fairy dust around it? And popsicle-stick windows and clay walls? That’s silly, Mommy.”
“Why?”
“Only our fairy houses have those. Besides, fairy houses aren’t real. Mia’s house is made of wood. Her daddy built it, and he’s a … what did you say he is?”
“A carpenter.”
“Uh-huh. Are we almost there?”
“I think so. But will you look at these trees, Lily? They’re yellow, like your hair. Know why?” she asked as a diversion.
“The green stuff.”
“Chlorophyll. It dies off when the nights turn cool. Remember, we talked about that? The colors we see now were always there. We just couldn’t see them until the green was gone.”
Lily was silent through another twist of the road, then asked, “Are you sure we’re not lost?”
“Do I ever get lost?”
“You did when we were driving to the ocean.”
“Excuse me, little love. I got us to the ocean, just not the part Daddy wanted us at, but he was sleeping.” In the passenger’s seat. After a late night of work. “No, we are not lost.” But Mackenzie was thinking of turning around and retracing the road to town. If she had a working phone, she could call Mia’s mom for directions. Of course, there was still the turning-around problem. The road was undulating with a frequency that made narrowness all the more of a challenge.
“Why’s it taking so long?” Lily asked.
“Because I don’t want to drive fast on a road I don’t know.”
“Will you know how to find me to take me home later?”
“Absolutely,” Mackenzie said with feeling, though she was thinking it might not be a problem if she didn’t get them there in the first place.
“I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you, too, baby.”
“Mommy?”
“What, hon?”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“We’re almost there, almost there.”
According to the map screen, they were nearing the crossroad. Hoping to get her bearings there, perhaps see a sign or regain her cell signal, at the very least have room for a turnaround, she zoomed in to identify it, to bring the name into view, leaning closer to catch it.
Too late, she remembered that the GPS display of her current position trailed reality by a number of seconds. Too late, she realized that the momentum built climbing another hill would have her barreling down the far side without knowing how close the intersection was.
She never saw the STOP sign hidden by leaves of the same color, never saw the van speeding at her from the right. She felt the terrifying jolt of impact, heard a high-pitched scream from the back seat and would have blindly reached for Lily if the SUV hadn’t hurtled into a spin that defied gravity.
She felt another impact, then nothing.
1
The trouble with waking up in the morning is that you look like who you are. That’s great if you like who you are, but not so great if you don’t.
I don’t. My face is pale and my eyes haunted. Five years have passed since the accident, but after a night with my head on the same plane as my heart, the scar on my forehead is a bright red. At least, it looks that way to me. When I touch it, I find a smooth ridge, but my fingertips remember the earlier roughness. And then there’s the picture taped inside the medicine chest, where I’m sure to see it when I reach for toothpaste.
Mug shots are never pretty. Heartache is written all over mine. Size-wise, the print is small enough, but that doesn’t dilute its impact. It’s a reminder of what I did, a little dose of daily punishment.
Duly tweaked this Thursday morning, I closed the medicine chest and leaned into the mirror. I dabbed a long-wearing concealer over the scar and under my eyes once, twice, then a third time because last night was a bad one. After setting it with a breath of powder, I applied foundation, then a blusher. Both were creams, applied with a sponge. Moving up, I turned haunted eyes into stylishly smoky ones by skimming a gel pencil along both waterlines, smudging shadow into the corners, and separating my lashes with mascara.
Satisfied, I straightened and stood back, brushed my hair, fluffed my bangs. Then, as I did each day, I turned away from the mirror wearing my new face and tried to forget the old one. Was this honest? No. But it was the only way I could survive, and survival was key.
* * *
This day, the rising March sun was paper thin but promising. I felt no threat, no premonition, not