Seven Days Back from the Dead, Then Gone Forever

I was trying to remember how to breathe when June dropped her coffee mug. It struck the kitchen tile and broke into three clean pieces. June stared at me across the counter, one hand still wrapped around the handle. The other pressed flat to her chest. For a few seconds, neither of us moved. The house smelled like coffee, damp wool, and the lemon oil Ben used on the old table. Rain tapped the windows. My hands shook against the counter. They looked like my hands. The small white scar beside my thumb, the crescent-shaped mark on my wrist, the wedding ring I had never managed to take off. All of it was there. I had been dead. I remembered headlights bending across wet pavement. I remembered a horn, a burst of pain, and then nothing at all. June made a sound I had never heard from her before. It was small and frightened, like a child waking from a nightmare. "Mom?" I tried to answer. My throat hurt. "I'm here." She backed into the refrigerator. A magnet shaped like a red crab tipped sideways behind her shoulder. June was nineteen now, taller than I remembered, though I had seen her only a year and two months ago. Her hair had been cut short, uneven at the ends. The sleeves of her faded college sweatshirt covered most of her hands. "Don't." Her voice came out rough. "Don't say that." I held both palms up. "I don't know what happened." "You're dead." "I know." "No, you don't." She shook her head. "You were dead. I saw the casket." The words struck harder than the crash. I lowered my hands. June looked at the door, then at the phone on the counter. She didn't reach for either. "Is this a dream?" "I don't think so." "What do you mean, you don't think so?" "I can feel the floor. I can feel the cold." My bare feet were on the tile. I looked down, at the blue flannel pajamas I had been wearing the night of the accident. "I remember driving. I remember the rain." "You died on Route Nine." "I know." "I was at the hospital." "I know." "I watched them take you away." "I know, June." She flinched at my voice, and guilt rose so fast I almost reached for her. I stopped myself. I didn't know if she would let me touch her. I didn't know if I had the right. June bent to pick up the broken mug. Her fingers trembled, and one shard slipped from her grip. I went around the counter before I could think better of it. "Don't," she said. I stopped. She stared down at the piece of blue ceramic. "I can do it." "I know." "I don't need you to do it." "I know that, too." The silence between us had fourteen months in it. There had been time for arguments, apologies, anger, and the kind of grief that turned ordinary objects into evidence. There had also been the last thing I said to her. You can't leave every time something gets difficult. June had been standing in the doorway with an art-school application in one hand. I had been exhausted, scared, and furious that she was planning a future somewhere else while I was trying to keep our lives from coming apart. She had gone upstairs. I had driven away to cool off. I never made it home. June swept the mug pieces into a dustpan. When she finished, she put the dustpan on the counter and picked up her phone. "Who are you calling?" I asked. "Dad." "Good." She found his number. Her thumb hovered over the screen. "June." "Don't tell me what to do." "I wasn't going to." She pressed call. It rang once. "Dad, you need to come home." A pause. "No, I'm not hurt. Just come home." Another pause. Her eyes stayed on me. "Because Mom is standing in the kitchen." Ben arrived eight minutes later. I knew because June kept looking at the clock. He rushed through the door with his coat half-buttoned and his hair wet from the rain. When he saw me, he stopped so abruptly that his keys slipped from his hand. I had imagined seeing him again. In those imaginings, I had said something clever. I had apologized. I had kissed him. In none of them had I needed to stand barefoot on the kitchen tile while he looked at me as if the ground had disappeared. He crossed the room and touched my cheek. His hand was warm. I leaned into it before I could stop myself. "You're cold," he whispered. "I'm sorry." He pulled me into his arms. I felt his breath shudder against my hair. I wrapped my arms around him and held on. June stayed by the table. When Ben finally let me go, he wiped his face with the heel of his hand. "We need a doctor." "I know." "We need to call someone." "I know." "I don't know who." "Neither do I." He looked at June. "Can you sit down?" "I'm fine." "June." "I said I'm fine." She picked up the envelope lying beside the fruit bowl and tucked it under her arm. The corner had been bent, then carefully smoothed. I recognized the school crest printed on it: Alder College of Art, in the city two hours south. "I thought you'd opened that," I said. Her eyes snapped to mine. The envelope disappeared behind her back. "It's not your business." I nodded. It was a fair answer. Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, my husband stood between my daughter and me, trying to keep all three of us in the same room. "June," I said. "How long have I been gone?" She looked at the old clock over the stove. "Fourteen months." I let the number settle. Then I noticed the date on the calendar. Seven days from now was circled in red. June had written something beneath it, but her hand covered the words. "What's next week?" I asked. Her grip tightened around the envelope. "Nothing." She went upstairs before I could ask again.