Dust to Dust by Melissa Walker

was in that coma.
    Because one thing is for sure: My body may have been in that hospital bed, but my soul sure as hell wasn’t.
    I stand up shakily.
    â€œLet’s go,” I say to Carson. “I’m not feeling great.”
    â€œOf course.” She hurries to hold my elbow and I keep an eye on the memorial bench as we make the descent down the hill to Carson’s car, as if something might arise from beneath the grave to pursue us.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
Six
    â€œTHE FILET MIGNON FOR Callie May; I’ll have the rib eye.”
    My dad orders for me at our favorite restaurant downtown, where the staff all know us. Soft candlelight flickers on the clean, white-tiled walls, casting shadows in the antique mirrors and on the industrial-steel tables and chairs. This place is a mix of old and new, the past and the present coming together in a modern southern steakhouse. I love it here.
    We’re having a celebratory father-daughter dinner—it’s the first time we’ve been out since the accident. Dad smiles at me as he tucks his napkin into his collar, a country-boy habit Mama never could break him of. I grin back and smooth the white linen napkin over my lap.
    â€œHow are you feeling?” he asks me.
    â€œGood,” I say, nodding as if to affirm it. “Really good.”
    Dad clears his throat. “I’m glad,” he says.
    The waiter brings over a basket of bread, still warm, with soft butter on the side. I lean forward to take a roll.
    â€œI want us to be honest with each other,” says my father. My knife freezes midbutter.
    â€œMe, too, Daddy,” I say, not meeting his eyes.
    He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an empty pill bottle. “Carla found this in the trash when she was cleaning your bathroom.” He sets it down on the table between us, next to the still-steaming bread basket. There is supposed to be at least half of the prescription in there, but now there’s nothing left. “Do you have an explanation for this?”
    My mouth opens as I start to lie, but I can’t do it.
    â€œI flushed them,” I say softly.
    As soon as I acknowledge it, though, I’m relieved. I hated miming the afternoon pill swallow in front of my dad, hated hiding my own strength from him.
    â€œWe talked about this,” he says. “I thought we agreed that following doctor’s orders was what was best.”
    â€œI know. But I’m feeling much better, I swear.”
    His eyes are questioning and doubtful, so I try to be a little less cavalier. “Okay, I have a few aches, but no real pain,” I tell him, dismissing the sharp crackle I felt at the cemetery with Carson. That was a one-time thing—it hasn’t happened again. “And my mind isn’t as foggy. I feel like I’m thinking clearly, for the first time in forever.”
    â€œSo you’re back to your old self already, huh?”
    â€œI guess so,” I say. Inside, though, I feel very different. “I’mstrong like you,” I tell him, taking a bite of warm bread.
    He laughs. “You sure are strong. But not like me. Like your mama.”
    I stop chewing for a moment, surprised that he mentioned her so casually. Usually any thought of Mama comes with a tortured look in his eyes and a glass of whiskey to chase her away. He misses her too much to think of her.
    â€œYou know,” Dad continues, his voice quieting, “she hung on as long as she could in this life.”
    â€œI know, Daddy.” A lump forms in my throat. I remember when she got sick, how she grew weak but kept a smile on her face for me, always lighting up when I came into the room. Even at the end, under the harsh hospital lights. For me, she glowed with love.
    â€œShe waited for you,” he says.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œShe was ready to die, but she waited