“We Will Return No More” by Rachel Dempsey

So many ways to die, and yet here she is again, forced not only to keep living but to do it in the vilest place on earth: another high school. Spine molded to a bank of lockers, Grace Wurth waits for a break in traffic to merge with her fellow students.

Mom insists Denver will be different. More than bloodlines or alma maters, Coloradans care about a person’s recreational habits. Grace already uses CBD for her anxiety and depression, so upgrading to THC should be easy.

“No problem,” she assures her mother, “finding a dispensary is priority one.”

“I meant outdoor recreation.” Mom never laughed much, but lately, she can’t even recognize a joke when she hears one.  

With her red-rimmed eyes and sluggish gait, Mom’s the one who could be stoned. The night before, Grace had slept with her earbuds in to drown out the sound of crying. Not fair, she knows, but the weeping hurts her teeth and makes Grace want to punch a hole through the cheap walls.

Now there’s a quiet panic in Mom’s swollen eyes as she turns to make sure Grace is still following behind her. They forge ahead toward the administrative offices, dodging units of squealing girls––besties reunited for the first time since the previous spring or the final summer party. Their screeching sends frissons from Grace’s tailbone to her brain stem, overloading her system with a hot rush of hate. For them, or myself? Both, equally.

The school building makes hiding difficult, with its high ceilings and too much natural light streaming in from entire walls of windows. She might be suffering from the reverse of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Could be her medication gave her a sun allergy, that’s a real thing. She’s about to tell Mom they’d better go home and try again when it’s cloudy––only sixty days out of the year in Denver, she’s read––when a cool, dry hand brushes against her clammy one.

The freakishly tall guy keeps moving down the hall. He could almost pass for a teacher–– from his wrinkle-free, formal clothing to the confidence of his walk, the overall effect signals ‘I’m better than this place.’ When he peers over his shoulder, tossing a thick sweep of blue-black hair, all the air rushes from Grace’s body. The intimacy of his smile melts away the crowded hallway. They are alone. He knows her and everything about her. Grace shivers.

“Grace? You coming?” The worry in Mom’s voice draws more stares and Grace’s arms beg to be scratched. Tall Guy is gone. Though she’s sweating, she loosens the black hoodie from around her waist and pulls it on, bumping a passing girl with her messenger bag.

“Watch it!” The petite blond snaps, rubbing her elbow. Everything about the girl shines, from her bronzed cheekbones down to the snakeskin booties on her stamping feet. She even smells bright and juicy, like grapefruit. Grace shrinks away, fading into shadow once more.

Not as different as Mom had hoped, then. Or maybe it doesn’t matter where they escape to if Grace can’t leave herself behind.

Schedule in hand and finally rid of Copter-Mom, Grace is both relieved and terrified. Since the night she’d swallowed those pills, someone has been constantly watching her. Yet despite the school counselor’s assurances that she will be “well looked-after,” Grace has plenty of experience with ghosting. Cloaked in anonymity, she drifts from class to class, disappearing behind her hair, jotting meaningless phrases in her notebook, and trying not to scratch whenever a teacher glances in her direction. In Pre-Calc, she’s called on to solve an equation, and though she answers correctly, her voice is croaky from neglect and some asshole in the next row snickers. She vows to stay silent for the rest of the day. There are worse things than loneliness.

Mom texts her three times, once every hour.

How’s it going?

Do you like your classes?

Where are you now?

Grace responds as briefly as possible.

Ok

Meh

Lunch

She buys a bottle of Gatorade from the vending machine, hoping it will help stave off the altitude headaches that still plague her, and walks outside. Lots of kids are getting in cars, driving away to grab lunch off-campus, or to someone’s empty house to drink, smoke, have sex. Grace doesn’t have a car in the lot, and probably won’t be allowed to drive alone again until she’s like thirty, but if she did, she wouldn’t go any of those places. She’d drive west to the mountains in the distance, just keep going until the air felt thin and there were no human voices. Next best thing is a secluded spot beneath a tree. Shielded from gawkers, she can finally take off the heavy sweatshirt and let the arid breeze lick the moisture from her damaged skin.

“There’s a cemetery across the street, did you know?”

Grace squeaks in surprise. It’s him, from the hand-brushing incident. What’s he doing lurking behind trees? Pranking the new girl? There doesn’t seem to be anyone watching, but she huddles against the trunk just in case. He has to duck under the lowest branches to get close.

“Stop.”

She meant it literally, but he thinks they’re still talking about the cemetery.

“No, really. It’s kind of our unofficial mascot, the Living Dead. Most of them have about as much charm as a pack of zombies.”

“Who’s them?” she asks reflexively, drawn against her will to this fellow outlier.

He sweeps a long bony arm toward the school. “The good boys and girls of Shit-stain High.”

“You’re the first to talk to me.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I was new last year. It sucked. Wait. Still does.”

Something loosens inside Grace and she laughs. “Weird place to put a school, next to a cemetery.”

“I think the school was here first.”

“Weird place to put a cemetery, next to a school.”

“Is it?” He runs both hands through his hair, tucking the longer pieces behind his ears.

His eyes are the color of an old penny, with lashes worthy of a mascara ad. Could be he does wear make-up, Grace muses, with skin that flawless. Except for one puckered patch above his Adam’s apple, the size and shape of a cigar tip. The thought of someone burning him makes her vision go bloody. He rubs the spot, glancing at the scars on her arms, but instead of making her feel self-conscious, his gentle smile is more soothing than any balm she’s tried.

It’s there, on the edge of her tongue. The whole freaking story.

I haven’t had a real friend since elementary school. We moved from D.C. after I tried to kill myself again . . .

In the distance, the tinny sound of the bell marks the end of their lunch period. Grace swallows her near confession with the last mouthful of Gatorade. What the hell was she thinking, about to reveal herself to a stranger? Already, he’s leaving, heading off in the opposite direction of her next class.

“Hey!” Grace surprises herself by calling after him. “What’s your name?”

“Marc.” His voice stays level, but his visage expands from wary to wistful.

“I’m Grace. See you around?”

“Hope so.”

He turns to leave again, though slowly, maybe waiting for her to catch up.

She follows him to the edge of campus and through the crosswalk to the other side of the street. He doesn’t speak, yet the measured pace of his long strides tells her he knows she’s there.

The gate to the cemetery stands wide open. On the horizon, a white pillar rises from a row of smaller buildings like a giant middle finger.

Grace falls into step beside Marc as they walk up and down the rows of tombstones––some modest, eroded by time and the elements, others so grandiose she thinks they must be the graves of celebrities or something, but if so, they aren’t names she recognizes.

Here, Marc speaks more freely, with an unfamiliar ease Grace imagines exists between old friends. He fills her in on important things like which kids to avoid and how to get out of running in gym class. Grace listens quietly, weaving around bouquets of decaying roses and wilted balloons. The sun beats hot on her back and a roasted herbal smell rises from the brown grass.

To the south lies a diminutive lake, still as the corpses surrounding it. Grace almost yearns for the ambient swarming of gnats and mosquitos so noticeably absent in Denver. Even the smallest creatures struggle to survive here.

Marc slows as they approach a humble marker near the end of a row. Angela Benning, Beloved Wife and Mother, the headstone reads.

“Fucking cancer.” Marc grinds his boot against a clump of trespassing weeds.

“Was she . . .”

“My mom. It’s been over two years, but I still wake up sometimes thinking she’ll be there.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Didn’t expect to be this lonely.” Regret saddles his every word, as if he could have somehow saved her.

“What about your dad?” It’s been so long since Grace has seen hers, she often forgets fathers are a thing.

 “Too drunk to even notice I’m still here.”

Grace flounders for the right answer like she’s in Pre-Calc. Once again, it does no good to be correct. There are worse things than loneliness.

Her phone hums from inside her bag. Probably Mom again. She ignores the sound, thinking about how hard it must have been for Marc to lose a parent so young. A tingle of gratitude for her own healthy, very-much-alive mother gets washed away by shame. The misfortune of others always makes Grace feel guilty; in the Russian Roulette of life, somebody had to get the bullet and it could just as easily have been her mom instead of Marc’s. As much as the constant surveillance grates on her, at least she has one parent who cares. Since her earliest memories, it’s been the two of them, the only constant in one another’s lives amidst a wash of interchangeable apartments, schools, and jobs. 

While the mechanical buzzing continues, Marc turns away, shoulders drooping. “We can go.”

She wants to grab his hand. Instead, she plunks down, cross-legged beside the grave, and pulls her bag into her lap. From its jumbled contents, Grace extracts several pieces of plain white paper. Marc watches intently as she folds the first sheet into a miniature lotus flower.

He drops beside her, taking the blossom from her palm. “How’d you do that?”

She shows him, step by step, but he won’t even try.

“We all have different magic,” he says.

 She crafts a few more flowers, placing each one in front of Angela’s stone. By the time they finish and walk back to the school building, they’ve missed fifth period, barely making it to sixth on time.

When they part outside her Physics classroom, Marc doesn’t even say goodbye. Grace’s heart shrivels. What did she expect? They made some dumb origami together and now they’re betrothed?

In the morning, Marc is waiting beneath their tree with a paper bag. As Grace approaches, trying to breathe normally, he turns in the direction of the cemetery.

“Little early for a picnic, isn’t it?” Grace hesitates, thinking of Mom’s face––disappointment warring with fear––if she gets another call from the attendance office.

Marc only smiles and walks to the street.

Of course, she follows, practically skipping to keep up. Her pulse galumphs the way it always does when she moves faster than a crawl. Damn Mile High City, stingy with its oxygen.

Marc leads her along the same path as before, habituated as a horse returning to the stables. When Grace strays to read the surrounding headstones, he yanks her sleeve, pointing to one wreathed in lush white blossoms. Lotus flowers.

She stoops to breathe in the heady fragrance, fingering the waxy petals. Their paper creations have come to life. “How?”

Marc sits with his back against the headstone beside his mother’s and unpacks the paper bag. Scraps of cardstock in every shade litter the grass as he folds a perfect specimen and presses it to her palm.

“Plant it.”

Kneeling, Grace places the imitation blue flower amongst its living predecessors. Nestled in the parched soil, the stiff bud unfurls, sucking moisture from unseen depths. A craving stirs in Grace’s belly. The paper, a dead plant resurrected, draws sustenance from desiccated earth and bones. How? A miracle. By the force of God’s will. Or Marc’s.

Or hers?

Hunger sharpens. To finally reap the sowing of something good. 

Grace harvests the blue blossom. Its petals are soft and sweet as a kiss on her tongue. She swallows it whole. Roots slide down her throat, coiling round organs as fluid swells her veins, healing her body from cracked heels to ragged cuticles. Choosing a piece of yellow paper from the pile at their feet, Grace folds another flower and plants it. As soon as the fibers pulse with life, she plucks the fresh stem from the ground and offers it to Marc. His heavy lashes sink as he chews. They loll in the savory grass, shoulders touching, and forget everything but each other.

The following day, they walk to the cemetery and eat lotus flowers for lunch. Marc stacks their bags in front of a neighboring marker to create an umbrella of shade then falls asleep with his head in Grace’s lap. She stretches back against the sun-toasted granite of Angela’s tombstone and wishes she could tell the departed mother “good job” and that she will look after Marc for as long as he’ll let her.

“Forever,” Grace whispers to any ghosts who might be listening. She weaves her fingers through Marc’s hair, massaging his scalp. When her nails scrape a hard knot at the base of his skull, they both flinch. Old pain tints Marc’s complexion the putrid yellow of a bruise. He sits up slowly as if he’s forgotten how.

Before he can say anything, Grace wriggles away, brushing pollen from her dark jeans. “We should get back. My mom’s going to freak if I miss any more classes.”

Marc’s smile spreads like honey in tea, sweet mixing with bitter. “My mom wouldn’t want that, either.”

On the fourth day, Grace rolls up onto her elbow and, emboldened by her heftiest dose of the plant’s entheogenic power, traces the stippled flesh of Marc’s neck. He winces but allows her touch to linger.

The circle of scar tissue could be from a cigar burn. But it isn’t. One raised orb of angry red glares inside another, a bloodshot eye. Or the kiss of a gun. A bullet entry point with an exit to match on the back of his skull.

Even as the words seep from her mouth, she both knows and does not want to know.

“Who did this?”

“I did,” he says.

She is crying so hard she can’t see Marc’s face, but his arms around her are warm and safe.

He strokes the ruined skin of her wrists as if coddling a skittish animal. “Who did this?”

“I did,” she says.

He picks a fresh blossom from atop his mother’s grave. “Sometimes we eat to forget.” Places it upon her tongue like a sacrament. “Sometimes to remember.”

On the fifth day, Grace returns to their tree. He is not there.

She walks to the cemetery, alone but for the circling crows overhead. The weather is turning toward a season of death and gooseflesh prickles Grace’s body in recognition.

He is not there.

At Angela’s grave, the blossoms are a jungle so pungent Grace is high before tasting a single one. Bloom after bloom, she gorges. He will not come.

She eats until she chokes, driven to her knees by violent spasms. Spewing the magic back into the earth where it belongs. When the heaving finally stops, Grace reaches out a hand for help up before she remembers.

He is not there to obscure the name on the tombstone beside his mother’s.

Marc Benning

If he’d died first, would his mom have ensured the inscription matched hers? Beloved Son. Or would she have lurched along like Marc’s dad, struck lifeless by the savagery of a world that attacks mothers with cancer and idly watches children riddle their own bodies with cuts, poisons and bullets?

Grace pulls a square of red paper from her pocket, folds, then plants the offering. It remains merely paper.

She stomps the blossom flat, wanting to grind herself into the soil. Then she sees the words scrawled across the crumpled page.

The world needs your kind of magic.

Retrieving the paper, she brushes off the dirt. The instant it meets her tongue, petals swell to bursting.  Her mind supple, Grace drinks in the kiss of sun on her eyelids, acknowledging he has passed beyond her care.

He will return no more. But today, she will not follow. She will return, so others may see, and remember.

So many ways to die. What about all the ways to live?

She walks back to school with her head tilted to the trees, the birds, the sky. The breeze off the lake blows cooler still, but she leaves her sweatshirt tied around her waist. Beneath Grace’s Vans, the earth curls into Herself, preparing for long rest. For a season, not forever. Next fall, maybe she and Mom will drive into the mountains and hike among the golden Aspens. Maybe by then, she’ll be ready to tell how she once brought paper blossoms and a dead boy to life. How each in their own way, they returned the favor. 

 As she slips into her seat right before the bell, Grace tastes a petal tucked in her cheek. Rolls it around her mouth, bidding the power root deep.

Her classmates can smell the blossom on her. Their eyes catch on her bare arms, her dew-slicked face, and when she meets them, they do not look away.

About Rachel Dempsey
She/Her/Hers

Rachel Dempsey has written and directed over a dozen plays for numerous acclaimed theater organizations such as Imagination Stage and ArtStream. Her prose won first prize in The Colorado Gold Rush Literary Awards and also won the Denver Women’s Press Club Emerging Writers Contest. Her fiction appears in anthologies by Shacklebound Books and Brigids Gate Press, among others. She holds a BFA in Drama and English from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and a Master’s degree in Journalism from Georgetown University. Currently, she lives in Denver with her husband and three daughters and attends the MFA program at Regis University. She is an active member of the writing community through Lighthouse Writers Workshop and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers.  Find her on Instagram and Twitter @rachelsdempsey and blogging at www.rmfw.org/blog.