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By Root 657 0

to doing what he did best, and if he spent too many hours in the OR, it seemed right that he should save as many lives as he could. Zach had surprised everyone who knew him by blistering through both junior college and the University of Washington; he’d graduated in three years and started medical school a year early. Now he was in his second year, and his grades were stellar. He had moved into a rental house on the island, and he did two things in his life: school and fatherhood. He seemed not to care that he had no time for a social life. Islanders spoke of him with pride, saying how tragedy had shaped him, and how well he’d risen to the challenge of fatherhood.

And then there was Jude.

For years, she had tried to reclaim the woman she’d been before her daughter’s death. She’d done what was asked of her, what was expected. She’d gone to support groups and therapists. She’d taken Xanax and Zoloft and Prozac at various times. She’d slept too much and then too little. She’d lost too much weight. Mostly, she’d learned that some pain simply could neither be cured nor ignored nor healed.

Time hadn’t healed her wounds. What a crock of shit that little cliché was. The kind of thing lucky people said to those who were less fortunate. Those same lucky people thought that talking about grief helped, and they thought nothing of telling you to “try to get on with your life.”

Finally, she’d stopped expecting to feel better, and that was when she found a way to live. She couldn’t control her grief or her life or much of anything, really (that was what she knew now), but she could control her emotions.

She was careful. Deliberate.

Brittle.

That most of all. She was like an antique porcelain vase that had been broken and painstakingly repaired. Every scar was visible up close, and only the gentlest touch could be used in handling the piece, but from a distance, from across the room, in the right light, it looked whole.

She followed a rigid routine; she’d learned that a schedule could save her. A to-do list could be the framework for a life. Wake up. Shower. Make coffee. Pay bills. Go to the grocery store … the post office … the dry cleaners. Put gas in the car.

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