MILE MARKER 41

By then, Sadie had been to her house seven times.

Dana had been to Sadie's twice.

She met Ben, who was taller than expected and made excellent cornbread.

She learned Sadie hated mushrooms, loved thunderstorms, and called people back immediately because unanswered messages made her anxious.

Dana tried not to wonder why.

Joan apologized in person.

It happened badly.

Dana was glad.

A polished apology would have felt rehearsed.

Joan cried too soon, became defensive, apologized for becoming defensive, then admitted that after the diner visit twenty-three years earlier she had been terrified Sadie might one day love Dana in a way that made Joan feel less necessary.

“I had waited twelve years to be somebody's mother,” Joan said.

Dana had looked at her across Sadie's dining table.

“And I had been one for eight weeks.”

Joan lowered her head.

Neither woman won.

That helped.

Sadie did not forgive either of them on command.

That helped too.

She remained Joan's daughter.

She began becoming something to Dana.

They avoided naming it for a while.

There was no word that could make twenty-five years neat.

In November, Sadie called on a Friday morning.

“Are you working?”

“Until four.”

“Can you meet me at forty-one?”

Dana paused.

“Mile Marker 41?”

“How many forty-ones do we have?”

“What are we doing?”

“Bring flowers.”

Dana nearly said no.

Instead she bought a bouquet after work.

Not yellow.

A mixture of asters, daisies, and branches of something green the florist called salal.

Sadie's Subaru was already parked at the shoulder when Dana arrived.

A cold wind moved across the road.

Sadie stood beside the guardrail wearing gloves.

Dana walked over carrying the bouquet.

“What's this about?”

Sadie nodded toward the flowers.

“You tell me.”

“You asked me to bring them.”

“I know.”

Dana studied her daughter.

Sadie smiled.

“You're terrible at surprises.”

“I don't like surprises.”

“I've noticed.”

They stood together beside the rail.

Dana looked at the place where the bouquets had accumulated.

Nothing remained now except a few dry stems caught in gravel.

The highway department had cleaned the shoulder sometime in October.

Dana had expected that to hurt.

It hadn't.

Sadie took the bouquet.

“This is where she handed me over?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you standing?”

Dana moved three feet south.

“Here.”

“The car?”

“About where mine is.”

Sadie looked from the guardrail to the Subaru.

“What did I have on?”

“A yellow sleeper.”

“Of course.”

“It had ducks.”

“That makes it worse.”

“You were very fashionable.”

Sadie smiled.

Then her expression became serious.

“Were you scared?”

Dana looked down the highway.

“Yes.”

“Did you think you'd made the wrong decision?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still?”

Dana took time before answering.

“I think Joan and David gave you a good life.”

“They did.”

“I think I loved you.”

“I know.”

“I think I wasn't ready to raise a baby.”

Sadie waited.

Dana rubbed her hands together against the cold.

“And I think people act like only one of those things can be true.”

Sadie looked at her.

Dana continued.

“If I say the adoption hurt me, people think I'm saying it was wrong. If I say your parents loved you, people think I wasn't supposed to grieve.”

She nodded toward the road.

“Twenty-five years ago everybody wanted a clean answer.”

Sadie touched the guardrail.

“Do you have one now?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Dana laughed.

Sadie lifted the bouquet.

“So what do we do with these?”

Dana looked at the flowers.

For twenty-five years, she had left them at Mile Marker 41 because the place never asked anything of her.

It didn't need explanations.

It didn't have birthdays she had missed.

It didn't know another woman as Mom.

It couldn't be angry.

It couldn't forgive.

It couldn't choose her.

A grave was simple.

A living person wasn't.

Dana reached for the bouquet.

“I'm hungry.”

Sadie frowned.

“What?”

“Let's take them to the diner.”

“You want to eat the flowers?”

“Yes, Sadie.”

“I'm clarifying.”

Dana rolled her eyes.

They walked back toward the cars.

Sadie stopped halfway.

“Wait.”

She turned and looked at the guardrail one last time.

Dana waited beside her.

“Do you think we should leave one?” Sadie asked.

Dana considered it.

“For what?”

Sadie looked at the highway.

“For the twenty-five years.”

Dana removed one small white daisy.

Sadie took it.

Together they walked back to the rail.

Sadie tucked the stem beneath the metal.

Not a funeral arrangement.

Not a memorial.

One flower.

Dana looked at it.

“That enough?”

Sadie nodded.

“Yeah.”

They returned to the cars.

At the Hollis diner, Sadie put the remaining bouquet in a water glass between the ketchup bottle and the sugar packets.

They ordered burgers.

Sadie stole Dana's fries.

Halfway through dinner, a blue Kenworth pulled into the truck lot.

Dana noticed first.

Wade Larkin climbed down from the cab and came inside.

He saw Dana.

Then Sadie.

Then the flowers on the table.

Recognition moved slowly across his face.

He approached the booth.

“Afternoon.”

Dana smiled.

“Wade.”

Sadie looked between them.

“The right-question guy?”

Wade frowned.

Dana laughed.

“Long story.”

“Apparently,” he said.

His eyes moved to the bouquet.

“No flowers at forty-one today?”

“One.”

Wade nodded as though that answer made complete sense.

“Who died?”

Sadie looked at Dana.

Dana looked at her daughter.

Then Sadie answered.

“Nobody.”

Wade smiled.

“Good.”

He walked toward the counter.

Sadie reached across the table and stole another fry.

Dana slapped her hand away.

“Order your own.”

“I did.”

“Then eat yours.”

“Yours taste better.”

“They are exactly the same fries.”

Sadie grinned.

Dana looked at her.

Twenty-five years earlier, she had watched a brown station wagon disappear north from Mile Marker 41 and believed some part of her life had gone with it.

She had been wrong about that.

The life had continued.

Messily.

Without her.

With love she hadn't provided and lies she hadn't known about and wounds no apology could entirely repair.

Now it sat across from her wearing a green sweater, stealing food from her plate.

Dana pulled the basket of fries closer.

Sadie reached for it anyway.

Outside, traffic continued past Mile Marker 41.

The guardrail remained exactly what it had always been.

Metal beside a road.

Nothing had died there.

At last, Dana understood why that mattered.