The call came at 4 a.m. on the third day.
I knew before I answered. Some part of me had been waiting for a call like that for weeks, the way you wait for a storm you can already smell in the air.
"Your mother," Cassius said. No greeting. "There was an accident. A car, on Route 9. The police say it happened fast."
I sat up in the dark. My hand found the edge of the mattress and gripped it. "Is she—"
"She didn't make it, Audrey."
The words landed somewhere far away, like they belonged to someone else's mother. I heard myself say, "When," and I heard him say, "Last night, around ten," and none of it felt real, not the rain he mentioned, not the slick road, not any of it.
"I need to go to her," I said. "I need to see her."
"Tomorrow. Not tonight." A pause, and then, flat as a closed door: "Katalina's blood pressure spiked when she heard. The doctor wants her resting. Just — keep it together, all right? Don't make this harder on everyone."
I didn't say anything. I let the phone go quiet against my ear until he hung up first.
Later, a neighbor of my mother's called to tell me how sorry she was, how she still couldn't believe it. "There was a woman by a few days before," she added, almost as an afterthought. "Said she was thinking of buying the Fentons' old place down the street. Real friendly. Asked your mom all sorts of questions — her walks, what time she liked to go out, that kind of thing." The neighbor laughed a little, embarrassed. "Funny what people ask when they're just being neighborly."
I didn't laugh. I wrote the date down in my notebook, the one nobody knew I kept, and I underlined it twice.
The funeral was small. Cassius came for an hour, said the right things to the right people, and left early because Katalina needed him at an appointment. Wesley didn't come at all. He had a game.
I went to the cemetery alone three days later, before the sun was all the way up. The hillside was wrapped in fog so thick I couldn't see the road behind me, only the shapes of headstones rising up out of the wet grass like something surfacing from underwater. My mother's name was still sharp-edged on the new granite, the letters not yet softened by weather.
I knelt. My knees sank into the cold ground. I set down a single white chrysanthemum against the base of the stone, the way she used to arrange flowers on the kitchen table when I was small — one flower, never a bunch, because she said a bunch was showing off and one flower was honest.
"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you," I told her. "I'm sorry I told you to stop asking questions."
I didn't cry. I hadn't cried in months, not since the sauna, not since the marble floor. Something in me had gone dry the way a well goes dry, and I'd stopped expecting water to come back up.
I don't know how long I knelt there. Long enough that my knees went numb through my jeans, long enough that the fog started thinning at the edges, gray turning to a paler gray.
Then I heard footsteps on the gravel path behind me. Slow. Unhurried. The kind of walk that belonged to someone who had all the time in the world.
I turned my head.
Katalina stood at the cemetery gate, one hand resting on the wrought iron, her belly round under a long wool coat. She wasn't out of breath. She wasn't cold, either, or if she was, she didn't show it. Her face, when I found it through the fog, wore an expression I hadn't seen on her before — not the practiced tremble she used for Cassius, not the wide wet eyes she used for Wesley. Something quieter. Something almost tender.
She looked like a woman visiting a garden she'd planted herself.
"Audrey," she said, and her voice carried easy across the wet grass, no breathiness in it at all. "I thought I might find you here."
I stayed kneeling. My hand was still resting on the cold stone, on my mother's name.
"How did you know where to find me?"
Katalina tilted her head, the fog curling pale around her shoulders, and smiled the way you'd smile at someone who had finally, finally caught up to a truth you'd been holding all along.
