids are kicking around a soccer ball. Boy, I wish I were down there instead of up here.

  Ashton squeezes me and kisses the top of my head. A lady who is facing me smiles and I want to shout “It’s not what you think. This is not a date. He’s hurting because his grandmother has died and I’m just here for him. That’s all this is.”

  Is that what this is, really? We are such a contradiction. Why me? He’s only known me a short time. Where are his friends? Doesn’t he have close friends for a time like this?

  I close my eyes for the rest of the ride, praying every second until we make it to the top.

  Finally the cable car comes to a stop. The doors slide open and everyone slowly files out. Mothers grab their children’s hands in death grips as they escape out of the confines of the car.

  Since I don’t know why we’re here, I let Ashton lead the way. Outside, on the top of the mountain you can see for miles.

  Our feet are on solid rock in more ways than one. First God’s, then the granite beneath us. Weeds shoot up between the cracks. The building and antennas shoot up also but in an unnatural way. A very human addition to this Godly creation.

  Ashton takes my hand and leads me to a deserted spot. Making my way in high heels across the uneven granite is a slow process for me.

  We stand, hand in hand, for a moment, nothing but a gorgeous view separating us from the heavens beyond. Bold green trees stand tall between houses and other buildings. Cars drive down the black streets. A few pools gleam silver-blue in the sun. Life goes on.

  I wonder what Ashton’s thinking about, why he wanted to bring me here?

  He lets go of my hand and starts to take his shirt off. I want to scream hurrahs at his boldness until I realize he’s wearing a T-shirt under his pull-over.

  In a very gentlemanly gesture he lays his pull-over down and motions for me to sit. I do, and try to remain dignified as I search for a comfortable position. He sits next to me.

  “My grandmother used to bring me here all the time. We used to walk up the mountain back then, not take the cable car. Of course we were both younger.”

  “I’ve only climbed the mountain once. Once was enough for me.”

  “We’ll have to do it sometime,” he says.

  “Let me know because I’ll need to start training now.”

  Between climbing the mountain and playing catch, this man is bound and determined to keep me in shape.

  “Allison,” he says, “I’m gonna miss her so much. I didn’t think you could miss somebody like this.”

  Once again I don’t know what to say. He’s hurting for his loss, I’m hurting for him. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Grandma Fola. I can’t think about it.

  “My mom and dad left when I was little,” he says.

  He points his index finger out toward the edge of the mountain and moves it from left to right. “I used to come up here and look out, real hard, trying to find them. Thinking maybe I’d see them down there and they’d come back. I used to think I missed them. But compared to this, it doesn’t even rate.”

  This is so much more than I bargained for. Yes, I want to know more about him, but this is such a sad story. His hurts probably go way deep. I’m at a loss as to what to do here. Ask questions, just listen?

  God, help me out.

  “Why did they leave?”

  Okay, so I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess. I’ve opened myself up to more of his sad tale. But the drive here took more than thirty minutes, and we spent close to forty-five minutes standing in the two lines to make it up here.

  He needs to be here. He’s opened up so I’m thinking he needs to talk this out. I guess if I ask a question he doesn’t want to answer, he won’t.

  He sits, his elbows on his knees, hands folded in front of his face. He’s a poster child for the person who needs the world’s biggest hug and I want to be the one to give it to him.

  “They were really young and not married at first, but they married before I was born. I guess they stuck around about two years. We all lived with my grandparents, but Mom and Dad weren’t very responsible. Grandmother and Grandfather ended up taking care of me most of the time anyway.”

  “So, you’ve never heard from them?”

  “I don’t know what happened to Dad. Mom has popped up probably about five or six times throughout my life. Grandfather’s lawyer’s trying to get a hold of her now, seeing as how Grandmother was her mother.”

  “Do you think she’ll come?”

  He lowers his forehead to his clenched fists.

  “I don’t know. I hope not.”

  “You don’t want to see her?”

  He stands, and pulls me up next to him.

  “If she comes, it’ll be for the wrong reasons. She’ll probably be looking for an inheritance.”

  Are his grandparents rich?

  “You know,” he says. “My grandmother is the reason I’m into baseball.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Man, she was so cool. She’d get out there in the back yard with me and make me pitch to her. She loved baseball. Then when it became apparent I had a little talent, she freaked. She had me train with all kinds of coaches, I went to every camp she could find around here. She was the bomb when it came
to baseball.”

  Mom equals bad memories. Grandmother equals good memories. We’re running the realm here. It’s probably a good thing. I just wish he had better memories of his mom.

  I can see why he felt the way he did about his grandmother. It sounds like she was a really awesome person. There I go. Using that over-used word.

  “Allison, the visiting hours are tomorrow night from seven to nine. Will you come with me?”

  “Of course.”

  It’s Tuesday morning and I’m not dressing for work. I’m dressing for a funeral. Ashton is having a car pick me up at ten o’clock.

  He had a car pick me up last night. A big, black Lincoln Town Car. The ride seemed lonely and long. Luxury needs company.

  The whole Sunday school class ended up coming to the funeral home to pay their respects. I stayed from beginning to end. I met Ashton’s grandfather, a very distinguished, but sad man.

  Other than that, there didn’t seem to be any family present. Ashton’s grandparents have a lot of friends who at some point or another arrived.

  Some of Ashton’s baseball player friends had sent their wives. The team was on the road so the wives passed on their apologies as well as their condolences.

  I honestly think some of the guys (and girls maybe) from Sunday school class thought there might be some famous baseball players at the funeral home.

  Of course, no one knew Ashton’s grandmother, so we were all there to support him. Can our class be his only friends, a guy like him, who appears to have “the life”? Well, what is life without friends and family?

  Ashton doesn’t appear to have an abundance of either.

  My hair is not in a ponytail this morning. It’s in a French twist. My dress is what I refer to as my funeral dress. Navy blue, sleeveless, knee length, simple. Blue pumps and a small purse complete my ensemble.

  I look at the clock. Only a couple of minutes until the lonely car arrives. I don’t look forward to the ride. I know it won’t be far, but the whole aspect is depressing.

  “Allison, your limousine is here,” Grandma Fola says as she peeks into my room.

  “Limousine?”

  I look out my window and sure enough, a limo has pulled up right in front of the driveway. Oh, brother.

  That’s even more depressing.

  Apparently it isn’t depressing for my mother. She isn’t working at Clinique this morning. No, unfortunately for me she’s standing at the front door, camera in hand.

  What is she doing with a camera?

  I kiss Grandma goodbye, thanking God she’s there to kiss goodbye. My heart hurts for Ashton. I don’t ever want to know that kind of hurt again.

  “Allison, I want to take your picture in front of the limousine.”

  God knows what he’s doing. There’s nothing like a little comic relief to squelch the hurt Ashton and his grandmother have resurrected in my heart.

  “Mother, please. This is a somber occasion. No pictures.”

  “Just one,” she says as she follows me out the door.

  I really don’t feel like dealing with my mother’s antics today. Okay, so I skipped the whole limo-prom thing. My date and I thought his Dad’s vintage pick-up truck was the ultimate prom ride. Apparently I had deprived my mother of some rite of passage that I’ll understand only when I’m a mother.

  I feel like a stalked movie star as I walk down the driveway, toward the man waiting to open the door for me, my mother tailing me with the camera.

  A scenario plays itself out in slow motion in my mind. What if I were on my way shopping, or perhaps lunch with a friend, and I’d just rung up the driver and asked him to meet me?

  What a different world. Too different for me.

  I wish I could climb into my Celica, put the top down and feel the wind on my face.

  Before the very professional looking man opens my door, my mother has me stand next to him. She snaps a picture.

  “Goodbye, Mother,” I say.

  “One more, while he’s opening the door.”

  I pray the neighbors aren’t watching. This is beyond embarrassing.

  As the driver opens my door my mother snaps another shot. She blows me a kiss before walking up the driveway.

  I start to slide into the limo. My red convertible catches the corner of my eye. The temptation is too great.

  I stop my entrance into the long, black ride.

  “Thank you very much for coming,” I say to the now more puzzled than professional looking driver. “Tell Ashton I’m driving myself today.”

  I walk to my car, pulling the keys out of my purse.

  Sliding in, I jam my keys into the ignition, turn the car on and immediately push the button to lower the top.

  “You can tell me yourself.”

  I turn and find Ashton standing next to my car.

  Smiling. A sad smile, but it’s a smile.

  I turn at least three if not four shades of red. I am going to hurt my mother very badly when I get back.

  “I can explain. My mother—”

  “No explanations needed. I understand.”

  Well, I’m glad he does, because I don’t. How many grown women’s mothers make photo memories as their daughters head to a funeral?

  Not many, probably.

  The limo pulls away from the curb.

  “Can I have a ride?” he asks.

  “Hop in.”

  He does and I back out of the drive.

  We garner some looks, the good-looking baseball player and I, as we wind our way through the neighborhood, all dressed up. The sun is a black shadow behind the clouds, its shimmering rays fanning down to the earth.

  “I didn’t think there could be anything tougher than getting cut from the Braves,” Ashton says. “Nothing. That day I had the emptiest feeling in my gut. I thought it was the worst day ever. Not so. This is going to be the toughest day of my life.”

  It’s hard to put into perspective what I’m feeling. I had never met his grandmother, but I know his loss. I felt the same way when my dad died. Empty. Alone. At a loss as how to even go on living everyday life when your equation has been totally messed up.

  But somehow you manage. Somehow you put one foot in front of the other and walk the steps, talk the words, drive the car, and it’s all so normal when you’re not normal at all.

  All I can do is be here for Ashton. All my friends rallied around me when Dad died. They were there, twenty-four-seven. I’ll do the same for Ashton.

  “We’re going to the church for a service, then the cemetery. Then back to the house. I guess there’ll be a lunch or something.”

  “Do you live with your grandparents?”

  Oops. Rephrase. Grandfather. I’ll have to remember that.

  “I did. I just recently bought a condo. I’m almost all moved in. I was supposed to finish up this past weekend, but … ”

  “If you need some help,” I start. But I don’t finish. What? I would help him? Sure, why not.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  I pull into the church and park the car. We walk to the entrance. It’s only then I realize there are photographers waiting. The cameras start clicking as Ashton takes my elbow. He holds up his hand.

  “Please,” he says. “Not today. This isn’t the time, y’all know that.”

  We hear a few more clicks as we walk into the church.

  This church is bigger than ours, and every seat seems to be full. Ashton guides me by my elbow as we start our walk down the long aisle. Dark hats and white tissues seem to be sniffling and murmuring as we make our way to the front.

  Ashton’s grandfather is already sitting on the front row. He stands when we approach and hugs Ashton. I use the word hug loosely. It’s more of a formal, dutiful embrace. Obviously his relationship with his grandmother was very different from the one he has with his grandfather.

  His grandfather and I shake hands. His hand is cold, his grip, stiff.

  He motions us to the pew, and Ashton sits next to his grandfather. I sit n
ext to Ashton. We’re the only three people on the front row, and I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, sitting front and center at a funeral of a lady I’ve never met, while I don’t know one of the many, many people who have crowded in the rows behind me.

  Halfway through the service I realize Ashton’s mother hasn’t shown up. Not last night, (at least as far as I knew, and somehow I think I would know,) and not today.

  Such a sad family story. Family is so important. Ashton and his grandmother seemed to know the importance. I’m still out on the relationship with his grandfather. They seem very formal towards each other. I wonder why Ashton’s mother and father couldn’t see the benefits of three generations of family. The love, the wisdom, the experience.

  Of course, there are two sides to every story. It’d be interesting to hear his mother’s, I guess. But I’m kind of partial to Ashton and I suppose I’d be kind of partial to his side of the story.

  We all stand to sing Amazing Grace. I take this opportunity to glance around. Bright, beautiful flowers contrast the dark, somber attire of the funeral attendees. Somber is respectful. The flowers are the exception.

  The cemetery is only a short ride from the funeral home. Ashton’s grandfather rides in the limousine. Ashton and I follow in my car.

  We don’t speak. We don’t cry. We don’t laugh.

  We mourn. Ashton mourns the loss of a lady he loved dearly. I mourn something different. I mourn the life he knew. The life that will never be the same.

  The life he’s going to have to make new and exciting every minute when it seems impossible. When it’s the last thing he wants to do.

  Everyone has left the grave site. Everyone except Ashton and me. We are sitting in the chairs on the front row, staring at the casket which sits on rails, just waiting to be lowered into the dry earth.

  A huge spray of blood-red roses with white baby’s breath adorns the top of the casket. So beautiful. Like her life now in heaven.

  “I can’t do it, Allison,” Ashton says. “I can’t say goodbye to her. I just can’t.”