A Song for the Road

unburdening herself to Becky—telling her the ways in which she’d failed Teo, the last fight with Talia, the secret that should have felt less burdensome now that they were all gone, but that felt heavier than ever.
But Becky would never look at her the same way again.
No. She had to figure this out on her own.
Miriam straightened, and Becky released her. Away from that human touch, the spring night held a chill.
Becky sighed. “Well, it’s just as well you weren’t in the office today. Ella came in looking for you.”
Miriam shuddered. “Ella Evil would have been the cherry on top of this day.”
Becky’s lips twitched. “One of these days, you’re going to slip up and call her that to her face.”
“Bring it on.” For months after Ella Emil, the “online voice of Atlanta,” featured Miriam’s quest to memorialize her children with a fine arts addition at St. Gregory the Great High School, her life had been hell. Everyone read Ella’s gossipy blog, even if they’d never admit it. Miriam had taken to grocery shopping at one AM to avoid running into people who thought they were entitled to hug her and pat her cheek and share their own sob stories.
She should have known better than to talk to that woman. Should have known Ella would make her look like a saint; it racked up blog hits. Should have known trying to live up to that image would crush her soul. But Mom had insisted publicity would help the cause and that talking would make her feel better.
She’d been right on point A. Point B, not so much. “What’s Ella want now?” she asked.
“An update.”
Miriam groaned. “‘Grief-stricken widow goes crazy at funeral of congressman.’ You have to admit, it has a certain ring.”
“Nobody thinks you’re crazy, Miriam. We’re all just worried about you.”
Miriam moved toward the door, shuffling with her keys. “I wish people would chill. It’s not like I’ve spent the last year holed up in my bedroom refusing to shower.”
Becky cocked her head, giving Miriam a Look. The kind that required capitalization. “I hate to break it to you, but there’s more to living than showing up showered.”
“Brilliant, Becky. Put it on a meme.”
“Miriam, you know I love you. But you can’t go on like this.”
Miriam swung on her friend. “You think I don’t know that?” Her words bounced off the house across the street; she winced.
“Everyone knows what you’ve been through.” Becky spoke softly. “Nobody should have to do what you had to do today. It was a terrible set of circumstances. But, Miriam, honey, you can’t take it out on your volunteers.”
“I didn’t yell at anyone.”
“Not today, you didn’t.”
Miriam winced. The sound guy still flinched every time she looked his way, and it had been, what, six weeks since that spat?
No wonder her volunteer ranks were getting thin.
She rested her forehead against the wall. Sometimes she woke in the night with her pulse pounding, crucified on the knowledge that everything she’d sacrificed had been for nothing. Sometimes the anger caught her off guard in the most inappropriate moment. Like when she stood before the choir, her hands raised, their eyes on her, trusting her, and she longed to launch a microphone stand at them, javelin-like.
But most of the time, she just felt dead. As if the emotion that had fueled her music and given purpose to her days—everything that made her good at her job—went into the ocean with her husband and twin teenagers a year ago.
She’d been certain nothing could be worse than the crushing weight of grief that had paralyzed her for months. Every day, every hour, every minute.
She’d been wrong. Feeling nothing at all was much worse.
Miriam swallowed. “I hate everything. I hate my job, I hate playing piano, I hate dealing with people. I … I don’t know if I can do it anymore, Bec.”
“Oh, Miriam,” Becky said softly, “don’t lose yourself in this. Teo would never have wanted this for you.” She bit her lip but couldn’t quite swallow the chuckle. “‘Ring of Fire,’” she said, shaking her head. “Where did that even come from?”
“The devil made me do it,” Miriam muttered, only half joking.
Becky sniffed, held her hand out, and wiggled her fingers. “Let me see the card.”
Miriam didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She pulled the floral card from in front of the photo in her phone case and handed it over. Becky took it, and Miriam ran her finger over the photo of herself and Teo standing beside the piano at St. Gregory’s. Teo’s hand rested on the neck of his guitar; Miriam pointed to something in the accompaniment book. She didn’t remember what. Only that they’d been in the middle of a spirited discussion about it when the kids had told them to look and snapped the picture.
They were making faces.
Miriam loved that picture. It was quintessential Teo: that big Italian-Argentine nose, the glasses that made him look like a geeky professor, right from the day she’d first met him at the national convention for liturgical music.
From day one, he’d made her feel like she belonged. What had she ever done for him?
“‘Happy birthday, love of my life,’” Becky read. She looked up. “Pretty generic for a message from beyond the grave.”
“It’s an auto-delivery for my birthday and anniversary,” Miriam said dully.
Becky’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Auto-delivery doesn’t sound like Teo.”
“Two years ago, the night before my birthday, he realized at dinner he forgot to call the florist.” Miriam passed her hand across her eyes. She could still see Blaise’s sardonic thumbs-up at Teo’s exclamation. “Way to keep a surprise, Dad!” he’d said.
Talia had rolled her eyes and whipped out her phone. Miriam could hear the timbre of teenage exasperation in her daughter’s voice, clashing with the glow of pride at the chance to show off her expertise.
“Talia set it up, to show off for her Luddite parents,” she said now.
“You’re not a Luddite,” Becky said with a tolerant smile, but then frowned. “But if it was an auto-delivery, why didn’t