22.
Napa, California—November 13, 2010Jim calls up early the next morning before seven-thirty, surprising me. He says, “You remember that we’re meeting Ellen over at Tulocay Cemetery at eight this morning, right?”
Ellen is Kelly’s mom, and I didn’t remember agreeing to any meeting, because I hadn’t paid very close attention to the conversation last night. Although I remember it was strained, sad, from Jim’s point of view.
“We’re going to take some flowers out to Kelly’s grave—” Jim says hoarsely, choking up. He clears his throat, and whispers, “It’s hard to believe she’s really been gone a month now. I just can’t get my head around it.”
Kelly’s grave? Gone?
What the fock is he talking about?
He mumbles something more, which I don’t track.
But then Jim clearly repeats that Kelly’s go
