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?”
He stroked her hair. “We can’t do this,” he said. “Going through our whole lives, tilling it up, looking for mistakes. It’ll kill us.”
She nodded, feeling tears start again.
God, she was already tired of crying, and it hadn’t even started. She’d been without her daughter for less than three days. The rest of her life stretched out before her like the Gobi Desert.
“We have to have a funeral,” Miles said softly.
“Because it’s the thing to do?”
“Because Zach and I need it.”
Jude pressed her face into the pillow, blotting her tears. “Okay,” she said, overcome again by all of it. “I’m going to sleep now,” she said, closing her eyes.
Miles left the room and closed the door behind him.
*
SEATTLE TIMES
Local Teen Killed in Drunk Driving Accident
An eighteen-year-old Pine Island girl was killed early yesterday morning in a single car crash on Night Road.
Mia Farraday, a Pine Island High School senior, was thrown out of a Ford Mustang when it hit a tree, authorities said.
The driver, eighteen-year-old Alexa Baill, of Port George, was reportedly intoxicated at the time. Another passenger, Zachary Farraday, was also injured in the incident.
Pine Island Police Officer Roy Avery is “tired of delivering bad news to parents of local teens.” He pointed out that before this most recent fatal crash, an accident in another part of the county killed a sixteen-year-old Woodside girl.
“Both wrecks happened on dark, twisty, two-lane roads, and both young drivers had been drinking,” Officer Avery said.
“We have to stop these teens from partying. That’s all there is to it. The consequences are tragic. Every year, there’s a grad-party accident. This year, someone was killed.”
The local chapter of MADD has taken a strong interest in this incident. President Norma Alice Davidson demanded publicly that charges be brought against this young driver. “Only stiffer penalties will make teens take notice of the danger,” she said.
Prosecuting attorney Uslan declined to comment about whether Ms. Baill would be charged with DUI vehicular homicide. A memorial service for Mia Farraday will take place Wednesday at Grace Church on Pine Island at 4:00 P.M.
*
All over Pine Island, there were reminders of Mia’s death: on the high school reader board, WE MISS YOU, MIA; on the movie marquee, IN MEMORY OF MIA. There were signs in store fronts and taped to car windows.
But those reminders weren’t the worst of it. Now, as Lexi walked up Main Street, she was bombarded by memories. She and Mia had painted ceramic platters together there, at the Dancing Brush … they’d bought designer jelly beans at the candy store and books at the bookstores.
Books.
That was what had brought them together in the first place, two lonely girls who, before each other, experienced the world from afar, through words.
Can I sit here?
Social suicide.
Eva handed Lexi a wad of toilet paper. “You’re crying.”
“Am I?” She wiped her eyes, surprised to find how hard she was crying.
Eva touched her arm gently. “Here we are.”
The lawyer’s office was just off Main Street, tucked back in a tree-lined quad that housed a yarn shop, an antique shop, and an art gallery.
The small, squat brick building had big windows and a bright blue door that read: Scot Jacobs, Attorney at Law.
Lexi followed Eva into the office. The main room held a big oak desk, three plastic chairs, and a framed black-and-white photograph of driftwood on a beach. A tired-looking older woman with black horn-rimmed glasses sat behind the desk.
“You must be Alexa,” the receptionist said. “I’m Bea.”