“Good-bye, Alexa,” Eva said.
Lexi stood there, nodding. “Thanks for…” Her voice broke.
Eva pulled her into a hug and held on to her tightly. “I love you, Alexa,” she said.
Lexi was shaking when she drew back. “I love you, too, Eva.”
Eva looked at her through shiny eyes. “And you remember this: I knew your mama. You are nothing like her, you hear me? And don’t you let this place change that.”
And then she left.
Lexi stood there for as long as she could see her aunt. Finally, she left the visitors’ room and returned to her cell. She hadn’t been there for more than forty minutes when a guard came and stood in the open doorway.
“Baill. Get your things.”
Lexi scooped up her few belongings—toiletries, letters, photographs—and put them in a dented shoe box, then she followed the guard into the main section of the prison.
All around her, women were stomping their feet and calling out to her. In the steel and concrete prison, the noise was thunderous. Lexi didn’t look up, just kept her belongings pressed to her chest and her eyes downcast.
The guard stopped suddenly.
The cell door in front of them buzzed loudly, clicked, and opened.
The guard stepped aside. “Inside, Baill. This is your permanent cell.”
Lexi stepped around the guard’s bulky body and peered into the cell that would probably be her home for the next sixty-three months.
The cement walls were plastered with photographs and drawings and magazine ads. A heavyset woman sat on the lower bunk, her broad shoulders slumped forward, her thick, heavily tattooed arms resting on her bent knees. She had long, ropey strands of gray-black hair and dark skin. Moles dotted her cheeks, and tattoos curled around her throat.
The door clanged shut behind her. “I’m Lexi,” she said, having to clear her throat before she had enough confidence to add, “Baill.”
“Tamica,” the woman said, and Lexi was surprised by the pretty sound of her voice. “Hernandez.”
“Oh.”
“My kid’s about your age,” Tamica said, heaving her considerable bulk off the narrow bed. It was concrete and steel; no springs pinged at the movement. She moved forward, pointed to a tattered, worn photograph taped to the concrete-block wall. “Rosie. I was pregnant with her when I got in here. Didn’t know it, though.” Tamica crouched down by the toilet and rolled a cigarette. As she smoked, she exhaled into the vent on the wall. “You got any pictures?”
Lexi put down her box of belongings and sat next to Tamica on the cold floor. She picked up a few photographs from the pile. “This is my Aunt Eva. And this is Zach.” She stared down at his senior picture. She touched it all the time. Already it felt as if she were starting to forget him, and that terrified her. “And this is Mia. The girl I … killed.”
Tamica took the picture of Mia, studied it. “Pretty girl. Rich?”
Lexi frowned. “How’d you know that?”
“You’re here, ain’t you?”
Lexi wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. The question seemed to imply facts that weren’t quite true, or that she hadn’t really seen before.
“I killed my husband,” Tamica said, indicating a picture on the wall.
“Self-defense,” Lexi said. It was something you heard about a lot in here. She seemed to be the only guilty person in prison.
“Nah. Killed the f**ker in his sleep.”
“Oh.”
“I been here so long now I can hardly remember the bad shit I done.” Tamica put out the cigarette and hid the unsmoked half inside of her mattress. “Well, I guess we might as well talk. Get to know each other.” She looked at Lexi, and in those dark eyes, there was a sadness that made Lexi uncomfortable. “We got time, you and me. And I could use a friend.”
“When will you get out?”
“Me?” Tamica smiled slightly. “Never.”
* * *
On a Wednesday in late August, Zach emerged from his bedroom looking disheveled and a little disoriented. His short hair was dirty and spiky; his T-shirt had a big stain across the front.
Jude and Miles were in the great room, staring at the TV, though neither was watching. They hadn’t spoken in more than an hour. When Zach walked into the room, Jude’s heart ached at the sight of him. If she weren’t so exhausted, she would have gone to him, maybe asked how he was, but she hadn’t slept in weeks, and even the merest movements were beyond her. She’d lost fifteen pounds this summer, and the loss left her looking skeletal and wan.
“I’m going to USC,” he said without preamble.
Miles rose slowly. “We’ve talked about this, Zach. I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s too soon.”
“It’s what she would want,” Zach said, and with that, the air seemed to get sucked out of the room, leaving them all breathless.
Miles sank back to the sofa. “Are you sure?”
“Sure?” Zach said, his voice dull. “It’s what I’m doing, okay?”
Jude stared at her son, seeing the salmony patch of new skin along his jaw. Blue veins in his cheeks looked like cracked lines in aged porcelain. He was this big, broad-shouldered kid who’d been whittled down by grief. How could she tell him to stay here, in this airless, dead place? “Okay,” she said at last.
* * *
For the next few days, Jude made a herculean effort to act like her old self. She wasn’t that woman, of course, but she wanted—this one time—to think about her son instead of her daughter. In the old days—only months ago now, a lifetime—she would have thrown a huge “good luck in college / going away” party for her kids. Now, it took everything inside of her to invite a few friends over to say good-bye to Zach. Honestly, she didn’t want to do even that, but Miles insisted.
On the big day, she took a shower and washed and dried her hair. When she looked in the mirror, she was surprised by the thin, fragile-looking face that stared back at her. Too many sleepless nights had left dark circles under her eyes, and even in this final week of August, after a long, hot summer, she was as pale as chalk.
She brought out her makeup kit and went to work, and by three o’clock, when the doorbell rang, she looked almost like her old self.
“They’re here,” Miles said, coming up behind her. He slipped his arms around her waist and kissed the side of her neck. “Are you ready?”
“Sure,” she said, forcing a smile. In truth, she felt a fluttering of panic. The thought of people around her, of having to pretend she was okay, getting over it, moving on, made her hyperventilate.
Miles took her by the hand and led her down the hall to the front door.
Molly and Tim stood on the front porch; both were smiling just a little too brightly. They had come bearing food, with their kids in a group behind them. The freezer was already full of foil-wrapped food that people had brought after the accident. Jude couldn’t look at any of it, couldn’t eat a bite of it. Just the sight of foil made her queasy.
“Hey, guys,” Miles said, stepping aside to let them in. “It’s good to see you.”
Instead of welcoming them, Jude crossed her arms and glanced out at her garden.
Prickly, ugly weeds grew everywhere. Her once-beloved plants seemed to be climbing over one another in a rush to leave their confinement.
“Jude?”
Jude blinked and saw Molly standing beside her. Had she been talking? “I’m sorry,” she said. “Senior moment. What did you say?”
Molly and Miles exchanged worried glances.
“Come on, honey,” Molly said, putting an arm around her.
Jude let her friend sweep her up like a warm tide and carry her into the front room, where a Good luck, Zach banner hung across the mantel. Miles put music on the stereo, but at the first song—Sheryl Crow singing “The First Cut Is the Deepest”—he snapped it off and turned on the television instead. The Seahawks were playing football.
One by one, Zach’s friends filed into the house. They took up space, these boys and girls she’d known for so long. She’d been with most of them since kindergarten. She’d fed them and driven them to and from events and even occasionally advised them. Now, like Zach, they were getting ready to leave the safety of the island and go off to college.
Minus one.
Miles came up beside Jude, touched her arm. “Is he going to come down?”
She looked up at him, and in his eyes she saw the same thought that dogged her: the old Zach would never have been late to his own party. “He said he would. I’ll go get him,” she said.
She nodded and left, realizing too late that she’d just walked away from Molly. She should have excused herself.
Honestly, it was hard to remember things like that these days.
At Zach’s closed door, she reached into her pocket—always full now of aspirin—and she chewed one. The terrible taste actually helped.
Then she knocked on the door.
There was no answer, so she knocked again, harder, and said, “I’m coming in.”
He was slumped in his gaming chair, wearing headphones and wielding a controller like a fighter pilot. On the TV screen in front of him, a remarkably realistic tank rolled down a barren hillside, gun blazing.
She touched his head, gave it a little scratch.
He leaned into her hand, and she wondered how long it had been since she’d touched him. With that thought came the loss again, the grief and the guilt. “What you doing?”
“Trying to beat this level.”
“Your friends are here … to say good-bye,” she finally said.
“Yeah,” he said, sighing.
“Come on,” she said.
They went downstairs together, saying nothing.
In the living room, there was a moment of silence as they entered, awkward and uncomfortable. How could this ever be a celebration, really? Then Zach’s friends came up him, smiling uncertainly, talking quietly.
Jude stood back. She was trying like hell to stay present, to stay in this moment that mattered to her son, but it hurt so much. She should have expected it, should have known she couldn’t celebrate Zach’s journey to college—to USC—without also mourning the fact that he was going alone.
She stayed as long as she could, smiled more than she would have thought possible; she even cut the cake and asked Miles to make a toast, but long before the day turned to early evening, she slipped down the hallway and hid in her dark office.
How could she go to USC, say good-bye to her son and not be overwhelmed with grief? USC was Mia’s school—everyone knew that. Her bedroom walls were studded now with red and gold USC paraphernalia. The worst part (which she would never admit to anyone) was that she wanted him gone. Every time she looked at him, she broke all over again. Without him, she could just do nothing. Be nothing.
Feeling shaky, she went to the sofa and sat down. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” someone said, and the lights came on.
Molly stood there, holding a plate of lemon bars. She took one look at Jude and rushed to the couch, sitting down beside her. “Breathe, honey. In and out. In and out.”