Page 2

J ulia sighed, the only sound in the apartment. Mike’s funeral had come and gone, and her in-laws were back in Massachusetts. She wondered how often she’d see them now. There were no grandchildren to bind them, since Mike hadn’t wanted to try to get pregnant yet.

Babe, next year, I release the Kraken.

Today was the first day she’d made it to her desk.

Every morning since his murder had been a unique sort of hell.

She’d wake up, realize he wasn’t there, and remember why.

He wasn’t at the office. He wasn’t playing basketball.

He wasn’t in the kitchen making them both coffee, a kindness she was grateful for, every day.

Julia would remember things he said or did, having teary flashbacks.

They’d met freshman year at Notre Dame, where he was a sports fanatic who took art history on a lark.

He was clever and fun, and they clicked instantly.

They married at the Basilica and moved to Philly, where she got an MFA in painting at Penn while he went to its law school.

They became each other’s family and were blessedly happy, most of their fights over stupid things like March Madness, which she regretted now.

Mike, it’s only a basketball game. If we leave now, we’ll be back for the last quarter.

Babe, that’s the climax. Boys need foreplay, too.

Julia’s memories would keep her in bed, where she was the most miserable, and the more she remembered, the more miserable she’d be and the more stuck in bed. Getting up meant starting another day without him in a life that was Before and After. She lived an Afterlife.

Mike’s ashes were on the bookshelf in a brass urn, since he told her he wanted to be cremated in a conversation they both thought was hypothetical.

Next to it sat a photo of him from his law school graduation, grinning in a mortarboard.

It had been displayed at his funeral, but Julia thought no photo could capture Michael Aaron Shallette, who was so full of life, talk, and opinions.

He has the gift of gab , her father always said.

Her truest feeling was a deep sadness for him , not for herself. Mike got only thirty-two years and twenty-one days on the planet, and she raged at the injustice. Gone too soon and life cut tragically short were too generic for him. Mike set goals and announced them, always planning.

He wanted to be a father by thirty-four and he used to talk about their first child. He’d say, I’ll take a boy or a girl. Girls can hit three-pointers, too.

He used to talk about the BMW Z4 he configured online. Honey, I’m getting that car when I make partner. The website said so.

He used to talk about his lawyers league championship. Next year, Dechert goes down.

But Mike didn’t get next year. He didn’t even get next week, and that was what she mourned. Sorry for your loss , everyone told her, but he was the one who lost everything, and that killed her. She didn’t know if the word for that feeling was grief, or love.

Julia barely slept. She had nightmares that left her trembling.

She’d see the man in the hoodie stepping from the darkness, the knife, Mike’s blood.

Some days she’d get up, brush her teeth, and shower, but working seemed impossible.

She had a small business designing and maintaining websites, but she could barely concentrate.

Meanwhile, the financial pressure was on.

She made $75,000 to Mike’s $250,000 a year, and his firm had already direct-deposited his last check.

She had rent, student loans, credit card bills, and car payments.

There was about $37,000 in savings, but $8,500 went for his funeral.

Mike had only minimal life insurance because he was too young to die.

The police had no leads on his murder, and she routinely called the Homicide Division and the ADA.

She’d given statements but didn’t have a good description of the killer because it had been too dark.

His face had been shadowed by the hoodie, so she hadn’t seen his features and didn’t know his race or age.

He hadn’t said anything, so she hadn’t even heard his voice.

The ADA warned her to be vigilant when she went out, since she was an eyewitness, and it disturbed her that the killer knew what she looked like but she didn’t know what he looked like.

She wouldn’t see him coming, so she stayed inside.

The guilt was a gut punch, and a loop of second-guessing ran through her mind several times a day.

What if she hadn’t worn a designer bag? What if they hadn’t eaten so late?

What if Mike hadn’t tried to protect her?

Since the funeral, Julia had a constant stomachache.

She thought it was something she ate until she realized it was pure, weapons-grade guilt, Catholic in origin. Mike had died for her .

A social worker had called, urging her to use Crime Victim Support.

Julia ended up Zooming with a mother whose son was shot at a wedding, a man whose brother was stabbed in a bar, and a woman whose sister was strangled by a boyfriend.

Julia listened to them in horror, crying with them.

Her nightmares intensified, so she quit.

Her best friend Courtney made her see a therapist, Susanna Cobb.

They had their first session, also on Zoom, and Susanna recommended a Zoom widow bereavement group, but that didn’t work, either.

The other widows had decades with their husbands, and all Julia could think was how lucky they were.

Plus the facilitator talked about “widow empowerment” and “interactive self-help tools,” when Julia felt neither empowered nor interactive.

They told her to expect the occasional “griefburst,” but she lived in a griefburst. MOPING IS COPING read their slogan, but she coped way too much.

Since Mike’s death, Julia thought of her mother more and more.

They’d been best friends, and Melanie Mortssen Pritzker was a warm and funny woman, a former NICU nurse devoted to Julia and filling her childhood with happy moments.

Chasing foamy wavelets at the beach. Exploring the smelly darkness of the reptile house at the zoo.

Nobody loved to bake more than her mother, and making a Funfetti cake was her birthday tradition.

Julia would never forget her tenth birthday, when the two of them huddled happily in the kitchen, sprinkling Funfetti into the batter. Her mother always mixed with a wooden spoon, old-school she said.

Her mother smiled. This is the happiest day of the year for me.

My birthday? Julia asked, surprised. She watched the red, green, and blue jimmies churn by in the batter.

Absolutely.

But you didn’t get me on my birthday. Julia had known she was adopted from when she was little. Her mother had told her with characteristic honesty, making it no secret.

True, but the world got you that day. Her mother’s hazel eyes twinkled. And I’m so happy you were born.

Julia still had questions. Do you ever wish I came out of your belly?

Her mother shook her head. No, not at all.

Julia wasn’t sure she believed her. Why not?

Other moms and dads don’t get to choose, but I got to choose you. I waited for you for a long time, and you’re very special. God wanted us to have you and He brought you to us.

Julia smiled, suffused with her own adopted specialness, but suddenly her mother frowned, her hand going to her forehead.

Ow, that hurts.

What, Mom? Mom?

Julia didn’t want to remember what happened next.

Her mother collapsed to the floor, her eyes wide open.

The wooden spoon lay where she’d dropped it, dripping cheery Funfetti batter.

Julia had tried to shake her awake, but her mother was already gone, dead of an aneurysm that very moment, on Julia’s tenth birthday.

Her father died of a heart attack her junior year at college, but they were never close.

Her mother was their family’s chirpy driver, and her father its taciturn passenger.

A structural engineer, Martin James Pritzker shut down after his wife died.

Julia stepped into her mother’s role, cleaning and making dinner, but she couldn’t make him happy.

He was a Sigher, and she didn’t have to ask why. She knew he missed her mother.

Once a year, they endured the awful convergence of her birthday and the anniversary of her mother’s death.

They would visit her mother’s grave, then go home and have lunch, talking neither about her mother nor her birthday.

Her father would descend to his basement and watch TV with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, which he permitted himself this day only.

Finally, when Julia turned fourteen, she found herself teary-eyed in the kitchen, making a Funfetti cake and mixing the batter by hand , then she took it downstairs.

Dad, look, I made—

What the hell is that? Her father turned in his leather recliner, a crystal tumbler in his hand. The TV showed a golf tournament on mute, its bright green fairway filling the screen.

It’s for her, Julia answered, instantly regretful.

Bullshit! It’s for you! Her father scowled, slurring his words. You made a cake, today? Your mother deserved better than you! Better than me!

No… Dad, Julia tried to say, stricken. I just thought—

You’re an ingrate! You should thank your lucky stars for her! All she wanted was a baby! And I couldn’t give it to her! She never shoulda married me!

Julia edged back to the staircase.

You wouldn’t be here but for her! You were her idea! The whole damn thing was her idea. I didn’t want you!

Julia’s heart broke that day. The Sigher had been sighing because he was stuck with her . She realized then that adoption gave you a family, but not necessarily a happy one.

Sitting at her desk, she realized how different her life was from other people her age.

She was only thirty-two, but she’d already lost all the family she had.

So far, her defining moments were marked by gravestones, not milestones.

She wondered if grief acquired mass with loss after loss, like an avalanche rumbling down a mountain, gathering size and momentum, flattening everything in its path. Flattening her .

Julia came out of her reverie and glanced outside, since her desk sat against a window overlooking the street.

Bundled-up men and women hurried to work laden with purses, messenger bags, and backpacks.

Young mothers yakked on phones while they pushed strollers.

Neighbors walked dogs, and runners ran by, checking watches.

Julia couldn’t imagine going Outside, among the people and the phones, the designer bags and the knives. She was afraid, but mostly she didn’t think she belonged there anymore. She belonged Inside, with her mourning and her memories, her voices and her ghosts.

But she had to get to work, today. She turned to her desktop, palmed her mouse, and opened her email account, which piled onto the screen. Her attention went to the oldest email, which came in on October 11, the day of Mike’s murder.

Julia shuddered, thinking back to that morning, which was like any other, then snapped out of it and made herself focus.

The email was her daily horoscope from StrongSign, which she usually checked.

She’d become interested in astrology after her mother died on her birthday, a fluke of fate if there ever was one, like a freak accident in a family.

She often wondered if her own birth was an accident, too, given that she was put up for adoption.

Sometimes she even wondered if she was cursed.

Julia opened the email and read the horoscope:

You’re a Cancer Sun, Sagittarius Moon, and Virgo Rising, and you love your home and family. Do not be alarmed but do be aware today. You or a loved one may be in jeopardy. Trust yourself today, and every day.

Her mouth went dry. The horoscope predicted Mike’s murder before it happened.

Dumbfounded, she read it again and again, then the guilt, second-guessing, and self-recrimination started.

If only she’d read the horoscope that morning.

If only she’d trusted herself that night.

Could she have prevented Mike’s murder? Would he be alive today?

Was it her fault? Was it his fate? Was it hers?

Julia needed somebody to talk to, and she knew just who to call.

Every woman did.