“Get rid of it,” she said to Miles.
He looked at her. “They’re beautiful, Jude. It means—”
“I know what it means,” she said tightly. “People loved our daughter—a girl who is never coming home again.” Her voice caught, and she hated how overwhelmed she felt when she looked at these flowers. She would have done the same thing for a neighbor’s child, and she would have cried as she bought the flowers and placed them here. She would have felt an incredible sense of loss, and the sharp, sweet relief of knowing that her kids were okay. “They’ll just die,” she finally said.
Miles pulled her into his arms.
Zach came up beside them, leaned into Jude. She wanted to put her arm around him, but she felt paralyzed. It took concentration just to breathe with the cloying scent of all these flowers.
“She liked white roses,” Zach said.
At that, the grief came at Jude again. How had she not known that about Mia? All those hours she’d spent in her garden and never had she planted a single creamy white rose. She looked down at the flowers by her front door. There were dahlias, zinnias, and roses of every color except white.
In a burst of anger, she scooped up all the flowers and carried them over to the woods behind the garage and threw them into the trees.
She was just about to turn away when something white caught her eye.
An unopened rosebud lay on the top of the flowery heap, its petals as rich in color as fresh cream.
Jude scrambled through the brush, feeling stinging nettles lash across her face and hands, burning her skin, but she didn’t care. She picked up the lone rosebud, clutching it in one shaking hand, feeling the prick of thorns.
“Jude?”
She heard Miles’s voice coming at her. Clutching the single stem, she looked back at him.
In the harsh sunlight, he looked slight suddenly, fragile. She saw the hollows of his cheeks and the spidery look of his fingers as he reached out. He took her hand and helped her to her feet. She stared up into the gray eyes that had been her only real home and all she saw now was emptiness.
They walked into their home, which was bright with lights and sweltering hot.
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 …