The predicted, May cold front had blown in last evening in San Antonio, plummeting the overnight
temperature into the sixties. In the exclusive enclave of Olmos Park, Julia Atherton awoke to feel a chill.
Her recollection of last night’s argument with Parker seeped through her fatigue. The cream-colored
blanket—the same color as her nude body—had slipped off her during the night and the goose-down
comforter was bunched up at her feet. Exhausted, she pulled both toward her and curled up under the covers.             

       The familiar click of the glass shower door and the sound of running water from the adjoining master
bath signaled Parker was showering. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven times. If she got up now,
Julia thought, she could possibly avoid talking to him. From the foot of the bed she retrieved her terry-cloth
robe and slipped it on. In the closet she looked for her black suede Berkenstock sandals, then recalled they
were in the suitcase she’d packed the day before while Parker was in court. She settled on a pair of yellow ballet
flats Parker hated. He’d called them insipid.

       In a separate dressing area off the bathroom, she ran a comb through her close-cropped auburn hair.
Her reflection in the mirror revealed traces of blush on hollowed cheeks; smudged eyeliner rimmed her dark
eyes. She rubbed at her protruding collarbone, newly exposed with the loss of twenty pounds since the accident.
Pearls could fix this—at least that’s what her mother would say. But nothing was going to fix this, not really.
Everything looks harsher without the Prozac, she thought, even her own reflected image.

       Just like she hadn’t taken the trouble to remove her smudged makeup, Julia hadn’t bothered to tell
Parker she’d taken herself off her medication. She’d flushed the bottle of 20 mg, green-and-white capsules
down the toilet last Tuesday at 3:26 p.m., the exact time and first anniversary of their five-year-old son’s death.

        And now her mind and heart felt as raw as her physical image in the mirror. Reality had set in. Julia
felt the familiar pain rise up inside her, her throat constricting around the grief and fear entangled there.
She was in transit now and knew it, between worlds, one foot here in the present, one in the past where
she was still Quinn’s mommy, where her son still lived and where the harsh mistress she now labeled death
hadn’t stolen her prize. Parker still blamed her for the tragedy. It didn’t seem to matter. Hell, she still
blamed herself.

        Julia tightened the belt on her robe and flicked at a tear that dribbled down her cheek. The tears
came so quickly now.  The Prozac had allowed her to get up each morning, to slip past Quinn’s bedroom
door with less angst, with less stabbing pain in her heart. The prescription drug had prevented her from
repeatedly opening his top dresser drawer and removing and examining the plastic bag of clothing items
the hospital gave her after Quinn was officially pronounced dead: the size 4T Gap jeans, a white blood-stained
t-shirt–cut with blunt shears and ripped open by the paramedics, a brown leather belt, softened and scuffed
from wear, navy socks tucked inside red tennis shoes, and a silver whistle Quinn always kept in his pocket,
now bent closed from the impact of the black Ford Mustang.   

         In the hallway on the way to the stairs she paused at the oil portrait of herself and Quinn. He had
been three years old when the painting was done. For an instant she was suffused by the recollection
of the day they sat for the photograph for the painting—a warm, saffron morning filled with the tinkling
of Quinn’s laughter. Their images first captured by Julia’s artist friend, Lydia Avila, with her digital camera.
Later, as the painting progressed, Lydia had graciously allowed Julia studio visits and she had watched the
artist create their images on canvas. With the swipe of her palette knife and the pigmented oils, their images
appeared—a honey-amber pigment mixture was used for Quinn’s hair, a blend of mahogany and ginger
for his eyes.    

         Gazing at the portrait, Julia could almost feel the white linen sun dress against her skin. Her arms were
tanned and toned. She was heavier. Quinn sat just in front of her on the porch steps, his sun-bleached hair
falling across his forehead, the way Parker’s often did. Today, his dimple caught her attention. Quinn had
her smile—the same dimple, at the center of his left cheek, forged into being with each upturning of his mouth.
Julia traced her fingertips across his image, like she had done a hundred times since his death. She touched
the miniature ridges that created his essence in oils. He was so beautiful, she thought.

          Feeling the onset of tears again, she withdrew her fingers from the painting and continued down the
hallway. Descending the wide, spiral staircase, she let her hand trail along the wrought-iron banister. The
banister felt cool to her touch as she surveyed the expanse of the great room below her. Grand, thick squares
of Oriental rugs in rich hues of cobalt blue and magenta spread across the marble floor beneath the couches
and love seats. It had all been so lovely to her once, but now there was a staleness to it all, as if someone needed
to open all the windows to the house and let it breathe. 

           As she neared the swinging door to the kitchen, the coffee aroma grew stronger––Lupe, their housekeeper,
was already there. Julia pushed open the kitchen door. In the warmth of the stucco-walled room, Lupe was loading
last night’s dinner dishes. With her back to the door and with the clatter of dishes and cascading water, she’d didn’t
hear Julia enter.

            “Morning, Lupe.”

            Startled, Lupe peered over her shoulder. “Oh, good morning.”

Lupe Mendoza was a round, happy woman with a thick waist and muscular calves. Her face still held the memory that
in her prime she was beautiful.  She had been their housekeeper for almost ten years, and Quinn’s nanny since he
was born.

          Julia poured herself some of the Columbian coffee and stirred in a half packet of sweetener into the mug.
Brushing a strand of hair from her forehead,  she took a seat on one of the four bar stools at the tiled bar.

          Taking a sip of her coffee, she watched Lupe survey the window box above the sink for signs of a pink or purple
bud appearing on the African violets. Lupe pinched off two withered plant leaves from one. After Quinn’s death, she
had taken over the care of all the houseplants from Julia, one of many things she didn't care about anymore.

          Julia noted the time on the kitchen wall clock, 7:10, and knew Parker would be down soon.

          “Lupe, I need to tell you something.”                            

           Drying her hands on a dish towel, Lupe turned to face Julia.

           Julia drew in a breath. “I’m leaving for Mexico tomorrow morning. I just wanted you to know.”

           Lupe hesitated. “To Zihuatanejo? The condo?” 

           “Yes. Nobody knows yet. I’m telling you first.”

           Lupe walked to the bar where Julia sat. “You need to take care of yourself. It will be good for you to go– get
away for awhile. Nothing is happy here no more.” Lupe fiddled with the thin, gold cross suspended around her neck. 

           Julia acknowledged Lupe’s last comment with a nod.

            “I’m having lunch with my mother today to tell her. Parker I‘ll tell him tonight.”

            “They will not be happy. I know they will tell you not to go.”

            “Lupe, don’t worry. I’ll call you when I get there.”

             “Please.”

             “You know I always pray for you.”

             “I know you do.”

             “Now I will have to say more prayers and I will light a candle at the church for you.”

             “Bless you Lupe.”

             Lupe and Julia exchanged a knowing glance. Lupe walked to where  Julia sat and gave her a hug.
Julia grabbed her coffee, a notebook and put on her sunglasses that lay on the bar.

             “I’m going to have my coffee by the pool.”

             “You want me to fix you some toast or maybe scramble some eggs?”

             “Nothing right now.”

             Exiting the French door onto the patio, Julia passed spikes of white Narcissus blooms poking up above
the monkey grass along the path. Tendrils of Carolina jasmine and fig ivy competed for space in the crevices of
the brick wall curving along behind the kidney-shaped pool.

             With coffee and notebook in hand, Julia stood on the pool deck, surveying the minimal pool area
landscaping. Last month the lawn crew had trimmed the clumps of banana trees, removing the bent and
broken leaves burned by the winter frost. The four-foot-wide bed of cannas were reduced to the ground,
the space now empty where they stood last spring, four feet tall, their garnet flowers swaying in the breeze.
Julia sighed, recalling how once she cared for it all so much, but that was before last year.              

              Across the expanse of lawn, Julia’s gaze turned to Quinn’s tree house, solidly affixed to the single
massive oak tree at the rear of the lot. Her father and Parker had built it for Quinn two years ago. Her dad
had insisted on installing a rope and bucket pulley system for the structure– a necessary feature for his
grandson, he had said. 

              A wind gust caught the rope and the yellow bucket and it swayed slightly, causing an overflow of
oak leaves to cascade on to the grass. The bucket was devoid of anything it used to hold. It was empty of
rocks pulled skywards, then repeatedly dumped on the lawn, green plastic army men hauled up for battle, 
and special Saturday lunches of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a can of Coke.

              Julia shut her eyes for a moment. Everything about the yard felt amiss, like a watch showing the
wrong time, but the second hands of the time piece still jerking forward. 

              She set her coffee mug on the patio table and took a seat. Opening her notebook, she read the
last entry she had written a week ago–

              Dear Quinn,

              I miss you so. Tomorrow is your angel anniversary. Grandma said she might go with me to take
flowers to your grave, but I don’t really think she will.

              Love,

              Mommy     

              Julia looked up to see Parker talking on his cell phone and walking down the path towards her.
She snapped her journal shut. In the distance, an ambulance wailed and the stinging memory of that
sound evoked the reality of her hollow life. She watched columns of steam swirl and evaporate from the
surface of the heated pool. Tomorrow she’d be in Mexico.