THE DINER
Dana arrived forty-two minutes early.
She spent twenty-nine of those minutes in her car telling herself not to watch every vehicle entering the parking lot.
At 1:47, a white Subaru pulled into the space two rows over.
Dana recognized Sadie before the driver's door opened.
Not because of the photograph.
Because Sadie sat behind the wheel for almost a minute without getting out.
Dana had done the same thing.
At 1:50, Sadie stepped from the car.
She was shorter than Dana expected.
Five-four, perhaps.
Her hair was tied in a loose knot. She wore black jeans, work boots, and a green jacket despite the warm afternoon.
Dana got out.
Sadie saw her.
Neither moved closer.
The parking lot smelled of diesel and fryer oil.
A truck accelerated on the highway.
Finally Sadie said, “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You look like the pictures.”
Dana almost asked which pictures.
Then she understood.
The Colters had kept some.
“You look like yourself,” Dana said.
Sadie's mouth twitched.
“That is a very strange thing to say.”
“I know.”
They went inside.
The waitress put them in a booth near the window.
Dana hated the booth immediately.
Twenty-three years earlier, she had sat in another booth in another diner while Sadie ate crackers from a plastic cup and called every bird outside “duck.”
She forced herself to remain present.
Sadie ordered coffee.
Dana ordered tea.
Neither touched the menus.
Sadie studied her openly.
Dana allowed it.
“I have your hands,” Sadie said.
Dana looked down.
“Sorry.”
Sadie smiled.
“My husband says they're good hands.”
“You're married?”
“Three years.”
Dana nodded.
“His name's Ben.”
“Okay.”
“He knows I'm here.”
“Okay.”
“You can ask things.”
Dana rubbed her thumb along the edge of the table.
“I don't know which questions I'm allowed to ask.”
“You're allowed to ask anything.”
“That's different from being entitled to an answer.”
Sadie leaned back slightly.
For the first time, some of the tension left her shoulders.
“Dad would have liked that answer.”
Dana swallowed.
“What was he like?”
Sadie looked toward the window.
“Patient. Terrible singer. He could fix anything except plumbing, but he refused to accept the plumbing part.”
Dana smiled.
“He loved you?”
Sadie's eyes returned to hers.
“Yes.”
The answer landed with both comfort and grief.
“Good.”
Sadie watched her.
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
“You don't resent them?”
Dana considered lying because a cleaner answer would have been easier.
“I resented them when I was younger.”
Sadie nodded slowly.
“I imagined Joan waking up every morning with the life I should have had.”
“My mom worked nights at the hospital for six years.”
Dana blinked.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“The photos had notes.”
Sadie looked down.
Dana continued.
“Then I got older. I understood that Joan didn't steal you from me. I signed papers. I handed you over.”
Sadie's expression tightened.
“Mom may have done something after that.”
“Yes.”
“That's different.”
“It is.”
The waitress delivered their drinks.
They waited until she left.
Sadie wrapped both hands around her coffee.
“She told me you stopped writing.”
“I was told they moved and wanted distance.”
“They didn't move until I was eleven.”
“I know that now.”
“My father didn't know she told me you wanted no contact.”
Dana looked at her.
“You asked him?”
“Before he died.”
Sadie's voice thinned.
“He got sick fast. Pancreatic cancer. We had a lot of conversations nobody wants to have.”
Dana waited.
“One night I asked whether you ever tried to contact me.”
“What did he say?”
“He looked confused.”
Sadie rubbed the side of her coffee cup.
“He said there had been Christmas cards and birthday cards when I was little. He said Mom kept them in a box.”
Dana's stomach tightened.
“I sent those.”
“Then he said Mom told him you'd asked to end contact.”
“I didn't.”
“I believe you.”
The words came quietly.
Dana looked up.
Sadie was crying now.
Not dramatically.
Two tears, wiped away almost angrily.
“I spent years believing you forgot me.”
Dana's own eyes burned.
“I spent years believing finding you would hurt you.”
“It would have hurt.”
Dana nodded.
“Probably.”
“But that's not the same thing.”
“No.”
Sadie stared at her coffee.
“I have a good mother.”
“I know.”
“She showed up for every school thing. She slept on the floor next to me when I had pneumonia. When Dad died, she lived at my house for almost two months because I couldn't get through a grocery store without crying.”
“You don't have to justify loving her to me.”
Sadie's face tightened.
“I need you to understand that.”
“I do.”
“I'm angry at her.”
“You can be both.”
Sadie looked at Dana.
Something softened.
Dana reached for her tea.
Her hand shook badly enough that the spoon clicked against the cup.
Sadie noticed.
Neither mentioned it.
After a while Sadie said, “Why Mile Marker 41?”
Dana told her.
Not the polished version.
The real one.
Lorraine insisting the Colters not come to the house because neighbors would talk.
Joan saying the roadside was fine.
David arriving in a brown station wagon.
Sadie asleep against Dana's chest.
Dana standing beside the open rear door unable to move.
Lorraine whispering, “Don't make them beg.”
Joan taking the baby.
David putting the diaper bag in the back.
The station wagon disappearing north.
Dana running three steps after it before Lorraine caught her arm.
Sadie's face changed.
“She stopped you?”
“Yes.”
“From doing what?”
“I don't know.”
Dana looked at her.
“That's the worst part. I don't know if I would have asked for you back. Maybe I would have just asked them to wait another minute.”
Sadie swallowed.
“My mother said you handed me over and walked away.”
Dana's chest constricted.
“I didn't walk away.”
Sadie looked toward the window.
Dana said nothing else.
After nearly a minute, Sadie asked, “Can you show me?”
Dana knew exactly what she meant.
“Mile Marker 41?”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
Sadie nodded.
Dana paid the bill.
They took separate cars.
Seven miles later, Dana's blue sedan turned onto the shoulder.
The white Subaru followed.
The guardrail looked smaller with Sadie standing beside it.
Dana had never considered that possibility.
Sadie walked through the grass.
She crouched beside the flowers.
Some were nearly brown.
She touched one brittle stem.
“You brought these?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Most.”
Sadie stood.
“What were they for?”
Dana looked at the rail.
“For you.”
“I'm not dead.”
“No.”
Sadie's voice sharpened.
“Then why did you leave funeral flowers?”
Dana almost defended herself.
Then Wade's question returned.
Because grief had been easier to organize than uncertainty.
Because mourning required nothing from the person being mourned.
Because flowers didn't reject you.
“I didn't know what else to do with loving someone I wasn't supposed to contact.”
Sadie looked away.
A truck approached from the south.
Blue Kenworth.
Silver trailer.
Dana recognized it.
Wade slowed.
His eyes moved from Dana to Sadie.
Then to the flowers.
He did not stop.
He lifted one hand from the wheel.
Dana raised hers.
Sadie watched the truck disappear.
“Friend of yours?”
“Not exactly.”
“Who is he?”
Dana looked at her daughter.
“The man who asked the right question.”