Night Road - Kristin Hannah [148]
At the end of her session, she said something to Dr. Bloom—she didn’t remember what—and walked outside.
The weather now was both bright and gray. Clouds the color of beach sand hung low in the sky. Sunlight glowed through in places while rain fell in drops so small no local even noticed, but tourists in the market huddled beneath brightly colored umbrellas. She stood at the corner in front of Dr. Bloom’s building, beneath this crying sky, and tried to remember which way to go. It felt suddenly as if any move could be wrong.
“Are you okay, Ma’am?” a kid said, appearing beside her. With shaggy hair and a skateboard clamped under his arm, he reminded her of long ago—or maybe a second ago—when Zach and Mia had been in middle school.
She would have given anything to run to her car right now, to drive down to the ferry terminal and go home. But she couldn’t. It was Wednesday.
“I’m fine,” she said to the kid. “Thanks.” She moved forward, walking slowly. Rain tapped at her head, occasionally a drop landed in her eye, but she barely noticed.
In no time at all, she was standing in front of her mother’s art gallery. In windows on either side of the closed door hung large canvases—one was a traditional landscape, the tulips in the Skagit Valley, done in golds and reds, beneath a shadowy, melancholy black sky; the other was a still life, a vase full of pink dahlias. Only on close examination could one see the hairline crack in the aged-looking porcelain.
Next door, she opened one of the huge glass doors and entered an elegant lobby. Saying hello to the doorman, she headed for the elevator and rode it to the top floor.
The elevator opened onto the penthouse: four thousand square feet of ivory marble flooring dotted with exquisite, uncomfortable French antique furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows captured the Seattle skyline, Elliott Bay, and, on good days, Mount Rainier.
“Judith,” her mother said, coming toward her. “You’re early. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Desperately.” Jude followed her mother into the living room. The few solid walls in this space were painted a creamy white and supported giant works of art, none of which Jude liked. They were all dark and despairing somehow; sad. Just looking at the artwork in this room had always depressed Jude. Other than the paintings, there was no color anywhere. Jude sat down in a white chair by the fireplace.
Her mother brought her a glass of white wine. “Thanks, Mother.”
Her mother sat down on the pale sofa opposite Jude. She looked ready to host an elegant party—her white hair was coiled with effortless chic into a French twist; her face was expertly made up to emphasize her green eyes and minimize the lines that fanned out around her thin lips.
“You look upset,” Mother said, sipping her wine.
It was a strangely intimate observation for her mother to make. Normally, Jude would have smiled and made up a pretty excuse, but she had been undone by Lexi’s return, by that damned letter, by the obvious pain her son was now in—all of it. She had no strength left, and she was afraid, even though she didn’t know what scared her. Staying put? Letting go? Holding on? Nothing felt safe anymore. And she wanted someone to talk to, someone to help her find a way out. But her mother was hardly that person.
She wanted to smile and change the subject and pretend she had nothing pressing on her mind, but her whole life was falling apart, it seemed, and she had no strength left for pretense. “Why is it we never really talk?” she said slowly. “I don’t even know you. And you certainly don’t know me. Why is that?”
Her mother put down her wine glass. Backlit by the gray day, she looked ethereal. For the first time, Jude noticed how old her mother looked, how tired. Her shoulders were thin as bird bones and her spine had begun to curve forward. “You, of all people, should understand, Judith.” Her mother’s voice was sharp and thin, a razor blade, but the look in her eyes was perhaps the softest expression Jude had ever