A sense of impending doom threads around my lungs and pulls tight as my driver takes us closer and closer to the dead center of town; the old farmland outside of the city that used to contain vegetables underneath it’s topsoil, not decomposing bodies.
Holy Cross Cemetery is probably the largest and the most grand of the seven cemeteries that are dotted through Colma, the place that houses one and a half million dead people who used to live and work and love in San Francisco City at one time or another. It's also where my mother and my sister are interred, their bodies secure in the Capulet family mausoleum. I visit them every week. My father hates me coming here, and so I probably come here even more just to spite him.
My driver drops me off at the front of the imposing chapel that sits on Holy Cross Cemetery Grounds. When I enter through the large wooden doors, the sounds of a children's choir flood out. They must be practicing, I think. It’s a school day — where did these kids come from? There isn’t a school nearby. The dead don’t need to learn how to read. I stand there for a moment, letting their high-pitched little voices wash over me. The sound is quite beautiful, and at the same time, completely haunting.
It is eerie walking up the long corridor between the church pews as these small children fill the huge room with their voices. They sound like angels. And I all I can think about is death. The death of freedom. The death of hope.
When I get to the confession box, it is empty. A welcome reality. I don't want to wait around for this, and I definitely don't want to confess later, not after what I'm about to do.
Better to get my sins out before I commit more.
I close the little door behind me and open the screen that separates me and the priest. He makes a noise motioning that he is there ready to listen. I take a deep breath, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been one week since my last confession. Since then I have committed mortal sin.”
“Go on.”
"Well," I say. “There are a few."
"God absolves all of his children who repent,” the priest says. "Tell me, what would you like to share today?"
“I planned to commit adultery.”
The priest clears his throat. “Did you go through with your plan?”
“No,” I reply. “I’m not married yet. I’m not even engaged.”
“Go on.”
“I’m thinking about killing my unborn children. Isn’t that a mortal sin?”
“Are you pregnant?”
My hand goes to my belly again, before I even notice. “No.” Not yet.
“Then there is no mortal sin.”
"I lied. I lied a lot."
"Yes, child. God will forgive you all your sins. Is there anything else?"
I lean back, letting my head rest against the back of the confessional booth. "I thought about murdering somebody this afternoon.” Several people, if we’re to be honest. Starting with Joshua.
"Did you actually murder somebody?” the priest asks.
"No, of course not. That would be terrible."
"Is there anything else you would like to confess?"
"I had pre-marital sex in my family’s mausoleum last week after confession. I liked it a lot."
A stunned pause. “Anything else?"
"No. I think that about covers it for now."
"Fine," he says, his voice dripping with disapproval. “I absolve you of your sin. Do ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers, and next time, Avery, get a room. The Lord knows you have enough."
I grin as I exit the confessional booth. Maybe I should get a room, but I won’t. It’s better this way, hiding amongst the dead.
The children have stopped singing. The church is suddenly quiet. The space is cavernous, and when I walk back outside, my high heels echo in the large space like machine gun fire. I make it outside, and then I take my time walking through the grounds of Holy Cross toward the graves. The oldest ones are first. Individual plots, some with headstones, some unmarked.
I remember my father telling me about how hundreds of thousands of bodies were buried here in mass graves after the real estate in the city became too valuable to waste on graveyards, and San Francisco banned any new burials in the city limits. I think of how many dead people I'm walking over as I make my way to possibly the only other living person in this entire three-hundred-acre cemetery.
The Capulet mausoleum, a giant marble monolith that houses the dead members of my family, is locked. It's always locked, but that's not a problem. I have a key.
I unlock the heavy, gold-plated doors, pushing them open with an eerie creak. I like to think it's not the smell of death that greets me, but who am I kidding, what else could it be? A damp, musty smell invades my nostrils mixed with something sharper, something like formaldehyde.
I close the doors behind me. It's really fucking dark in here, as dark as I imagine hell would be if the devil extinguished all the flames.
I use my iPhone torch to illuminate the room. It's nothing elaborate really, not when you're used to living in mansions like mine. But I suppose for a dead person, it is quite grand. It's one long rectangular room with spaces built in on three walls to house the dead.
We inter our dead here. We don't cremate them.
We're Catholic, and we're filthy fucking rich. We can easily afford the real estate for an entire coffin. Or twenty. I've lost count of how many people are buried here.
But I suppose they're not really buried.
They're sealed into the walls.
"Hey." Normally a voice in a space reserved for the dead would spook somebody, but I've been expecting this one. A lighter sparks to life, lighting a candle.
"Hey, yourself," I say, kicking off my shoes, feeling the cold of the old marble tiles on the floor as I make my way toward the voice.
"I thought you were never going to get here," he says.
"Well, I'm glad you waited for me. I had a lot of things to confess."
Another candle is lit, and this time, I reach my hand out for it. We've done this a thousand times before. We have our whole ritual down pat now. But today … today will be different. Today will be final.
Something cold settles in my chest as I think of the conversation that I had with my father and my uncle about how differently I thought tonight was going to turn out, but how I'm not surprised at all by the turn of events.
"Happy birthday, baby,” Will says. His face is illuminated by the candle he holds, his perpetually messy dirty blond hair hanging in his eyes..
“Did you just wake up?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair. He jerks his head back, using his free hand to mess it up again. “It takes hours of my time to get this happening,” he smirks. “But I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here for hairstyling tips.”
All of a sudden, my boyfriend — the one I’m not allowed to marry — pulls me toward him, wraps me in a giant bear hug, almost lighting my hair on fire.
"Hey. Whoa," I say, getting my balance, holding my candle as far away as my outstretched arm can. "We're going to burn this place down if we're not careful," I say. Will ignores my concerns. He smiles as he bends down to kiss me, the knuckles of his free hand tipping my chin up, his tongue meeting mine. I let out a little sigh as the tension in my body melts a fraction, chased away by the tongue-sex we’re having. Will’s kiss is long and deep, and it takes my breath away. It distracts me for a few seconds from everything that's about to happen, and for that, I am grateful.