Night Road

She could see how it was all coming together, growing in. Soon, maybe even next year, she would be ready to reveal her pride and joy to the garden-tour attendees.

She peeled off her dirty gloves and got to her feet. The heady scent of roses captured her, made her stand there a moment longer than she’d intended. There was such peace for her here. Every plant, every flower, every shrub was placed according to her plan. If she didn’t like the way something grew or spread or bloomed, she yanked it out and replaced it. She was the Red Queen of this realm, in complete control, and, as such, she was never disappointed.

But there was more to her current sense of well-being than that. She hadn’t realized until the twins got accepted to USC how tense she’d been throughout senior year, how stressed out. She’d worried endlessly about the kids and for them. She’d worried that one or the other would miss a deadline or make an irreparable mistake or that they wouldn’t have the chance to go to college together. Now, she could sleep again, and, amazingly, she was excited for them to leave home. Oh, she was still anxious about them, still concerned about the emptiness of her nest, but spring had lightened more than a gloomy sky; it had lightened her way. She could glimpse a new future for herself, a time when she could be the captain of her own journey. If she wanted to go back to school for landscape architecture, she could; if she wanted to open a garden accessories store, she could. And if she wanted to simply sit on a lawn chair for the whole summer, reading the classics she’d missed, she could do that, too. Hell, she could spend a summer reading comic books if she wanted to.

The thought was liberating and a little scary.

She glanced down at her watch. It was nearing three o’clock, which meant that the kids would be home from school any minute. If the pattern from the past month held, they’d come home in a swarm of seniors, all of whom seemed to be on a mild form of crack. That was what pseudo adulthood and impending graduation had done to the kids. They’d become amped up, superemotional versions of themselves. The boys laughed too hard sometimes; girls became maudlin at the drop of a hat, burst into tears over a bad hair day.

It was no wonder that emotion ran so high in these first golden days of summer. In the words of the great Sam Cooke, change gonna come, and everyone knew it, felt its hot breath drawing near. Most of the island kids had been together since grade school, and their friendships ran deep. They were torn now, wanting both to stay here, where life was safe and known, and to fly far, far away, testing the wings they’d just recently grown. Each passing day, each hour, brought the end of high school that much closer. They felt the need to make lasting memories together. That was what mattered most to them, getting together. It was the same thing that scared the parents. Parties were rampant.

To combat the whole party obsession, Jude had taken her cue from the plain old garden spider: she created an attractive web. She’d had Miles haul out the Jet Skis and the ski boat and ready them for use. She made endless trays of food for ravenous boys and set out bowls of chocolate-covered dried cherries for the girls. She made it easy for her kids’ friends to spend the day and night here, under her watchful eyes. For the most part, it had worked. Also, she had learned to trust her kids. Sure, they snuck a few beers at parties, but they kept their word: someone always stayed sober to drive, and they had never missed a curfew.

She put her gardening supplies away—everything in its place—and paused in her greenhouse. There was the petunia Lexi had given her the night of the dance; it looked leggy and forlorn. She made a mental note to plant it, and then went back into the house. There, she showered and dressed in a pair of low-rise black pants and a fitted white T-shirt. She placed the movies she’d rented on the kitchen counter: Along Came Polly, Starship Troopers 2, and Return of the King.

She was just about to go to the garage for a Coke when the front door banged open.

Footsteps thundered across the wood floors of the great room and thudded up the stairs.

What the hell?

Jude put down her dishrag and walked out of the kitchen.

The front door stood wide open.

Jude closed the door and then went up the stairs. Zach’s door was open; Mia’s was closed.

She paused outside her daughter’s room, heard the unmistakable sound of crying. Sobbing.

“Mia?” she said. At the silence that followed, she opened the door.

Her daughter lay sprawled facedown on her bed, crying into the stuffed pink puppy that had been her favorite childhood toy.

Jude went to the bed. “Hey, Poppet,” she said quietly, using the nickname that had been lost along the way, tucked in somewhere alongside baby teeth and patent leather shoes.

Mia made a howling sound and cried harder.

Jude stroked her daughter’s silky blond hair. “It’s okay, baby,” she said, over and over.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Mia rolled over and looked up at Jude through puffy, bloodshot eyes. Her face was damp with tears, and her mouth trembled unevenly. “H-he … b-broke … up with m-me,” she said, bursting sobs.

Jude climbed up into the big bed beside Mia, who curled up against Jude’s side like one of the potato bugs they used to hunt for.

Her bright, beautiful, almost grown daughter looked like a little kid again, curled up, crying, holding Daisy Doggy as if it were a talisman, and maybe it was. The mementos of one’s past had serious magic.

Mia looked up, tears streaking down her face. “In class,” she added, as if it somehow doubled his crime.

Jude remembered this pain. Every woman had felt some version of it: the end of first love. It was when you learned, for good and always, that love could be impermanent. “I know how much it hurts,” Jude said. “Keith broke up with me the week before senior prom. The week before. He took Karen Abner, and I sat home and watched Saturday Night Live by myself. I cried so much I’m surprised the house didn’t float away. ” She remembered that night with clarity. Her mother had come home late, taken one look at Jude and said, Oh, for God’s sake, Judith Anne, you’re a child, and kept walking. Jude looked down at her daughter’s teary face. “A broken heart hurts. ” She paused. “And it heals. ”

Mia sniffled loudly. “No one else is gonna want me. I’m such a dweeb. ”

“Oh, Mia. You haven’t even begun to find out who you really are, and, believe me, other boys are going to fall in love with you. If a guy can’t see how special you are, he isn’t good enough for you. ”

“It just hurts so much. ”

“It won’t always, though. You won’t always want to puke when you see him with another girl. And then one day you’ll see another guy who makes your heart race and it’ll … just fade. Your heart will stitch itself back up and only a tiny scar will remain behind, and someday you’ll tell your daughter how Tyler Marshall hurt you. ”

“I never want to see him again. How can I go to the grad party if he’s there?”