I wondered where she was right now. New York City, probably. She’d have a small place somewhere, because singers who were just starting out didn’t make any money. She’d have roommates.
Or a boyfriend.
I forced myself to imagine who she might choose as a partner. He’d have to be my opposite, since Sophie wouldn’t want to be reminded of her unfortunate choices. That made him a dark-haired guy, maybe with olive skin, and wearing an Italian suit. Hopefully he had a high-paying job—in finance or real estate. He’d earn enough to live in a safe neighborhood and take Sophie out for expensive dinners.
Of course, the Sophie I knew wouldn’t want to date a banker. That smacked of her father’s choices for her. But maybe she’d met this guy during intermission at the Metropolitan Opera. Her banker had an artsy side and season tickets in a private box. He probably invited her to watch from his excellent seats. And since Sophie had a standing-room ticket, she accepted…
My brain snagged on one detail. Were private boxes even real, or were those just in old movies?
In prison I’d had to entertain myself like this for hours. When there was nobody to talk to, I went on journeys inside my head. Before prison, I was a talker. Too much of a talker, probably. But these past three years I hadn’t had a lot of conversation. Even at the Shipley Farm, where there were always people to talk to, I didn’t say a whole lot. They were such a nice, normal family. I preferred to listen. Who wanted to hear a lot of sentences that began, “In prison, we…”
Nobody, that’s who.
A single set of headlights illuminated an angled section of my ceiling from left to right. Then it was dark again. The nighttime sounds were different here. I was used to the call of the barred owls on the Shipley Farm, punctuated on some nights by coyotes howling nearby.
I missed the bunkhouse. Privacy was not a luxury for me. If I got out of this bed and went to find a fix, there was nobody who’d notice or care. I’d needed those six AM milkings to keep me on the straight and narrow. I needed the watchful eyes of Griff Shipley on me while we worked the farmers’ market stall.
This was going to be so hard—every minute. In Colebury, a fix was always in reach. Some of my druggie friends were probably within a mile of me right now. Still getting high. Still dealing. Colebury reeked of all my old mistakes and desires.
The itchy void in my chest gave a throb, and I rolled over to try to quash it. But that only reminded me of another absence. I stuck my nose in the pillow and took a deep breath, wondering if any essence of Sophie might remain.
But she was long gone.
Chapter Two
Sophie
Internal DJ Tuned to: “You Keep Me Hangin' On” by The Supremes
“Mom?” I called from the kitchen. “Did you make a shopping list?” After stuffing my wallet into my pocketbook, I threw on my trench coat. I was running a little late for work, as usual. “Mom?”
Silence.
Holding in my sigh, I walked through the house to the living room, where my mother sat in her chair, staring out the window. The cup of tea I’d brought her a half hour ago sat untouched beside her.
“Mom? The shopping list?” I said one more time.
Her head turned toward me, but her eyes were still flat. “I didn’t get around to it,” she said.
Of course you didn’t. She never got around to anything at all. During the hours when my father was at home, at least she appeared for meals and responded to simple questions.
But he’d left for work a half hour ago, and so she’d curled in on herself already, settling in for a long day of staring out the window, as useful as a paperweight.
“We probably need coffee,” she offered. “Your father is so unpleasant when we run out.”
Thanks for that insight. “Sure. I’ll just wing the rest,” I promised. “Bye.”
Without waiting for a response, I trotted back through the kitchen, grabbed my pocketbook and ran out to the garage. I climbed into my Rav4 and started the engine. Then I counted to sixty, because Jude had always said that an engine needed a minute to warm up.
I didn’t appreciate the fact that I thought about Jude three or four times a day when I started my car. Or every night when I lay down alone in bed.
There was a lot about my current situation that I did not like. I never thought I’d be living in my parents’ house at twenty-two. But halfway through college, I’d moved home. My mother became a zombie after Gavin’s death, and I’d wanted to help out. But I’d thought it was temporary. Who knew she would still be barely functional three years later?
Before the accident, my mother was like a forcefully orchestrated performance of Beethoven’s Fifth—a wave of ambition and pure will in every breath. She raised two children while working full time for the Vermont Department of Libraries. She directed our church’s Christmas pageant for fifteen years straight. She raised money for breast cancer, literacy and clean water in Africa.