“Mom Trying Not to Cry.”
I remembered that night. Jordan had told her art school was for fools with rich parents. Maya had run upstairs, and I had stood at the sink, pretending I was fine.
“Mom Trying Not to Cry.”
On the next page, she had written:
“Dad says artists become burdens. Mom says he just worries.”
Below that was one line that cut through me.
“I wish she’d stop trying to make him kinder.”
I sat down hard on the wet grass.
Katherine knelt across from me.
“Dad says artists become burdens.”
“I need to know everything, Katherine,” I said. “Please.”
“Then don’t stop with me,” Katherine said. “Talk to Maya’s teacher. Sadie said everyone knew Maya’s portfolio was the strongest.”
***
That afternoon, I went to Maya’s school with her sketchbook pressed against my chest.
Ms. Alvarez met me in the art room. Paint covered one cuff of her sweater.
“That was always in her hands,” she said.
“I need to know everything, Katherine.”
“Was Maya the front-runner?”
Ms. Alvarez looked away. “By far. The board told me a week before.”
“Was she going to reject it?”
She paused. “Who told you that?”
“Maya did.” I opened the sketchbook to the draft tucked between two pages. “Not out loud. But she wrote it.”
Ms. Alvarez sat down slowly. “She came to me the day before the accident. She was scared.”
“Was she going to reject it?”
“Of losing?”
“No, Jackie. Of winning. Your husband… he made art sound meaningless. He didn’t want her to do it.”
My fingers tightened on the book.
“What did Jordan say to her?”
Ms. Alvarez hesitated.
“Please don’t protect him from me.”
“What did Jordan say to her?”
“She told me he said if she accepted, she could pay for her own car, insurance, and college.”
I gripped the back of a chair. “And you told her?”
“To wait. To bring you in so we could talk together.”
“Maya never asked me.”
“I think she wanted to,” Ms. Alvarez said. “But she was afraid you’d explain him again.”
That landed harder than I expected.
“And you told her?”
***
I drove home, pulled my recipe binder from the pantry, and found the phone account password Jordan had mocked as “grandma tech.”
Soon, I had Maya’s call log. I hadn’t disconnected her number yet.
There was one call from Jordan.
Six minutes.
The same time Sadie said Maya ran to her car.
Six minutes before the first emergency call.
There was one call from Jordan.
***
When Jordan came home, the call log and sketchbook were on the table.
He stopped. “What’s this?”
“Did you call Maya that night?”
“No.”
I slid the call log forward. “Try again.”
His jaw tightened. “You went into the account?”
“Did you call Maya that night?”
“It’s our account.”
“You’re grieving. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I buried our daughter, Jordan. Don’t talk to me like I misplaced a grocery list.”
“What do you want?”
“The truth. What did you say to her?”
“I was being her father.”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“What did you say?”
He shoved the paper back. “I told her not to come home unless she was ready to refuse that
“You shut her out.”
“I parented her.”
“You made home feel unsafe, so she ran into a storm.”
Jordan’s face tightened. “I was trying to wake her up.”
“She was already awake,” I said. “That’s what you couldn’t stand.”
“You shut her out.”
“The storm killed Maya.”
“You were in her ear.”
For once, he had no answer.
Then he looked past me at the sketchbook. “No one needs to know about this.”
I almost laughed. “No one?”
“The memorial showcase is tomorrow, Jackie,” he said. “They want you to speak. Keep it appropriate.”
“Appropriate?”
“No one needs to know about this.”
“This family has suffered enough.”
“You mean you’ve suffered enough embarrassment because your daughter wanted to be an artist.”
His eyes went cold. “Careful, Jackie.”
“No. I was careful for years. Look where it got us.”
“If you accuse me in public, people will think grief broke you.”
I picked up Maya’s sketchbook. “Grief did break me. Just not the way you hoped.”
I spent that night at a motel and called Katherine.
“He admitted it,” I said.
“What do you need?” she asked.
“Stand with me tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there.”
