The darkness outside had become heavy, oppressive with the humidity that had enveloped Arcadia for nearly a month. Though she was used to slogging through Augusts in the deep south, the city heat was different. It was dirty with the unwashable evidence of trash, of violence and apathy. The lifeless air didn't hold the promise of night-blooming jasmine or marshy cattails. It was just the stink of asphalt, of car exhaust and rotting garbage.
She recognized her depression for what it was. Everything that had happened yesterday. End of the summer blues. The looming empty nest. Missing Will. Even after nearly 25 years as a cop's wife, she still wasn't used to the nights alone. She worried. She imagined him lost, hurt, crying, needing her. She pictured having to tell her babies that their daddy was gone. These were things she never outgrew, never forgot. And each time he walked back through that kitchen door, she said a small prayer in thanks, yet knowing it may only be a reprieve from the inevitable.
The was a jug of sun tea in the door of the refrigerator and as she pulled it out, she thought about just drinking right from the spout. No one was around. No one would know. But, in the end, germs, cleanliness and manners won, and she poured herself a motherly glass.
Preferring the safety of the sweltering kitchen to the dark uncertainty outside, she sat gingerly on a counter stool, hooking her bare feet over the lowermost rung. The resulting slump reminded her so much of Joan, she smiled a little. But thoughts of Joan were never happy very long. She worried about her daughter so desperately, sometimes there seemed little room for much else. But Joan...Joan was a mystery, even to her. She, the woman who'd carried this strange and beautiful child within her body for so long. So long then, so short a time, now. Joan had changed so much in the year since they'd moved to Arcadia. The self-centered, often immature, bright-eyed, wondrous creature had darkened. Slipped within herself. She saw pain and confusion in Joan's eyes, where there used to only be curiosity and laughter. She watched Joan. Watched how Joan talked, ate, slept, read. She studied her daughter's friends, observed their study groups, listened to their offhanded remarks. She was searching for some clue, some tiny tidbit of information that would suddenly reveal the secret of Joan.
Because that's what she saw now, when she looked at her middle child. She saw a secret, a puzzle that she couldn't solve, a Pandora's box full of answers that she might not like. And something was telling her that time was running out. If she didn't find the answer, figure out the secret, discover the final piece that made everything clear, she would lose Joan forever. She didn't question this metaphysical quest, or wonder why she was so certain there was a deadline. She simply knew, as only a mother could.
The question she did ask, was why Joan? Joan was the easy child for so long. She had worried endlessly about Luke, about his lack of friends, the hours he spent holed up in his room, in his own head. She worried about cruel children who teased him and his bewilderment when no one returned his timid gestures of scientific friendship. She worried about Kevin, the star, the athlete. She worried about his grades, his girlfriends. She worried about his character, the sense of entitlement he always carried, whether he would be a good person. Then she worried about his legs. How he would survive this ordeal, whether he would become the strong-willed man or remain locked in the angry boy.
And yet everything had changed here, in Arcadia. Kevin had come to terms, or at least started to come to terms, with his paralysis. He hadn't given in to anger, to hurt. He had grown up without warning, seemingly overnight, and suddenly she could see the man he would be- the wry humor, the willpower and the dedication to life, even as it was. And Luke... She still shook her head over Luke. He was still the good child, the responsible one. But again, seemingly overnight, he'd changed into the beginnings of the man he would be. She could see the determination, the self-assurance, the goodness he had already at 15. And now he had friends who admired him for his intellect. He had found Grace, against all odds. She smiled every time she thought of the unlikeliness of the angry rebel and her son, and yet could see how well they complimented one another. Luke wasn't comfortable enough in the relationship to tell his family, but a mother could see. At least, she could.
And so, her thoughts always returned to Joan. Joan, who had returned from Gentle Acres yesterday morning. She held it together when Joan came home from the hospital. She held it together when the psychiatrist had recommended that place. She held in her terror when they'd taken Joan there, held in her tears when her baby girl begged her not to leave. She'd even managed not to cry when they called every Friday night. When they'd arrived at Joan's room and found this pale, thin shell of Joan, she'd swallowed and clenched her fists. She'd been strong for Joan, for Will, for the boys. But now, now when everyone was gone or asleep and she was alone, she let herself cry for her lost baby girl. She grieved for the shiny little girl who was gone and the scared young woman who'd taken her place. And maybe, somewhere in the sobs she tried to muffle with her hands, she cried for herself.