Night Road

The first thing Jude saw was a shamrock-green sweater hanging from the antique hall tree by the door. How many times had she asked Mia to take it up to her room?

I will, Madre. Honest. Tomorrow …

She let go of her husband’s arm. She was about to reach for the sweater when she heard her mother’s voice.

“Judith?”

Her mother stood in the entryway, dressed in an elegant steel-gray fitted blouse and black pants. She reached out, pulled Jude into her arms. Jude wished there was comfort in this embrace, but it was as cold and rote as everything else between them.

She drew back as quickly as she could, crossing her arms. She was freezing cold suddenly, even though the house was warm.

“I’ve put the food away,” Mother said. “Your friends have been so supportive. I’ve never seen so many foil-wrapped casseroles in my life. I’ve put everything in the freezer, marked and dated. I’ve also made all the funeral arrangements. ”

Jude looked up sharply. “How dare you?”

Her mother looked worriedly at her. “I was trying to help. ”

“We are not having a funeral,” Jude said.

“No funeral?” Miles said.

“Remember your parents’ funerals? And I remember my father’s. No way I’m going through that for Mia. We’re not religious. I’m not going to—”

“You don’t need to be religious to have a funeral, Judith,” her mother said. “God will be ther—”

“Don’t you dare mention God to me. He let her die. ”

She saw her mother pale, draw back, and, just like that, Jude lost her hold on anger. Without it, she felt so exhausted she could hardly stand.

“I need to sleep,” she said. Clutching Mia’s purse and the single white rose, she turned her back on her family and stumbled down the hallway to her bedroom, collapsing on her bed.

Mia’s purse spilled out; the contents lay scattered across the expensive sheets.

Jude lay on her side, snuggled up to her pillow, staring down at Mia’s things.

The pink Juicy Couture wallet that had been last year’s Christmas gift. A tube of lip gloss, a bent and mangled tampon, a crumpled-up twenty-dollar bill, a half-empty pack of gum, and a used movie ticket. Inside the wallet was a picture of Zach, Mia, and Lexi taken at senior prom.

Forgive me?

If only she’d hugged Mia right then, told her that she loved her. Or if she’d said no to the party. Or taught her children that alcohol was dangerous even though parties were fun. Or insisted on driving them. Or not bought the kids a car or …

The list of her regrets grew too heavy, weighed her down; she closed her eyes.

Behind her, she heard her bedroom door open and close.

Miles came toward the bed—she could sense that it was him, but she couldn’t turn toward him or open her eyes. He slipped into bed, pulled her against him. She felt him stroke her hair, and she shivered at his touch, freezing again.

“Your mother left. She said something about knowing when she wasn’t welcome, which of course is completely untrue. ”

“And Zach?”

“That’s the first time you’ve asked about him. ”

“Don’t tell me how to grieve, Miles. I’m doing the best I can. ”

“I know. ”

“I never planted a white rose,” she said quietly. “Why didn’t I ask Mia what flower she liked? Why didn’t I know?”