Now we’re driving to Rhode Island. Not my choice. Well, yes, my choice, because I am the ultimate chooser in our family of two. But between my conscience and my daughter, there wasn’t much choice at all. It’s been ten days since Jack Sabathian’s call, and while there hasn’t been a second, the first one haunts me.

“Whoa,” says Joy when we reach the accident. Morbid curiosity keeps her turning to look back as we move ahead. Finally, flopping forward, she says, “I’m not driving. Ever.” In my periphery, I see her glance at her phone, and not for the first time. She must have texted a friend before we left and is awaiting a reply.

If history serves, she’s in for a wait. Joy is on the fringe of the texting group, for which I’m thrilled, though she is not. She once told me about being in the lunchroom and sitting alone with her sunflower-butter sandwich because she couldn’t stand the smell of the crap the others were eating. I figure she told them that. Both the school counselor, who loves Joy’s spunk, and Chrissie, who is a psychologist, claim that Joy is mature for her age and that the others will catch up. I worry about the harm done until that happens. It’s about self-esteem.

Deliberately, I relax my hands on the wheel, but still my heart bleeds. Every child needs a best friend at her back. I had my sisters, Margo the fearless and Anne the ray of sun. Joy is a lonely only, sitting by herself in a lunchroom full of kids. And now a silent phone? This is why I agreed to a week, rather than a weekend, at the beach. Rhode Island will be a diversion.

We’re listening to Ed Sheeran now. She had thumbed him in before dropping her phone, and I know there’s defiance in her choice. I can’t wait to go home, he sings in “Castle on the Hill,” which has been her anthem since we decided on this trip. Little does she know that while I’m okay with that line, the ones that follow grip me more. I was younger then, take me back to when I found my heart and broke it here. But she hasn’t a clue.

Greenwich falls behind us, then Stamford. As Vivaldi rises through the speakers, Joy’s fingers play the notes. “Do you remember this highway from growing up?” she asks.

We’re approaching Darien. “I do.”

“Going to New York.”

“And Philadelphia. And Washington.”

“All five of you?”