Set in Headstone

__NOTOC__
===Chapter 1===
‘Twas not the dead of winter yet, though the hillside certainly was — dead. Even the ground, now blanketed in modest padding of the first snowfall, laid to rest the leaves that had fallen and crackled against the harshness of the earth. And although the Lone Pilgrim Cemetery should’ve been the last place for life to gather, there it did. Squirrels chased one another up and down the barrenness of trees, woodpeckers pecked along those same pillars of fir (which would either be chopped for Christmas decorations or make hospitable the graves of the unburied), and a visitor, a lone pilgrim himself, trudged from his car up to a stone of gray in a field of white.
“Here lies Charlotte Thomas”, it read, though the ledger had been weathered for many years. The rock was crumbling, a bit like the stone-cold one in his chest. And though the date was growing ever hard to read, it never changed: November 22nd. That day — the eve of Thanksgiving, though he had little to be thankful for and it wasn’t as if Thanksgiving eve was a day any different than the rest. None of them were.
“Happy birthday, Mums,” Milo said, blowing a bit of warmth into the bitter air and dropping the chrysanthemums before the headstone. They were, after all, how she got her nickname: Mums. He used to water those same flowers with his tears, but no more did he shed with those tired eyes of his, which blinked above the flowery pink that lay atop the snowy white and began reading the epitaph his sister had petitioned those years ago:
“Forever in our hearts.”
No. He couldn’t do this forever. And where was she? Where were her flowers?
A moment of silence passed, not a moment filled with prayer or petition, but silence alone. And then, at the end of that moment, he turned to leave. But it was when he did, that he noticed the adjacent grave, unadorned by any flowers and piled high with snow. And call it warmth, mere pity, or morbid curiosity, but he felt compelled to tidy it up. His gloved hand pressed against the rock and fanned away the snow that clouded the etched words, and that’s when he read it — the only thing he had carried with him since the day of his birth:
“Milo Thomas.” His name.
===Chapter 2===
“Couldn’t say,” the caretaker said through narrowed, yellow teeth, chomping on a pipe. He was short (not unlike his demeanor) and a somewhat pudgy man, with a scarf that wrapped his neck and chin and held up his pipe from pouring tobacco onto the grave on which they both stood — Milo’s grave.
“Could be a different Milo Thomas,” the caretaker said with a toothless smile, attempting to reassure him. Milo could tell he wasn’t used to the companionship of the living. He was a glorified gardener at an old cemetery, after all, and people skills were likely not a part of the job description.
“September the 23rd, 1987. That’s my birthday. December the- “
“That’s Christmas Eve,” the caretaker finished, following the date of death with his shaky, dry eyes.
“This Christmas Eve,” Milo said, turning to face him with a complexion somehow paler than usual. The old man bit his lower lip — chapped and brittle.
“As I said,” he said, again, huffing his pipe, “couldn’t say. Maybe a typo. I ain’t never seen a stone with a date that hadn’t happened yet.”
“Who would I talk to about it?” Milo asked. It couldn’t’ve been a typo — it was his name and his birthday. Exactly his name and birthday.
“Mason. He cuts all the stones.”
“Where’s he?”
The old man puffed again, tobacco-scented smoke blending with the heat of his breath in the air, “Down on 34th and Park. Little brick building. Can’t miss it.”
That’s where Milo went.
===Chapter 3===
The sign read OPEN, but the lot was dead. Then again, the only business a stone cutter would’ve seen would’ve been death, so perhaps business was booming. Yet, there were no prints in the snow leading to the front, glass doors, hazed in the fog of Jack Frost’s breath, but it was fresh snow, and fresh snow covers a multitude of tracks. Perhaps, Milo thought it silly of him to pester an old stone cutter about the writing on a rock, lest it concerned himself.
“Are you Mason?” Milo’s words startled the old-timer, not expecting any clientele during the first snow. Yet, there Milo was, a trail of snow from his boots melting into the shabby rug that ran from the front door all the way to the countertop that separated the two.
“I am a mason, yes. Who’s askin’?” the man asked in a tired tone.
“Milo Thomas,” Milo said, stepping forward. “That name ring a bell?”
The man shook his head, squinting through his spectacles.
“It should,” Milo said, lifting his phone and prodding it toward the man’s four eyes, “you carved it into a headstone.”
The man carefully examined the image. It was his work. Then he looked Milo up and down, his mouth wide enough open that a fly could’ve lodged inside his jaw.
“You don’t look very dead.”
“Not yet,” Milo smirked on the side of his cheek, “but by your estimation, I’m supposed to bite the big one this Christmas Eve.”
“My estimation?” the mason said. “Hell, it’s not up to me. I just cut the stones; I don’t write the damn engraving slips. That’s up to the families. You got a family, boy?”
Milo tilted his head in discomfort, “Used to.”
The mason grimaced, “It’s my work, but I don’t remember who the hell gave me the slip.”
“But didn’t you find it weird that the ‘death date’ hadn’t happened yet?”
“Boy, I’m 67 with thyroid cancer — I can’t remember if I pissed this morning. I stopped rememberin’ what year it was back when Carter got elected. Besides, the computer does all the work for me. So, unless you want a word with my computer, I can’t help you.”
And no help did Milo receive.
===Chapter 4===
Thanksgiving Day was no different from the rest — cold and stark. The widows frosted over early in the morning, just as the parade started, and they remained that way until night — making the outside world a foggy blur, which, given his state of mind, it was. Milo sat, alone (besides the company of that old, useless rotary his mother gifted him), and watched as the speckles of snow riddled the hazed window overlooking the narrow neighborhood street. He was riddled, too.
“Am I going to die?” he wondered. “Of course,” he supposed, “but am I going to die this Christmas Eve?” He didn’t know that answer. Not with certainty, anyway. But maybe someone did.
-----
“You look fine to me,” his doctor said, rolling back against the wall on one of those swiveling stools and lowering his glasses, “what’d you say was bothering you?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Just a hunch,” the doctor repeated, crossing his arms. He was quite astute, but perhaps that was just the glasses. Even without them, he had a keen eye. “Well, you don’t look like a Quasimodo to me,” he chuckled. “What’s your hunch?”
Milo sighed, “Nothing. It’s…stupid.” The doctor reciprocated that same sigh.
“Milo,” he said, “I’ve been doing this for more than fifteen years. And the more patients I see, I realize that most people ask more questions about the toppings on their salad than they do about their own bodies. Now, that’s stupid. I’m your doctor. Please, tell me.”
Milo sighed again, blowing cool air from his reddened cheeks, both warmed by his scarf and sheer embarrassment. He felt foolish. All this because of a stone.
“Well,” he swallowed, “I haven’t, uh, been in in…some time, and, uh, I just had a…premonition about my health-“
“What kind of premonition? You never struck me as the superstitious type.”
“Just a bad feeling, I guess.”
His doctor nodded, “Have you had any physical symptoms? Aches? Pains? Migraines? Heartburn?”
“No,” Milo said plainly, regretting that he even made such an appointment.
“Well, Milo, I’ll be honest — I’m no stranger to gut instincts. In fact, a lot of my older patients just seem to…know their own bodies better than any instrument ever could. But there’s always a warning sign or some kind of catalyst. You say you feel fine and, physically, you are. So, if you did have some kind of premonition about your health…I’d say it was ill-warranted.”
Milo nodded to himself, still uncomfortable. His doctor noticed.
“But if it is something that’s bothering you — mentally — I’d maybe see a shrink.” The doctor raised his hand and extended a convenient business card. It was pale and manilla. “Dr. Palmer,” he said, “friend of mine. He’s an excellent psychiatrist. He might be able to ease your mind and offer a second opinion.”
===Chapter 5===
“How was your holiday?” Dr. Palmer asked. Milo rolled his shoulders back and bobbed his head. Dr. Palmer was, perhaps, more acute than his doctor — attentive, yet not as probing as the psychoanalysts on tv.
“Fine — good. Yours?”
Dr. Palmer forced a half-smile, noting Milo’s short response, “Oh, our Thanksgiving was nice — thanks for asking. The holidays always seem to creep up on me — every year they go by faster and faster and, before I know it, another new year will have come and gone. Y’ever feel that way, Milo?”
Milo nodded, “Yeah. All the time.”
“Yeah,” Dr. Palmer sighed, “Dr. Melbourne tells me you’ve been troubled by some reoccurring thoughts. Care to tell me about those?”
He did.
“I, uh,” Milo began, despite his discomfort, “visited my mother’s grave on her birthday — the day before Thanksgiving. And on the headstone next to hers…was my name. And the date of death was Christmas Eve, this year.”
Dr. Palmer’s eyes widened, “I see,” he said. “That’s, uh…quite the frightening dream.”
Milo nodded, un-biting his lip, “It was.”
“A lot of my clients suffer from similar visions,” Dr. Palmer said, lacing his fingers and perhaps not as acute as Milo initially presumed. “Could you do something for me, Milo? A simple exercise?”
Milo nodded.
“Close your eyes.”
Milo did just that.
“Now, I want you to think about that cemetery, where your mother is buried. Think about that grave — the headstone. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” Milo said. It was an image forever ingrained in his mind; etched like the words on that slab.
“How do you feel — seeing your name? That date?”
“Scared. Anxious.”
“Any positive emotions?”
Milo thought about it, “Maybe…relief.”
“Relief?” Dr. Palmer asked, “How so?”
“Because that means I’d spend Christmas with my mother.”
Dr. Palmer nodded, jotting a note. Milo’s eyes were still clenched shut. Did he just incriminate himself?
“So, I take it you believe in some kind of afterlife?”
Milo thought again, “I don’t know. I guess I just assumed.”
“Assumed you’d see her again?”
“Right.”
Dr. Palmer paused, continuing to jot. Milo opened his eyes, not bearing to read his name over again.
“Now, this…relief…that you mention…has that manifested in any way?”
“What do you mean?” Milo asked. The doctor sighed and sat up straight, breathing through his nostrils.
“Well, it’s…it’s no secret that this time of year can elicit feelings of…sadness…from those who’ve experienced loss. And, unfortunately, suicide rates always seem to rise right after this time of year. You haven’t experienced any thoughts like that, have you, Milo?”
“No,” Milo said, confidence escaping him, “I mean…ever since she died, I wanted to be with my mother but…I never tried doing anything about it.”
Dr. Palmer nodded, jotting something.
“Well, Milo, it sounds like you’re still grieving. Losing a loved one, never mind a parent, is never easy. The process varies in how long it takes, depending on the person. And, given that your mother died many years ago, I’d have to classify your grief as ‘complicated’ — which just means it’s persistent. And, sometimes, complicated grief can be linked to clinical depression. That said, I’d like to prescribe you some antidepressants for the next several months. That might help you cope with these feelings and dreams.”
Milo nodded, even though he knew he didn’t have ‘several months’, according to the stone, that is.
===Chapter 6===
Dr. Palmer was right about one thing: grieving was complicated — complicated by the notion that Milo was grieving for himself. The medication didn’t seem to help with that one. Dr. Palmer said its effects wouldn’t kick in for several weeks, but several weeks was time that Milo didn’t have. It was already December — and nineteen days away from Christmas Eve.
It wasn’t exactly the kind of day one would want to die, not that anyone would, and not to mention the constant reminders of its imminence. Practically, the whole month of December was just a countdown to that one evening. And, not unlike the children at large, Milo’s anticipation for the Eve of Christmas was utterly grueling. Only, not for toys and trinkets.
-----
“He’ll be coming — Christmas Eve!”
Milo couldn’t help but overhear the words excitedly spat by the toddler rocking incessantly in that booster seat atop the grocery store cart.
“Who will?” Milo swallowed. He must’ve looked insane insisting such from a child, but it was almost compulsive that he did.
“Santa!”
The child’s mother flashed Milo an awkward smile. He took a step back and nudged the shelf of cereal boxes with his shoulder. He shouldn’t’ve been drinking with the medication. Hell, he shouldn’t’ve made eye contact with the kid. Or, maybe, the kid made eye contact with him.
Why did it bother him so much, anyway — who would be coming on Christmas Eve, according to some kid? Perhaps it was a sign, he thought.
Maybe he was superstitious.
===Chapter 7===
It was that conclusion that led him back to the church. It was December fifteenth, meaning it had been over seven years since he had last stepped foot into the place. The mere smell of it reminded him of why he never came back — it reeked of death, the same nose-full he smelled the day of his mother’s funeral. It was the same pale-red carpet too, same sickly organ, and those same beady eyes scattered amongst the pews that latched their way onto his. He tried to mind the stained glass.
The choir’s tune sounded familiar — In the Bleak Midwinter, one of those melancholic Christmas songs his mother had played every winter. The song carried him down the aisle and into one of the pews, one furthest away from peering eyes. Except, not the eyes of the deacon, who had followed him the entire way. He remembered Milo — remembered his mother — and opted to sit beside him, much to Milo’s discomfort, even though he knew he was there to speak to him.
“Haven’t seen you in here in a while,” the deacon said. He had a warm gaze that seemed to melt the frost from Milo’s cheeks. Milo tried not to let such charisma influence him — he was there for a reason.
“Yeah.”
“How long’s it been? Six years?”
“Seven. But who’s counting?”
The deacon chuckled, “Y’know your mother, for as sick as she was, never missed a Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. I’d like to extend the same invite to you, Milo— “
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Milo said, “I just came to get a question answered.”
“Name it.”
Milo swallowed, “What can you tell me about signs?”
“We talkin’ road signs or billboards?” the deacon smirked.
“Sign signs. I don’t know — ‘signs from God.’”
“What kind of ‘signs from God’?”
Milo sighed, “Maybe I’m just going crazy-”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” the deacon said. Milo looked over at him as he smiled. “Oh, c’mon Milo. Y’think I haven’t heard some crazy stuff while working in the Church? I have. And for as long as I’ve known you — which could be longer if you bothered to show up on a Sunday once in a while — you have not been crazy.”
“Well, I sure feel it,” Milo said, rolling his eyes, “I saw my name on a grave last month, and now I keep looking over my shoulder waiting for the grim reaper.”
The deacon nodded, “Have you thought about talking to someone about it?”
“I am,” Milo said, looking intently at him. “I already talked to my doctor and a shrink. You weren’t my first choice, Deacon.”
The deacon chuckled, “No, I’m usually not. Neither is the Lord. Look around,” he said. Milo did, the eyes of the pew dwellers staring back at him.
“What about ‘em? The old folks?”
“That’s exactly it. They’re old — dying. Sometimes it takes being faced with death before we’re ready to face God, Himself.”
“I don’t need to ‘face God’, I just need someone to tell me I’m acting crazy over this whole headstone thing.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re crazy. Maybe a little drunk,” the deacon said with a glance, whiffing the booze on his breath, “but not crazy. Being faced with our own mortality is bound to make anyone feel the same way-“
“But I can’t die in a week, Deacon. I’m as healthy as a horse — my doctor said so — and I’m not planning on killing myself anytime soon. So, unless there’s some kind of freak accident or I get struck by lightning, I can’t die!”
The deacon bobbed his head to the tune of the carol.
“I can’t speak for the Lord, Milo,” he said, “but all I can tell you is that I’ve seen perfectly healthy, normal people drop dead without explanation,” he said with a snap of his fingers, chilled even in the warmth of the heated cathedral. “Now, I’m sure there is one, medically speaking. But as a deacon of this church I know, from personal experience, that the Lord can take away anything that He’s given. And that includes the gift of life. I mean, you think of Christ,” he said, glancing at the nativity scene before the choir, finishing the carol, “He was born to die.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“No,” the deacon said, matter-of-factly, “we’re born to live, because of Christ’s death.”
“Yet we die anyways,” Milo said. The deacon turned to face him, resting a hand on his shoulder. It was cold. “Just like my mother. And just like me.”
The deacon thought about Milo’s words for a long moment, just as the organ piped up to another carol, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day. He smiled, then, before his face grew somber.
“What good is life if not for death?” the deacon finally said.
“What?”
“Well, what I mean is…if there were no end to life, would we try to live it any differently?”
Milo sighed, “I don’t know. All I know is I’m not ready.”
“Who is?” the deacon chuckled. “Maybe that’s the point,” he smiled, “to get ready.”
===Chapter 8===
When Milo awoke from the throbbing blackness, it dawned on him that it was the 23rd. He hadn’t gotten ready — not yet anyway. The fire before him was roaring, and it crackled with burning judgment. His eyes sunk into it for a moment, before he turned and scanned the room which it illuminated with orange and yellow licks, filling the shimmering scattering of empty bottles of booze, and, snatching his second refill of antidepressants, he let ol’ Jack knock his daily dose back into his gullet. When he had licked his chops and wiped away the remaining slobber, he let his eyes fall, once again, onto the flames. They filled with salty tears as his lip blubbered.
“God,” he whimpered, “I know I haven’t done this in a while. B-but if you’ll spare me, I’ll do it more often. I promise.”
The crackling fire grew silent in response, nearly causing the already dark and drabby room to go black. Milo grimaced.
“God dammit!” he said again, louder, and harder, both in his chest and in his heart, “first my mother, and now me? Do you have to take everything?”
The room remained still. He lifted the bourbon to his lips and swigged again.
“I didn’t even do anything,” he said to the fire. “Did I?” He thought about that. And, after a moment, he reached for that old rotary — the useless one.
Of course. She didn’t answer.
“Hey Jeanie,” he said, sobering himself to speak and sitting up in that armchair that sunk him in, “I know it’s been…a long time — since Mom, well…y’know. I, uh, don’t really know why I called. I guess I just wanted to say…I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the things I said. I was angry. You wanted to leave, and this was the only place I called home. But I- well, that doesn’t matter anymore. Look, tomorrow is…Christmas Eve, and I, uh, just wanted to say that…I love you, and I hope you’re doing well.”
And with that, he hung up.
===Chapter 9===
At midnight, there was a moment of hope that, maybe, he wasn’t going to die — when that minute hand passed the twelve. But then he realized there were yet twenty-four hours more of Christmas Eve, and that hope dwindled. And then he thought:
“If most people die in their sleep…I just…won’t.”
So, he didn’t. Which was harder said than done, considering the booze in his gut.
After about two hours of staring at the clock in contemplation, he decided to barricade himself in his room. Perhaps it was the words from that little kid in the store or mere superstition, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, the bookshelf (filled not with any page-turners) fit ever-so-snuggly before the single door to his place. No one would be getting in, and it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go.
“Amen,” he said to the fireplace, lifting the little bottle of booze from his lips into the air, and turning to face the barricaded door — the start of a long night and an even longer day, Christmas Eve.
===Chapter 10===
Milo didn’t seem to notice or seem to care (or maybe both were true) when the doorknob started jiggling. It was soft at first, and perhaps he didn’t hear it over the fire. But when the first knock rang in, it startled him. And then he heard.
“Milo?” the voice on the other side of the barricaded door said. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time. So long, in fact, that he doubted his own ears. Maybe he was hearing things.
“Jeanie?” he asked, sitting up. His eyelids had grown tired and, frankly, he lost count of what hour it was — and the ice on the windows kept him from telling dawn and dusk apart, but hearing that voice woke him right up, and it didn’t matter what time of day it came through that door.
“Milo, it’s me,” the voice said, “I got your call.”
In a snap, he sprung to his feet and trotted two paces toward the door. But then he realized it was barricaded for a reason with that bookshelf, and that doubt he extended to his ears trickled up to his brain. And, suddenly, that voice on the other side grew less familiar, and far more grim.
“How do I know it’s really you?” he asked, taking a step back. His footing was not certain, but neither was he.
“What?” the voice said. “Who else would it be, Milo? It’s me!”
“At this hour?”
“I came as soon as you called — I can’t say I was expecting it.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Jeanie I remember,” Milo said, gruffly.
“I’m not the Jeanie you remember, Milo. Now, open the door-”
“That’s more like it,” he said, “demand me to do it again. Maybe I’ll listen this time.”
“Milo, you called me. What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing, just…come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Christmas, Milo. And I’m here now. Just open the door.”
“No. And if you really are Jeanie, you’ll do this one thing for me and come back tomorrow.”
“Who the hell else would I be, Milo? And what is wrong with you?” the voice said as the handle jiggled harder, weight pressing against the door. Milo’s heart began to thump, louder than it was already.
“Don’t!” he snapped, “I won’t let you in.”
The voice sighed, trying the handle again, “Now you know why I haven’t come around, okay? Now you know, Milo!”
“Fine, I know,” he said, stumbling backward, his heart pounding, “now leave! I won’t let you have me-”
“What?” the voice said, “Milo, are you drunk?”
“No,” Milo said with a stumble, “I’m just-“
And that’s when Milo fell — stone-cold.
-----
Milo Thomas was declared legally dead on December the 24th, Christmas Eve, survived by his sister, Jeanie, who had only heard a crash inside his locked home before breaking a window and calling 911. The apparent cause of death could’ve been a number of things — blunt force trauma from the fall, a heart attack, heart failure (or kidney failure for that matter), or a stroke. However, none of these were confirmed by the date of his funeral, which happened to be Christmas, the following day.
The funeral was held at the Lone Pilgrim Cemetery, and he was given the plot aside the grave of his mother. The headstone was already prepared. And when asked about Milo Thomas’ promptly displayed headstone, the stonecutter tilted his head before remembering a name that, finally, rang a bell.
Category:Reality
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Christmas
Category:MakRalston