I wonder if this is the whole reason she asked to meet. Not so I could tell what was missing from my story but so she could tell hers. “Then why are you telling me now?”
“I thought you’d want to know.” She taps the table with her palm. “I thought you’d want to know that when everyone else was giving in to the statistics, he was looking for you. I thought you’d want to know that when everyone else said you were never coming home, he brought you back. He refused to believe you were gone—he just wouldn’t accept it. I thought you’d want to know because I sure as hell would.” She shakes her head, and for a moment, she’s not here in this room—she’s somewhere else, with someone else. “I’d want to know that a man was willing to give up everything for the fraction of a fraction of a chance that I was in that house and the fraction of a fraction of a chance that I was still alive inside. That kind of love, friendship, whatever you want to call it, is worth crossing lines for.”
I inhale, understanding. She’s rooting for the happy ending. She’s advocating the fairy tale. Seems strange coming from a tough police detective.
“Even if that person is a priest?” I glance at her.
She lifts her eyebrows and stands. She doesn’t blink when she answers. “Even if that person is the motherfucking pope.” When I wrestle with a smile, she raps on the table a few times before heading for the door. “There are thousands of priests in the world to spread good, do good, and be good . . . but there’s only one him.”
She’s almost out of the room when she stops, catching herself with a snap. “Oh, I left something for you at the front desk, so grab it before you leave. Some evidence that belonged to you that we collected at Jackson’s.” She looks at me with something meaningful in her eyes. “Something I thought you’d want a chance to finish.”
Ten Months Later
IT’S MY BIRTHDAY. I’m turning twenty-eight. It’s the first one I’ve celebrated in ten years. It feels a little like a rebirth.
That’s probably why I scheduled what I did for this morning.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this, sweetie?” Mom’s sitting on the edge of my bed as I finish with my hair. I got it cut a little shorter, and I still haven’t gotten used to what to do with the different length.
“I’m ready.” I stare at myself in the mirror for a minute, looking for that light in my eyes. It takes a while to find it, but at least I can now. When I leave the bathroom, I do a little spin before slipping into my shoes. “So? How do I look?”
“Beautiful. Just don’t rub up against anything or drink anything or eat anything.” Her eyes scan me, and she motions for me to do another twirl. I do. “White’s dangerous.”
“No, white’s appropriate for the situation.” I run my hands down the smooth fabric and focus on my breathing. I’m nervous, but I have an arsenal of tools at my disposal now for when that happens. Deep breathing, redirecting the negative energy into something positive, focusing on an anchor memory that grounds me. I do all three now.
“Why’s that?” Mom comes over to help me adjust a few things. Turns the pearl necklace so the clasp is hiding. Smooths the seam running down my side. Combs a stray hair back into place.
“Because everyone’s expecting me to wear black. White’s going to take them all by surprise.”
“Why’s everyone expecting you to wear black?”
I shrug, smiling at my light dress. “Because black absorbs everything around it, making it what it is, unlike white, which reflects everything and doesn’t let anything past. I want everyone to know I’m not defined by what happened—it doesn’t make me what I am today. I am who I am, not what’s happened to me.”
Mom lifts a brow at me and smiles. “And here I thought you picked the dress because it fit you like a dream and was on the sale rack.”
I lift a shoulder. “And maybe that too.”
I’ve gotten a job at the public pool, teaching swimming lessons to adults who can’t swim, while I work on knocking out a few college prereqs at the community college in town. I love the job, but it doesn’t pay much. So I shop sale racks and yard sales because I insist on paying my own way. It’s important for me to be able to take care of myself.
“Are you as nervous as I am? You don’t look it,” Mom asks, placing her hand across her stomach.
“I’m so nervous I’m one frayed nerve away from peeing my pants, which, by the way, you did not mention in your list of what not to do when wearing white.”
Someone knocks on my door. They’re ready.
She bites her lips and glances at the door. “You’ll do great. And we’ll all be right there for you.”
I give her a side hug, which turns into her pulling me into a full-body one. She squeezes me so tightly it’s like she’s just been told this is the last time she’ll be able to see me.
“I’m so proud of you, Jade.”
I wind my other arm around her and squeeze her back. “I’m proud of me too.”
When she sniffs, I lean back and find her crying. Well, she’s trying not to cry, but it doesn’t change that she would be if she weren’t putting on The Brave Face for me.
“Wow. Even you’re looking at me like it’s a funeral.”
She shakes her head and pulls a tissue from her purse. “I’m just worried. This is a big day. A lot’s happened. It’s only been a year.” She dabs at her nose and eyes and glances at the door where another knock’s sounding. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait? Make sure this is really what you want?”