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The grave.

It was a child’s grave, she was sure of that even though she had no reason to be. Alone and abandoned and forgotten, the grave was tucked back into the shadows at the far end of a narrow gully; the tiny dirt mound in front of the weathered pink headstone

pink is for girls

all but eroded by the countless seasons

how many

of rain and snow and drought while she, and who knows how many others, passed by.

What kind of mother would bury her child, alone, in the woods? What kind of mother would do such a thing?

A bad mother, Elizabeth Hesse thought as she looked down at the little grave, a very bad mother.

“I would never have done that,” she said out loud. “I would have been a good mother.”

But even as she said the words she knew it wasn’t true, because a good mother would have seen the grave before this.

And she hadn’t.

Until today.

One of the things she was always telling the children who came into the library was, “Look. See the world. Don’t just wander blindly through it. Notice everything.”

Wonderful, hypocritical words. She had said them for fifteen years, every day for fifteen years … and still she hadn’t noticed anything. Hadn’t looked. Had wandered blindly back and forth in front of the grave for fifteen years of her own life and never seen it.

Until today.

A small sound began to whisper from Elizabeth’s mouth, but she caught it with her fingers before it escaped. Her hand still smelled of the tuna sandwich she’d had for lunch; the fish oil stronger than the gardenia-scented liquid soap in the Teacher’s Lounge.

Her father’s company had sent a spray of gardenias to his funeral. Small and white, they had nevertheless filled the viewing room with their scent. Her mother had complained about that, saying it was overpowering.

There were no flowers on the small grave, just a thin blanket of autumn leaves.

It made Elizabeth shiver just looking at it. A good mother would have tried to keep her baby warm. She would have done that if it had been her child. She would have been a good mother. She wouldn’t have buried it in the woods.

No.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and let her hand drop to the top button on her cardigan. It wasn’t a real grave. What she had seen, and would see again when she opened her eyes, would be a rock that only looked like a headstone. She hadn’t noticed it before because there was nothing to notice.

It’s not a grave. It’s not a grave. It’s not—

Elizabeth kept repeating the words until she opened her eyes. And then the words and hope went away.

It was a grave … but perhaps only the grave of an animal.

Yes. That fit. It was the grave of some beloved pet that had died of old age or accident and been buried. Or a favorite dolly.

Elizabeth sighed. Of course, it had to be a joke or animal’s grave. No mother in her right mind would bury a child so far away … from … everything. Alone. Abandoned.

Forgotten.

Good mothers just didn’t do that sort of thing. Good mothers protected their children and made sure they were healthy and happy and …

But if the grave was only a childish fancy, then that meant some mother … some bad mother had let her child wander into the woods.

Alone!

Elizabeth turned and glanced quickly up and down the path.

The children knew they weren’t supposed to play in the woods. It had been the subject of concern for years; probably even as far back as when she was a child. The woods were not safe, they never had been. Her own mother told her that repeatedly.

Only last November, the second day of the Thanksgiving holiday, Polly Winter, a fourth grader, had broken her ankle while playing a game of Hide-and-Seek with visiting cousins. Elizabeth had seen her just that morning from the library window and she was still limping, nearly a full year later, poor child. Poor, willful child.

Something rustled in the tall grass near the stand of red-leafed maple directly behind the

grave

gully and Elizabeth bit her lip. The woods were not safe. The woods were secluded. The woods were lonely … so very lonely.

Whatever was in the grave—doll or dog (or child)—it was alone