TWO

It’s never the thing you’re expecting that wallops you. It’s always something sneaky, sliding up behind you when your attention’s fixed on something else. How many times had my mama told us that growing up? One tiny tidbit of valuable insight in her otherwise alcohol- and drug-fueled existence. The lesson learned from her own father, who suffered from a bum ticker, his every hiccup or wheeze a sure sign of impending death. Until the day stomach cancer crept up out of nowhere and snuffed him out before his heart knew what was happening. When I was a kid, my mama doled out wisdom so rarely that I clutched onto this nugget like a lifeline. Spent my time trying to foresee every single disaster that might befall us in hopes that nothing could catch us unawares. And when my daughter was born, I had anticipated a million ways my clawing, desperate love for her could go sideways: SIDS or choking on a piece of hot dog when Junie was little; a car accident or childhood leukemia as she grew; some dangerous older boy or her grandmother’s taste for drugs reaching down through the generations now that she was approaching her teenage years. But her throat slit in the park where she’d played as a little girl? No, that was never a horror story I had entertained. Not in this small, middle-of-nowhere town, where if you didn’t know someone you at least knew their kin, who they belonged to, where they came from. All of this was my fault, really. Because if I’d had a little more imagination, stolen the idea before the universe had grabbed on to it, maybe my girl would still be alive.

“Where is she?” I asked, head resting against the passenger window. Outside the daylight was fading fast, leaving a streak of orange sunset burning behind the clouds. Buildings blurred past as we drove down the pitted two-lane highway that served as the center of town: the general store with its uneven pyramid of toilet paper in the window, the whitewashed brick bank building turned a dirty gray over time, the sub shop where no one actually ate unless they wanted to flirt with food poisoning. How was I still here, in this forgotten, dead-end place that couldn’t even boast of nostalgic charm? No quaint town square, no sidewalks to stroll down on spring days, no vintage shops selling handmade treasures, only a random collection of dilapidated buildings spread along the edge of the highway and a tired, dirty sameness to everyone and everything. Why hadn’t I left and taken Junie with me? What had I been waiting for? Something rose up in my throat, vomit or tears, but I swallowed it down. Not now, I told myself. Later.

“She’s at the funeral home,” Cal said, eyes on the road, hands gripping the wheel with white knuckles. He paused, then gave it to me straight, the way he always had. “Waiting for the medical examiner. They both are.”