Chapter 3
During the first winter after our marriage, I spotted a coat in a mall. Joseph James was on the phone, didn't even glance my way, and just said, "If you want it, buy it."
I checked the price tag. It was over three thousand dollars, so I quietly put it back.
At that time, I'd only been married into the James family for less than six months, and I still wasn't used to spending his money.
Now, that same coat was sitting right in front of me.
I folded it up and buried it at the very bottom of my suitcase.
This wasn't me being stubborn.
The jacket I had on was old and washed-out, but it still did the job.
Honestly, what I needed wasn't a coat, it was an urn.
A 150-dollar urn.
Joseph didn't even know that.
He didn't know anything.
He didn't know there was a child named Logan James, didn't know his name was chosen because it meant longing for him, didn't know the kid had eyes just like his, and a mole in the same place between his eyebrows.
He didn't know that the kid had drawn over a hundred pictures from his hospital bed, each one with three stick figures holding hands.
He didn't know that the kid called an old stuffed animal "Dad."
He was clueless.
Because he chose to stay in the dark.
Early the next morning, I went to the camp to get the new schedule from the supervisor.
When he saw me, he looked a bit off. "Lily, your route's been changed."
"Where to?" I asked.
"C3. The safe route," he replied.
C3 was the lowest route, almost no risk, perfect for rookie teams.
The guide fee was 600 dollars.
"Who made the change?" I asked.
"It came from higher up. There's nothing I can do," he said.
The higher-ups.
I knew exactly who it was.
"I'm not taking C3. Put me on A1," I said.
"A1? The ice crevasse route? Your hand's still messed up," he said.
"I know my own hand. A1 is 3 grand a trip. Are you assigning me or not?" I pressed.
He hesitated for a long time, then finally shook his head. "Orders from above. My hands are tied."
I didn't say anything else. Just packed up and headed over to the next camp.
There was a glacier survey job over there. It paid 3 grand, no insurance, no backup, and if anything went wrong, I was on my own.
Jobs like that, where a person was gambling with their life, only came up once in a blue moon. Most guides wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole.
When I took the job, the supervisor glanced at my hand. "You sure your hand can handle this?"
"I can handle it," I said.
He had me sign a liability waiver.
After I signed, I grabbed my gear and headed up the mountain.
The wind was howling.
The ice was covered in cracks.
I was out front, scouting the way, testing every step with my ice axe.
Halfway up, the camp radioed in: "Lily, someone wants you to head back down."
I switched off the radio.
Three days later, I finally got the urn.
There was only one funeral supply shop in town, and the cheapest urn cost five hundred dollars.
When I walked in, the owner was showing a high-end model to another customer.
"This one's hand-carved, gold-trimmed, and set with gemstones. Custom-made, 40 thousand dollars," the owner explained.
40 thousand dollars.
I glanced at the customer, well-dressed, definitely looked like an assistant, chatting on the phone: "Ms. Morgan, we've chosen the urn for your cat. It's the top-of-the-line one"
It was Maria.
Her cat had died.
She spent 40 thousand dollars on an urn for her cat.
I stood at the counter and pointed at that dusty white box in the corner. "How much for that one?"
"150 dollars. But it's got a crack on the lid," the owner said.
"No problem. I'll take it," I replied.
I paid and walked out with the box in my arms.
Out in the sunlight, the crack was even more obvious, it ran all the way from the lid down to the bottom, deep and jagged.
I dug out a roll of clear tape from my bag and carefully taped over the crack.
The crack was still visible.
But at least it wouldn't fall apart now.
40 thousand dollars for a cat.
And for my son, it was only 150.
I hugged the urn to my chest and headed toward the morgue.
As I passed the funeral home, they were already setting up outside.
White roses, blue hydrangeas, and that gold-trimmed, gemstone-encrusted pet urn sat on a velvet cushion.
The funeral banner read: [Forever our beloved Javon, may you be happy on the other side of the rainbow bridge.]
I looked down at the flawed white urn in my arms.
Logan didn't get a single white rose, not a single blue hydrangea, not even a farewell ceremony.
All he had was a 150 dollar box held together with clear tape, and a winter coat his mom stitched together from worn-out clothes.
The morgue door was open.
When Ramon saw me, he didn't say a word, just stepped aside to let me in.
I pulled open the cold storage drawer one last time.
Logan lay there, just as peaceful as ever.
He lay there in that patched-up winter coat, clutching his old stuffed animal, his tiny fingers wrapped tightly around its ear.
"Logan, Mommy's here to take you home," I whispered.
I set the urn down on the metal chair beside me, then leaned over and gently lifted him into my arms.
He felt weightless, nothing like a normal three-year-old.
"Mommy got you a new home," I whispered.
I opened the urn and showed it to him. "There's a crack, but Mommy taped it up so it won't let any cold in."
Suddenly, footsteps sounded at the end of the hallway.
They were quick and urgent.
There was an echo.
Someone was getting closer.
I didn't turn around.