I Shall Believe

It’s been two years since the day Skylar died.
Her town’s local newspaper called it an accident tragedy—based on the account of her parents, who demanded that she should be buried in a suit with the name Stephen on her marker. Her grandparents almost gave in but I was staying with them during that time and, tragically, I had to buy them off. I would have paid for everything anyway but it hurt the three of us that they only wanted to keep up the appearance of a “nice Southern family”-with the obituary notice reading her former name.
The funeral home adjusted everything else before the services and she was buried in a variation of the same summer dress and the bracelet her sister damaged. The service had minimal attendance. The small town they lived in didn’t understand nor wanted to accept her in death—at a time where she couldn’t fight back. I fought back and I stood next to the casket for as long as I could. Some people, would ask who I was and Paul and Sheryl would explain that I was a member of the family. That was enough for most of them.
I wanted to throw myself into concrete vault at the memorial park—in much the same way where I had wished I was the one who had fallen from that deathly height. Maybe I could be like that necromancer story she talked about and she would stand up and state she had a nightmare about flying.
I stayed in town for awhile before heading back to Memphis but I felt alone, even with my family, some acquaintances and my editor all reaching out with their condolences.
“I’m sorry to hear what happened,” Mr. Reed said as I sat across from his desk. I needed to talk to someone and perhaps luckily, he had just completed a Drama Society workshop.
“I feel empty.”
“Crisis does that.”
“A crisis is supposed to be good for an author.”
“I heard the same goes for a politician: never let a good crisis go to waste. Alas, this is not a good one.”
“Yeah, my editor said that too and I thought, yeah, having my life suck was a driving force for my other books. To play into the things that never happened to me and having people assume that I had this great life because my characters did. I had the life and it was taken away from me.”
“Did they ever say why her sister—”
“Katie.”
“Yes, Kate. Did she ever say why she did it?”
“No. No confession, no remorse. She was sent to to a mental hospital instead of prison due to being depressed. I’m still hate her.”
“For what she did?”
“For what she did and why she did it. I know why she did it, but they didn’t want to hear it, Mr. Reed. Everyone knew why she did it but no one cared to put it all together.”
Mr. Reed looked at me and closed his eyes. “The evil that men do for they do not understand strands as an imposing monolith. One had two choices.”
“Which are?”
“To walk away in defeat or to climb over it.”
“Sorry, you’ve lost me,” I replied as I laid my hands on the desk.
“Spencer, you’re a writer. You have the ability to tell a story. You need to tell this one, as painful as the truth is to tell.”
“Skylar liked my zombie attackers concept.”
“Sounds like she’s still with you.”
“She’ll always be with me, Mr. Reed.”
“Of course, Spencer, but you need to let everyone else meet her. What was your title again?”
“A Sweet Summer Song.”
Mr. Reed sat back on his desk. “One would think. That the Memphis air doesn’t go with that title. It’s not the right atmosphere for a tome like what you’re trying to write out.”
“What do you mean?”
“You, Mr. Spencer Logan, need a permanent change of scenery. In Georgia, perhaps?”
“And my story?”
“I hear that superhero soldiers with zombie girlfriends will be a popular genre.”
“Who did you hear that from?” I asked with a slight smile. Mr. reed ignored my question.
“So tell your editor that love works in mysterious ways and you write what we know is on your heart.”
“Heart, soul, and mind, sir,” I replied a I stood up.
“She’ll help you along, just keep listening.”
“I will.”
I moved from Memphis to the outskirts of Atlanta a few weeks later and once agains stayed with Paul and Sheryl. My editor was a bit perplexed with the manuscript I submitted, wanting to know where I got all of these science fictions ideas and if it was a great idea to give credit for the story to Skylar. My reply to my editor’s question became the words on the first page of the new book and the words that were inscribed on her marker:

“Because it was about her. It was always about her.”