Free The Gravesavers by Sheree Fitch Page A

lock was stubborn, though, and I inched the door open, cringing with every squeak. Nana rolled over, muttering in her sleep. Finally I made it in.
    Utter blackness.
I had to feel my way along the wall.
    Something—a wisp of hair, maybe—brushed my forehead. I smothered a scream. It was just thefrayed end of the ribbon on the chain. I yanked the light on. I picked out a stack of chocolate boxes and shoeboxes. Then I reached into the hiding place. My hand touched one of the bundles of bones. I swear every hair on my head stood up like I’d just rubbed my scalp with a balloon. But I felt around until I found the baby’s skull. It was my find, after all.
    I turned off the light and scampered back to my room.
    I examined the skull. I tried imagining the face of the baby it belonged to. A girl or a boy? Dimples? Brown eyes or blue?
    I tucked it underneath my pillow. Then I arranged the boxes out on my quilt. I opened the first box and glanced through the contents. I began to read. And then I read and read. Oh, did I read.
    The accounts of the disaster were gruesome. Article after article and photocopies of old newspapers from places as far away as New York were covered in plastic.

    I read enough to figure out the obvious—the shipwreck was world news at the time. Nowadays, it would be all over CNN. And it was beyond disaster
    Minute by Minute
    “I suppose it is not necessary,” said one of the crew, “to give you the minute particulars of how EACH LIFE was lost. Every succeeding minute waves washed off one, two, three; sometimes six, then a dozen were SWEPT AWAY and went out side by side into the valley of death. There is no language that can describe the feelings of a man holding on for DEAR LIFE to a bit of rigging and watching his friends and companions struggling, clutching, SINKING, DYING. The weakest of course went first …”
    The words made the pictures clear enough for me. Sifting through the newsprint was like putting together the pieces of a novel with the chapters out of order.
    My grandmother, in her own handwriting, had compiled passenger lists: Cabin Passengers, Steerage Passengers, Crew and Officers, Firemen/Trimmers, Storekeepers, Stewards. Name after name after name, and sometimes their ages.
    I skimmed through them at first. The A’s, the B’s, the C’s. By the time I got to the D’s, I began to whisper their names. When I got to the H’s—H as in Hotchkiss—I was saying them out loud.
    “Michael Higgins (32).
    “W. P. Hill (22).
    “Patrick Hindley (40).
    “Mary Hindley (38).
    “Thomas Hindley (15).
    “John Hindley (12).
    “John Hoadley (26).
    “G.T.M. Hoadley (2).
    “Isabella Hoadley (infant).
    “Margaret Hoadley (23).
    “William Hogan …”
    At that point, my eyes felt as if they were bleeding. I realized I was crying. Whole entire families.
Baby Isabella.
A boy
my
age. His older brother, just fifteen.
Thomas.
It was my father’s middle name.
    I didn’t know I could feel so much for folks I never knew.
    Isabella never got a chance, I thought.
Like Pippa.
    John—Did he live or die? Was he one of the weakest?
    “And who were you, Thomas?” I asked out loud. “A fine young man? Did you live or die? Were you handsome? Were you strong enough to swim to shore?” I pictured him for a second, a smiling, sandy-haired teenager. Strong.
    My grandmother had two other lists, Passengers Lost and Passengers Saved. I couldn’t bring myself to read them. I just couldn’t. I closed that box and pulled a black chocolate box onto my lap. It was crisscrossed with red elastic bands. It looked like a miniature coffin. I just sat there, holding it on my lap for a few minutes.
    I was afraid that if I opened it, I would find more bones.

— YIKES! —
    Nana’s bedsprings squeaked. She was getting up! I grabbed my mess of articles, stuffed them back into their boxes, did a running tip-toe dash to the bone closet, crammed everything back in, closed the door, replaced the key, sprinted back and dove