Lighting the Flames (11 page)

“
Stars are mortal, like us. They
’
re born, they age,
and they die.
”

Jeremy nodded slowly. That probably sounded very
familiar to him.

“
But
they live longer than we do, like, millions of years longer. Only a
few of the stars we can see from the earth without telescopes are
actually dying, and astronomers know exactly which ones they are.
And they
’
re still a few million years from burning out.
They
’
ll die, but not for a long while, long after
us.
”

Jeremy looked up at the sky the same moment she did.
When he spoke, his breath formed a faint cloud above her that blew
away in the wind.

“
So
these guys, they
’
re all still alive.
”

“
Yup. They
’
re alive, watching us. Like pervs.
”

Jeremy laughed, and the sound rolled away from them
across the rippled snow, bouncing off the trees beyond and
multiplying for a moment before going silent.

“
Do
you miss Iceland?
”

Gen stilled, looking
up at the North Star and the glowing clusters she could only see
with her peripheral vision.
“
Sort of. A little,
because it was
…”
She paused. Her time away was all mixed in grief and
adventure and research and discovery, and it was difficult to
describe.

“
It
was amazing in many ways, good and bad, but I
couldn
’
t live there. I like living here.
”

“
Here? At camp?
”
They both moved away from the fence
at the same time, Jeremy
’
s hands dropping to
his sides when she stepped back.

“
Ha,
I wish.
”
They began their awkward trek through the snow toward the
outdoor adventure area where Jeremy planned to hide more items for
the hunt.

She did wish she could live at camp, really. Camp
was home in a way that nothing else was, and she wished she could
live there, that it could be summer all year long, that she could
have the friendships that only existed here become permanent parts
of her life everywhere.

Gen kept her eyes on
the snow in front of her, making sure to step in
Jeremy
’
s tracks to keep their trail as small as possible. If they
did get the expected amount of snow, their footprints would be
mostly filled in, and it wouldn
’
t be obvious where
things had been hidden.

“
I
wish this were my home, too. Sometimes,
”
Jeremy said, pulling
himself up onto a low branch and hanging a black leather cord on a
loose piece of bark. Gen recorded the GPS coordinates, then looked
up at him.

“
Not
a lot of business here, though,
”
she replied.
“
Unless you do animal
funerals.
”

“
I
’
ve done a few,
”
he said, surprising
her.

“
Really?
”

“
Yeah, mostly dogs, a few cats.
”

Gen stared at him. He
jumped down from the tree branch and shrugged, looking a little
embarrassed, but he didn
’
t start
walking.

“
We
have sample caskets in smaller sizes. Dad doesn
’
t like it, but for
most people, pets are part of the family.
”

Gen nodded.

“
But
you
’
re right, I couldn
’
t do wildlife.
Business would be very slow if I lived here. Not that many Jewish
families.
”

He opened his mouth,
like he was about to say something, but then turned and started
walking, leaving his unsaid thought behind him. Gen wanted to drag
him back and make him keep talking, but she
couldn
’
t. It was rare he had something to say that she
didn
’
t want to hear, but she
’
d never been able to
make him talk when he didn
’
t want to.

With a shock, she
realized that this was one of the very few times
they
’
d ever talked about the real world at camp, that
he
’
d
mentioned what he did during the time he wasn
’
t at Meira. She
looked at his back and ran a few steps to catch up, wishing she
could ask him to say more. Did he want to go into his
family
’
s business? Did he live in the apartment above the funeral
home? Was he happy there? The way he spoke, the twist of his voice,
made her think he was talking about more than funerals.

But she was afraid to
ask. And unwilling. She hated people asking her questions about her
future, what her plans were. Too many people just asked because
they wanted to tell Gen what they thought of her answer, especially
now, because everyone who was older than her seemed to think they
were some kind of expert on grief. They didn
’
t want to listen.
Asking was their way of giving themselves an invitation to talk and
deliver their opinion of what she was doing. She
’
d told him about her
frustrations once, and since then, he
’
d never asked her
about anything she was doing unless she brought it up.

But maybe Jeremy
didn
’
t mind if she asked. Very few people asked him about his
job, or how he was doing, she realized. Maybe because they
didn
’
t want to know. It all had something to do with dead
people, so unless someone wanted to know about particular funeral
details, no one asked Jeremy about how work was going. And if they
did, they usually asked in a joking tone, masking their own
discomfort. Either way, they never got much of an
answer.

“
It
’
s always busy,
”
he
’
d say, his reply
identical every time, wry and distant.

But maybe she should ask. She wanted to know what he
meant. Maybe he would tell her.

“
So
…”
Gen
’
s voice sounded so heavy and awkward in her ears, she
expected to see its tracks in the snow.

“
So?
”

“
Is
that why you got your mortuary degree? You
’
re taking over the
business?
”

He
didn
’
t respond right away, and Gen wouldn
’
t have known
he
’
d
heard her if she hadn
’
t been watching his feet in the snow. His stride
slowed for a moment, as if he was about to stop moving, before he
pressed forward again.

“
Yeah,
”
he mumbled.
“
Sort
of.
”

He glanced at her over his shoulder, and as he
turned away, she saw him press his lips inward, like he was keeping
the rest of his reply in his mouth.

“
You
can tell me. I won
’
t be upset.
”

He stopped and turned
toward her.
“
You sure?
”

She stepped close to him, his face the only thing in
color that she could see.

“
I
asked, didn
’
t I? I
’
d
…
I
’
d like to know why you went.
”
Why you
didn
’
t tell me why you were going, why I heard about it
from someone else
.
But she didn
’
t say the rest out
loud, as much as she wanted to. This was about him, not
her.

He nodded, then started walking, but moved aside and
slowed down so she could walk next to him.

“
I
want to hide some stuff in the supply boxes, because the kids will
definitely think to look there.
”
He lifted his chin to gesture to the
low ropes course.

“
They
’
ll probably look for candy, too.
”

“
I
have some,
”
he replied, smiling at her.

“
You
have candy and you didn
’
t share?
You
’
re holding out on me, dude.
”
She shoved her
shoulder into his arm. If he
’
d done that to her,
she
’
d have flown sideways into the snow, but Jeremy hardly
wavered as he walked next to her.

He pulled a Jolly Rancher out of his pocket and
dropped it into her outstretched glove, then unrolled one for
himself. It clicked on his teeth a bit when he spoke.

“
I
told you Dad wanted Colin to go to mortuary school,
right?
”

Gen nodded.
Jeremy
’
s stories of how different he was from his brother, Colin,
were legendary at camp. Colin was the ideal son who did nothing
wrong, and Jeremy, well, he figured out the best way to park a golf
cart on someone
’
s roof.

“
But
Colin
…
he didn
’
t want to. He still doesn
’
t. He
doesn
’
t know what he wants to do, but he knows
it
’
s
not that.
”
Jeremy looked at the long list of items in his hand before
he spoke again.
“
And there
’
s no other way to get
a license, really. So I went.
”

He punctuated his
sentence with a shrug, like it was no big deal. But Gen knew he was
downplaying his decision. He had mentioned the pressing weight of
his dad
’
s expectations one night years ago, back when they were
junior counselors. But he
’
d changed the subject
so abruptly that she
’
d noticed his discomfort, and
she
’
d never asked him about it again. Until now.

“
Was
it just a year?
”

Jeremy shook his head, then jumped over a fallen
tree to drop an old baseball glove under a slice of bark.

“
Two. I did a year online, then did a year on campus. That
part was hard.
”

Gen marked down their
coordinates.
“
Why? The classwork?
”

“
No,
the courses were mostly good. The ones about counseling and
bereavement I liked. I kind of knew most of it, since
I
’
ve
done it already. The finance ones were useful, though my dad
won
’
t listen to me on any of that.
”

Gen watched his face as he spoke. He looked at his
list, at the GPS in her hand, at the ground, at the snow in front
of them, but not at her. His eyebrows were down, and he was
focused, like he was teaching someone how to climb the daredevil
pole, one ring at a time on each side.

But he
wouldn
’
t look at her. She realized how much she
’
d held back from him,
how much she hadn
’
t said as she recognized how uncomfortable he seemed
sharing this part of his life with her. It had hurt that
he
’
d
kept all of this from her. But maybe she should have asked sooner.
And maybe she should find a way to ask him about everything else
that she wondered about, too.

“
The
on campus stuff was rough because I knew it was a waste of my time.
I liked everyone in my classes, and I liked the professors, but it
was a huge freaking waste, and that pissed me
off.
”

“
Why?
”

“
Why
what? Why did it piss me off?
”
He stopped to slide an old playing
card, an ace of spades, beneath the snow that had collected on one
of the supply boxes that marked the start of the low ropes course.
He slowly pushed the card sideways with one finger, trying to keep
the snow on top from looking as if it had been disturbed. When he
stood up and stepped away, the card was completely hidden beneath a
pristine shelf of snow.