*
Jude stood there, freezing cold, staring at the closed door, at the blur of green beside it, trying not to feel anything at all. At some point, she became aware that the phone was ringing. Walking woodenly into the kitchen, she picked up the cordless handset and answered. “Hello?”
“The phone rang and rang,” her mother said.
Jude sighed. “Did it?”
“Are you having another one of your bad days? I could—”
“Lexi was just here,” she said, surprised to hear the words spoken aloud. She didn’t really want to talk about this with her mother—hell, she didn’t want to talk about anything with her mother—but right now, she couldn’t hold back. Her nerves felt as if they were poking out of her body.
“The girl who was driving the car that night?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. My. That takes some nerve.”
“That’s what I told her.” Jude sagged against the wall, feeling depleted by the whole thing. “She wants me to supervise visitations so she can see Grace.”
“You told her no, of course. That’s what I would do.”
It took a moment for her mother’s words to sink in. When they did, Jude straightened. “That’s what you would do?”
“Of course.”
Jude pulled away from the wall and walked over to the window. Looking out, she saw her mangled, untended garden. It was a heady mix of bright color and dying black leaves. That’s what I would do.
“You can’t let that girl hurt you again,” her mother said.
Mia would be on my side in this.
Her mother was still talking, saying something about grief, maybe, as if she knew what Jude were feeling right now, but Jude wasn’t really listening. She started moving toward the stairs, drifting like a woman caught in a rip current. Before she knew it, she was at Mia’s bedroom door, reaching for the knob, opening it for the first time in years. She went to the closet, opened it, and stepped inside. A light came on automatically, and there it was, just as she’d left it. The box marked Mia.
A fine layer of dust attested to how long she’d been away. It had taken her years to find the strength to pack up these belongings. And once she’d done it, there had been no strength left to remember them.
“Good-bye, Mother,” she said, and hung up the phone, dropping it to the carpeted floor. She sank to her knees and opened the flaps. The mementos of Mia’s short life lay carefully arranged within. Yearbooks. Trophies for soccer and volleyball. An old pink tutu that had once fit a six-year-old. USC sweats. Barbie dolls with no clothes and a pair of scuffed white baby shoes. Everything except the journal, which she’d never found.
She pulled each item out, smelling them, holding them to her face. Although she’d cried for years and years, it felt as if these tears were new somehow, hotter; they burned her eyes and her cheeks. At the bottom of the box lay a framed picture of Mia and Zach and Lexi, their arms hung negligently around one another. The smiles on their faces were bright and shiny.
She could almost hear them laughing …
Mia would have been on my side in this.
Strangely, that sentence brought back Mia as brightly as if she’d just sailed through the door, saying, hey Madre, and laughing. And not the Mia of static memories, but Mia herself, with her megawatt smile and crazy fashion sense and her insecurities.
Mia would be on Lexi’s side in this. The thought of her daughter’s opinion shamed Jude to the depths of her soul. Mother had appealed to the worst in Jude—you told her no, of course. Lexi had appealed to the best in her.
You used to be the best mother in the world.
The words brought memories surging forward, and Jude was too exhausted, too depleted to hold them at bay any longer. She thought of Mia as she’d been in senior year—a quiet, thoughtful eighteen-year-old girl who had no idea how beautiful she’d become, who’d fallen in love for the first time and had her heart broken by a boy. A girl who loved without boundaries and found joy in simple things—an old stuffed rabbit, a Disney movie, a hug from her mother.
At that, Jude felt something break inside of her, like muscle tearing away from bone.
Hola, Madre, how was your day?
They’d thought they were fluent, both of her kids, after a year of Spanish. It used to crack Jude up, and they’d known it.
She sat there a long time, remembering Mia for the first time in years—really remembering her—and in finding the memories of her daughter, she reclaimed a lost piece of herself. And she was ashamed of who she had let herself become.