Thirty-One
It doesn’t take a month for the cancer to kill Mariah.
Two weeks later, Christina pulls into my driveway in the same SUV, her little boy Aidan in tow, as well as FDR, Jane Eyre, and Jupiter.
I meet her on the bottom stair and we hug while the dogs run loops around the yard, sniffing everything. She’s trying not to cry—says it worries Aidan when he sees his momma upset. “She went quick. Just closed her eyes and didn’t wake up. The doctor was giving her a lot of morphine. She didn’t want anyone to know how much pain she was in, but the last week has been brutal.”
I lead them into the house.
“Hey, you’re unpacked,” she says.
“Mostly. Still need decent furniture. I haven’t gone looking, not with work and setting up the new studio and stuff.”
“You got lots of time.” She sets A
