Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 1

Ashes to Ashes

There should be a law against having a funeral on a beautiful summer day. How can the world keep spinning as if Mom didn’t die? Roses bloom. Bees pollinate. Mrs. McHugh’s scruffy schnauzer pees on every stationary object in the park across the street. And none of it matters because Mom’s still gone.

Life isn’t fair.

Hugging her silver urn to my chest, I plop down on the old church’s crumbling front steps and blink into the bright midday sun. Somehow, I made it through the entire service without shedding a tear. I simply couldn’t bear having the whole town watch me fall apart like a carnival attraction. It took every ounce of self-control, but not one tissue was sacrificed on my behalf today.

My older sister, Jeanie, walks up beside me, her blue eyes puffy and rimmed in red. At least one of us isn’t afraid to cry. A twinge of guilt threatens to slip through my carefully constructed defenses, but then I catch a whiff of stale weed under her flowery perfume. Not crying. High.

Part of me wishes I had a little of her reckless spirit.

Then she opens her mouth, and I change my mind. We’re nothing alike and never will be. “Douchebag still a no-show?”

“He’ll be here.” No sooner are the words out of my mouth than my confidence wavers. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s broken a promise, and it probably won’t be the last.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll believe it when I see it.” Jeanie cranes her neck, searching the distance for something . . . or someone . “Why are you still seeing him anyway? You can’t possibly have anything in common with that Neanderthal. And please don’t tell me you think he’s been pining for you every night while he’s off at college. Trust me, that asshole is getting—”

I cut her off with a searing glare, but it doesn’t slow her down in the least.

She sighs. “Dating the star quarterback might’ve made sense when you were in high school. That’s what cheerleaders do. That’s what Mom did.” Her eyes soften. “But you’re not in high school anymore.”

“Harsh,” I mutter. “Even for you.” I refuse to admit that her thinly veiled accusation hit its mark. Jeanie has no clue what my life’s been like for the past two years. She wasn’t here.

When Mom got sick, Damian became the bridge between my old life and my new reality. When I was with Damian, I didn’t worry about Mom’s next chemo appointment or which prescriptions needed to be filled. For those few stolen hours each day, I got to be the old carefree Zoey. God knows he isn’t perfect, but he brought me some measure of comfort when I needed it most, chasing away the bone-deep loneliness and paralyzing fear—at least for a little while—and I’m not sure I’m ready to give that up just yet.

“Come on, Zo. You know Mom only went down that path because it was the opposite of—”

“Don’t. Mom’s not here to defend her choices anymore.” The last thing I want today, of all days, is to have a conversation about what Mom did or didn’t do before we came along. Or why I’ve always been so damn determined to follow her example.

She raises one shoulder in surrender—likely the only apology I’ll get from her.

“Why do you even care?”

She shrugs for real this time. “I guess I don’t.”

“Then, for Christ’s sake, drop it. It’s not as if Damian’s the only no-show.” The implication hangs in the air like a feather caught in an updraft, picking up subtext as it floats around, unanswered.

Her spine stiffens, her eyes narrowing. “You can’t compare G-Lo to your boyfriend .”

“You’re absolutely right. So where is Grandma Lola?” I refuse to call Mom’s eccentric mother G-Lo . She isn’t a rapper. She’s a crazy old hippie, still living in the carefree sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyle of her past.

Jeanie slips out of her black pumps and hangs them from two fingers. “You’re the only one who expected her to show up.”

Stunned, I stare into my sister’s glassy eyes. “Let me get this straight. Damian, who you despise, by the way, has somehow offended you by not being here, but you’re fine with our grandmother skipping her own daughter’s funeral?”

She brushes her hair out of her face and shifts her gaze to the street. “Even Mom knew G-Lo would blow off her funeral.”

Jeanie doesn’t get it. My virtually nonexistent friends, my inconsiderate boyfriend, the whole damn town for that matter . . . none of them make the slightest difference to me, but our grandmother should be here. “That doesn’t explain where the hell she’s been for the past two years.”

“Give it a rest, Zoey. She’s a free spirit.” She shrugs, her porcelain skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. “That’s just G-Lo.”

Easy for her to say. Jeanie wasn’t the one sacrificing her freedom to take care of a sick mother for two years. She didn’t have to smile and pretend Mom didn’t look more horrifying every day.

“And you’re right,” she says. “I don’t like your boyfriend. I especially hate how he’ll make the two-hour drive from campus every weekend for a booty call but can’t—or won’t—carve out a few hours to show up for you today. That’s seriously messed up. Even that pencil dick, Rick Hansen, showed up for me. We went out three times last summer. I barely recognized him with his clothes on. But he showed up.” She flicks her gaze toward me. “I thought maybe a few of your high school friends would come, but I guess two years is a long time.”

The two years since graduation feel like an eternity. Before Mom got sick, there was no question I would head off to college like my sister before me. But with Jeanie already gone, I couldn’t exactly leave Mom to fight cancer alone. And I couldn’t blame my friends for scattering to the wind, leaving me behind to forge their own futures while I watched mine wither and die. And I wasn’t exactly blameless. They weren’t the ones who changed, I was. They tried to include me in their lives . . . for a while. But I didn’t give a damn about current fashion trends or the latest world events when my entire life was crumbling around me. Maintaining friendships with people I no longer had a single thing in common with anymore was exhausting. So I stopped trying.

Oblivious to the tempest swirling inside me, Jeanie rattles on. “But Damian is your boyfriend . Two-hour drive or not, he has no excuse for ditching you today.”

I bite my tongue to keep from telling her that he’s home for the summer and only five minutes away. That the “booty calls” are as much for me as him. Where the hell did she think I’d find someone else my age when I spent all my time in hospice with Mom? How else was I supposed to distract myself from the soul-crushing sadness? And God knows I needed that distraction. Under the circumstances, putting up with his control issues and toxic masculinity for a few hours every weekend seemed like a small price to pay.

Jeanie drops onto the step beside me, scooting me over with her narrow hips. “Wanna know what I think?”

I count my heartbeats to keep from fleeing our excruciating conversation. “Not particularly.”

“I think you only started dating him because you thought he was the kind of boy Mom would’ve picked.”

My jaw drops, my head whipping in her direction. The words you’re wrong stick in my throat. I close my mouth, going back to counting heartbeats, half convinced she’s working through a playbook filled with every one of my insecurities.

“He’ll be here,” I whisper, no longer believing my own lie.

“Not that it matters anymore. The funeral’s over. Everyone’s already gone. Wait all day for all I care, but I’m going home. Reverend Tom and the ladies’ church league are probably sitting in the driveway with another month’s worth of crappy casseroles as we speak. Better be nice to me if you want me to save you any.” Jeanie snickers.

When I don’t respond, she hops up with a huff as if I’ve insulted her. And maybe I have. Somewhere during the past couple of years, I outgrew her. Jeanie may be two years older, but she acts as if she’s twenty-two going on eighteen, and after all the time I spent caring for our sick mother, I feel as if I’m twenty going on forty.

“You don’t laugh, you don’t cry . . . you really need to drop the robot act, Zo. Mom died. It’s okay to show some freaking emotion.” Her hands tremble as she reaches for Mom’s ashes, and my fragile hold on those emotions slips for half a second.

“What are you doing?” I tighten my grasp on the urn, fighting the urge to set my tears free. I can’t cry now. If I do, I may never stop.

She arches an eyebrow, slowly enunciating each word as if I don’t speak her language. “Taking Mom’s ashes?”

“No. You’re not.” I squint up at her, burning my retinas in the process. Sunlight streams through her icy-blond hair, making it glow like a halo behind her. An involuntary snort slips out of me. Horns would be more like it. “Not unless you’ve changed your mind about her last wishes . . .”

“No.” Losing her own battle with tears, Jeanie blows out a breath, deflating along with it. “We’re doing it, so get used to the idea.”

Head pounding, I curl my fingers into a fist, sinking my freshly manicured nails into my palm, welcoming the sting. We’ve already had this argument more times than I can count, but if she wants to go at it again, I’m in.

“Do you even know why she wanted us to spread her ashes along some fifty-year-old concert path?” I demand.

“Does it matter?” Jeanie locks her shimmering blue eyes on mine. “That’s what she wanted.”

“It’s just so . . . wrong .” I pick at a loose thread on the black dress Mom bought me the day she found out her cancer had spread to her lymph nodes and then check my phone again. Three spam texts asking me about my car’s extended warranty and a calendar reminder to refill my birth control, but nothing from Damian. “She was half out of her mind on opioids at the end.”

“Right or wrong, we need to do it soon. This is my last free summer. I start my new job in less than a month.”

When I ignore her, she flicks a loose pebble into the grass with her big toe. Neither of us wants to tackle the elephant in the room—how she’s a college graduate with a bright future, and I’m a twenty-year-old high school graduate who’s never even had a real job.

“Is Mr. All-American picking you up, or are you walking home?”

“I don’t know yet.” I shift my weight again, squirming on the uncomfortable stone steps.

“I really have no idea what you see in that guy.” She snorts. “I’ve never liked him. Neither did Mom.”

Red-hot rage sears my veins. If we weren’t on the steps of a church, I’d slap the smirk from her lips. “What would you know about what Mom did or didn’t like? You’ve been gone for almost four years!”

“I wasn’t gone. I was in college.” She lowers her gaze as if my accusation wounded her. “And I talked to Mom every day.”

“That’s nice for you. But I’m the one who gave up my entire life to take care of her. Watched her slip further and further away every single day. And do you know what she never said? ‘Break up with the quarterback, Zoey. Don’t follow in my footsteps, Zoey.’ Because she wanted me to have the kind of life she had.”

Jeanie’s head snaps up. “Damn it, Zo, maybe you don’t remember how bad things were before Dad left, but I do. Mom divorced him for a reason. Marrying the quarterback isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“I never said I was gonna marry him.” The words tumble out on a breath. The mere thought of seeing Damian every day for the rest of my life makes my soul itch. But I’ll be damned if I tell Jeanie that.

“Good, because we both know that didn’t work out so well for her. And despite what you think, that’s not what she wanted for you.”

“Like that matters now.” My shoulders sag, the fight draining out of me. Mom’s dead. Every single sacrifice I made over the past two years pales in comparison.

She chokes out a bitter laugh. “Whatever. I’m outta here.”

For someone so eager to ditch me, she waits almost a full minute before stomping down the steps toward her electric-orange Nissan—an early graduation gift from Mom. I would’ve gotten one, too, someday . . . if life had unfolded differently.

“I’m not coming to get you if you change your mind.” Jeanie climbs behind the wheel and slams her door.

“I won’t!” I yell as she pulls away from the curb, determined to walk all the way home if I have to just to spite her.

The rumble of a broken muffler draws my attention from Jeanie’s retreating taillights. My chest tightens as a familiar banana-yellow coupe turns the corner onto Church Street and backfires twice. I instantly recognize my grandmother’s signature bottle-dyed, flame-red hair flying around her face as she speeds toward me, a cloud of smoke billowing out of her open window. A sudden burst of emotion punches me right in the feels, and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from giving in to it. Seeing her again— today of all days —has my ten-year-old self longing to play dress-up with her hideous costume jewelry, her brightly colored scarves, and every shade of red lipstick ever made.

Her 1973 Oldsmobile Cutlass pulls up to the curb and she climbs out, hacking up a lung as she slides her giant bug-eye sunglasses into her fiery-red curls.

“Zoey Marie, is that you?” She rolls her eyes at my halfhearted wave and barks out a throaty laugh. “Get your pretty little ass over here and give your G-Lo a hug.”

Swallowing a mouthful of resentment, I kick off my heels and hook them with my fingers, letting my bare toes sink into the cool grass as I traipse across the thick lawn. With one arm still around Mom’s urn, I wrap the other around my grandmother’s narrow waist and suck in a lungful of stale Camels, cheap perfume, and the skunky stench of fresh weed.

“Good to see you, Grandma Lola.”

“Language,” she croaks, a thousand packs of cigarettes coloring her voice. “What did I tell you about using the G-word ?”

“Oops.” I grin. “Guess I forgot.”

It’s been forever since I’ve seen her, but other than a few extra lines around her eyes when she smiles, she’s barely changed. Wearing weathered jeans with frayed knees and a vintage Sex Pistols tee that’s probably older than I am, she looks more like a college student than someone’s grandmother.

“Now, let me get a good look at you.” She cups my face in her warm hands, and the tears I’ve battled all day threaten to break free. “You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman, and I’m sick to death that I’ve missed it.”

I hold my breath as she studies every inch of me, combing her black fingernails through my dark-blond waves. My eyes flutter shut, and my imagination replaces her touch with Mom’s.

“You look so much like her . . . when she was your age. Same wispy frame, same dishwater-blond hair.”

The fragile illusion pops like a soap bubble, and I release the breath with a groan, my hand drifting to my clean hair. “Can we not compare my hair to dirty dishwater? Please?”

Grandma Lola erupts in loud laughter. “Your mother said the same thing when she was eighteen.”

“I’m almost twenty-one. Damn near old enough to drink, for god’s sake,” I snap with a little more bite than necessary.

She waves her hand through the air, making her stack of gold and silver bracelets clink like wind chimes. “When you get to be my age, everything under thirty-five runs together.”

I have a thousand questions, starting with a big fat Where the hell have you been? But she beats me to the punch.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m late.”

Understatement of the century.

I nod as a million other questions swirl around my brain, each one more painful than the next. With my unresolved feelings stacked in a reckless game of emotional Jenga, one wrong word could send it all crashing down around me.

“Oh, sweetie, I know what you’re thinking, but I couldn’t bear to see her like that.” She dabs at her dark-rimmed eyes with the hem of her black tee, flashing lacy side-boob to the world.

“She missed you.” I missed you. The thought takes me by surprise, and my next breath catches in my throat as I blink back more tears.

Grandma Lola pulls the latest iPhone from her back pocket and holds it up. “I texted. I called.”

“Not the same.” Eyes burning, I tighten my grip on Mom’s urn and focus on the tall blades of grass jutting between my toes.

“You sound a little too much like her, too.” Grandma Lola’s smile falters. “Cut me a little slack, kiddo. Funerals are for the living, not the dead, and I’d much rather remember your mother the way she was. Full of vibrancy and life.”

“ I’m one of the living.” I level a scorching glare at her. “So is Jeanie. Did it ever occur to you that we might’ve needed you today?”

“I’m here now.” Throwing an arm over my shoulders, Grandma exhales a breath heavy with unspoken apologies. “Come on, let’s get some lunch. You look like you could use a sandwich . . . or two , and I’ve got a serious case of the munchies.”

I shift the urn to my other hip, the weight of Mom’s judgment pressing down on me. “What about Reverend Tom and the church ladies?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Unless you’re talking about a new punk band, they can get their own damn lunch.”

“No, I mean, they’re at my house. With food. Probably tons of it. Jeanie went home to let them in.”

“Good. Let Jeanie eat Crock-Pot delight and lime ambrosia with the denture squad. You and I have a date for triple-decker sandwiches from Mimsy’s.”

A fleeting memory of shiny chrome stools and vanilla Cokes with paper straws brings me to the edge of losing it again. “Mimsy’s closed. Last year.”

“Closed?” Her mouth hangs open, exposing several silver fillings. “As in closed down ?”

“As in, there’s a nail salon there now.”

“Damn. Guess it’s church lady surprise for us, too.” The Cutlass creaks and moans as Grandma yanks her door open. “Come on, hop in.”

Empty fast-food wrappers and Styrofoam cups litter the passenger seat, and I shove everything to the floor before climbing in. A grainy photo of my grandmother smiles up at me from the trash pile—a laminated ID card, attached to a purple lanyard—and I fish it out.

Bold black letters spell out P-r-e-s-s above her photo, her name scrawled in red ink at the bottom. “What’s this?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” She chuckles as she pulls away from the curb.

I flip the ID over, looking for proof that it’s authentic. “Where’d you get it?”

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re wondering. Did you think I wandered the country going to rock concerts for fun?”

“Maybe.” I shrug. I’d never questioned my grandma’s motivations for what she did. Mom called her an old hippie, so that’s how I always thought of her.

This time, she throws her head back and laughs. “Even an old girl like me has to make a living somehow. Classic cars like this don’t pay for themselves.”

Lost for words, I give the press pass another quick once-over.

She nods toward the glove box. “Put that where I won’t lose it, would you, sweetie?”

The latch sticks, so I give it a yank. The little door flies open, launching the contents toward me like projectile vomit. Without missing a beat, Grandma slams the door shut, but not before a few crumpled packs of Camels, a baggie with three joints, and several mini liquor bottles land at my feet with a clink.

“Just toss it in the back seat.”

From the time we leave the church until we pull into the driveway alongside Mom’s ancient, faded-green Explorer, Grandma Lola waxes poetic about coleslaw and turkey sandwiches, making whatever casseroles the church ladies left us seem all the more unappetizing.

“I still can’t believe Mimsy’s went out of business. I’ve been craving one of their turkey Rachels since hitting the state line.” When I don’t respond, she follows the path of my eyes to the shiny black four-door parked along the curb. “The church ladies, I presume?”

“No.” I sigh. “Just Reverend Tom.”

“What the hell’s he still doing here?”

“Probably waiting for me.” I don’t tell her I slipped out after the funeral without saying goodbye. Or how he spent a lot of time at our house when Mom was sick. If she had gotten better, I have no doubt he would’ve come around even more. I didn’t mind so much then. It gave me a chance to breathe once in a while. Doesn’t mean I’m ready to discuss my feelings now.

“Oh, hell. If I’d known I was about to face the wrath of God, I would’ve fired up another doobie.” Grandma cuts the engine and turns to me. “Guess we’d better get this over with.”

We don’t get far before Jeanie bounds down the front steps as if the devil himself is on her heels. She plants her bare feet in the grass and presses her fingers to her pink lips, staring at our grandmother as if seeing a ghost. She looks so small standing there, so much younger than her twenty-two years, and for the first time, I recognize the weight of grief in her eyes.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispers. “I just knew it.”

Grandma Lola opens her arms. “My goodness, Jean-Jeanie, you’ve grown up!”

“One of us had to.” Jeanie’s eyes glisten with unshed tears as she falls into Grandma’s arms.

“Well then.” Grandma pats Jeanie’s back. “I’m glad it was you.”

Reverend Tom wanders out of the house dressed in casual Dockers and a Mister Rogers sweater. Without his church uniform, he looks more like a substitute math teacher than a preacher.

His gaze skips over me, drifting from Jeanie to G-Lo, and he offers a consoling smile. “I’m guessing you’re Vida’s mother. I was quite fond of your daughter. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Grandma releases Jeanie and stalks forward, grinning like the Cheshire Cat as she holds out her hand. “Lola Stone.” She studies the man as if planning to cook him and eat him. “And you must be Reverend Tom.”

“Uh, yes. Tom Randall. I’ve, uh, heard a lot about you. Wish we could’ve met under different circumstances.”

“Guess we’ll have to make up for lost time then, won’t we?” she purrs.

Reverend Tom backs away slowly, turning as red as Grandma’s lips. “I really should be going. I’m sure you’d like some time to catch up with the girls.”

“See you around, Reverend.” She wiggles her fingers in a flirty wave as he stumbles the last few feet to his car and slips behind the wheel. As he pulls away from the curb, she turns to us and releases a whoosh of air. “I thought he’d never leave.”

“He’s gonna be absolving himself all night long after that little exchange.” Jeanie’s eyes sparkle with amusement.

I’d sooner gouge out my eyes than imagine anything Reverend Tom does under cover of night. “We probably should’ve been nicer to him. He was really good to Mom.”

“Your mother was always drawn to complicated relationships.” Grandma wraps her arm around Jeanie’s shoulders. “But let’s not talk about men. I’ve driven halfway across the country to see you girls.” She pins me under her knowing gaze. “I understand we have things to discuss, so we should probably get right to it.”

Jeanie eyes the urn in my arms.

I shift my weight, balancing Mom’s ashes on my hip. “You can stop pretending you haven’t been talking behind my back. It won’t change how I feel about Mom’s crazy request.”

“It’s not so crazy when you understand her reasons. May I?” Grandma nods toward the urn and holds out her hands. “Let’s take her inside so we can talk.”

I reluctantly surrender Mom’s ashes and follow my sister and grandmother into the house.