This was how she moved through the hours of every day. She cut and styled her hair even though she didn’t care how she looked; she wore makeup; she dressed carefully. Otherwise, people would frown at her, lean closer, and say, “How are you, really?”
Better to look healthy and keep moving. On most days, that worked for her. She woke up and made it through the interminable daylight. On weekdays, she fed her granddaughter breakfast and drove her to kindergarten. A few hours later, she picked Grace up from the elementary school and dropped her off at the afternoon day care program that allowed Zach to spend his days in medical school.
Jude had learned that if she focused on the minutiae of life, she could keep her grief at bay.
Most days, anyway. Today, though, no amount of pretending could protect her.
Tomorrow was the sixth anniversary of Mia’s death.
Jude stood in her designer kitchen, staring at the six-burner stove. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, made the tiny bronze flecks in the granite countertop sparkle.
Miles came up beside her and kissed her cheek. He had stayed close to Jude all day. “Zach and Grace will be here for dinner,” he reminded her.
She nodded. It occurred to her a moment too late that she could have turned into his arms and kissed him back, but as with so many things, her timing was off. She watched him move away from her, saw the distance between them expanding. It was a skill she’d acquired; she actually saw empty space now.
She knew he was disappointed in her, in their marriage, just as she knew that he still loved her. At least he wanted to, and for Miles desire and reality were the same thing because he made it so. He still believed in them. He woke every day and thought today: today would be the day she’d remember how to love him again.
She went to the fridge for ground beef and pork and set about the comforting task of making meatballs. For the the next hour, she lost herself in routine: dicing vegetables, forming meatballs, frying them up. By the time her sauce was made, the house smelled of red-wine-based tomato sauce and savory thyme-rich meatballs. A humid sweetness hung in the air as water boiled on the stove. She turned the sauce down to simmer and made a salad. She was just closing the refrigerator door when she heard a car drive up.
She tucked the hair behind her ear, feeling the coarse new strands of gray that threaded through the blond—tactile reminders of her loss. As she neared the living room, Miles saw her coming and met her halfway, putting an arm around her waist.
Grace walked into the sunlit entry. In her butterfly-print capri pants and smocked pink blouse, with her corn-silk blond hair fighting its way out of a lopsided ponytail, she looked like a little wood sprite. It wasn’t until you studied her small, heart-shaped face, with its pointed chin and sharp nose, that you saw that there was nothing truly elfin about the serious child in front of you. Like the rest of them, she rarely smiled and laughed quietly, covering her mouth with her hand as if the sound were unpleasant.
Miles released his hold on Jude and went to his granddaughter, scooping her up in his arms and twirling her around. “And how’s my little Poppet today?”
Jude flinched at the endearment. She’d tried to stop her husband from using it, but he said he couldn’t do it, that he looked at Grace and saw Mia, and the nickname slipped out.
Jude saw Mia in Grace, too. That was the problem. Every time Jude looked at this child, the wound reopened.
“I’m good, Papa,” she said. “I found an arrowhead on the beach at recess.”
“No, you didn’t,” Zach said, kicking the door shut behind him.
“I could have,” Grace said.
“But you didn’t. Jacob Moore found it, and you punched him in the nose when he wouldn’t give it to you.”
“Jacob Moore?” Miles said, peering down at his granddaughter through the rimless glasses he now wore. “Isn’t he the kid who looks like Bigfoot?”
Grace giggled and covered her mouth, nodding. “He’s seven,” she whispered solemnly. “And in kindergarten.”
“Don’t encourage her, Dad,” Zach said, tossing his keys on the table by the door. “She’s already looking at cage fighting as her only career option.” He hung up his backpack, pausing for a second at the green sweater still hanging on the hall tree. His long fingers brushed the fabric. They all did that, touched the sweater like a talisman every time they came into the house. Then he turned away and headed toward the great room.
Jude was so removed from her own life that she saw her son from a distance even when he was right in front of her. His blond hair had grown out again; it was too long, messy and unkempt. His jawline was stubbly—his beard grew in some places and not others because of the burn; his shirt was on inside out, and probably had been all day; and when he took off his sneakers, his socks didn’t match. Worse than all of that was the exhaustion in his eyes. No doubt he’d spent last night studying and still gotten up bright and early to make Grace breakfast. One day he was just going to drop where he stood.