Left Drowning

I wipe my eyes. “Where are we?”

“This is where it all happened.”

That’s when I understand. We are at their father’s house.

“I wish he were dead.” His eyes flash. “They wish he were dead. He deserves to be dead.”

I watch as he seems to shudder with a rage I’ve never seen in him before. His face is flushed. I know I’m watching a transformation and that it’s out of my power to reason with him. I watch as he reaches around to the backseat, his hand fumbling as if for something he’s just remembered. Then I see that he’s got a hold of a baseball bat.

I stare at Zach and feel all my senses come alive. I grab the arm that’s not holding the bat with both of my hands.

“Oh Jesus. Fuck, no, Zach! You’re out of your mind. This is not the answer.”

“It is. You know it is. This son of a bitch is out of his mind. You heard what he did to them! You heard it! He fucking terrorized them. This sick fuck is not going to take anything else from those kids. They all want him gone; you know they do.” He pulls his arm from me and gets out of the car, leaving it ru

But the moment I open the door, I start to run down the driveway. Zach has parked a good distance from the house. My feet are pounding, and my heart is racing, but I don’t know that I’m going to be in time to stop him. I run hard. This is not the answer, and it’s not what Chris would want. As I run, I am overwhelmed with a sense of familiarity. The smell, the sound of the water here …

I find Zach standing outside the front of the house. An Adirondack chair on the deck faces the ocean, and a man is sleeping in it. A plaid wool blanket covers his lap. I don’t even want to look, so I keep my back to the deck. Zach is still holding the bat, but his arm is slack by his side. Thankfully, he can’t do it, because I wouldn’t be able to stop him.

“Zach, let’s go. Now.”

“That’s him. Look how big he is. How powerful he must have been before he got sick.” Tears stream down his face. “How could he have done what he did? How?”

I can’t stop myself, and I turn to get a good look. I suddenly want to see the person who has inflicted so much pain. Who does this? Who terrorizes and belittles and scares the shit out of kids? That’s not how the world should work.

So I focus on this man who has so viciously tormented people I nearly worship. When I see his face, the shock threatens to drop me to my knees. I walk closer until I am only a few feet from him, and I am sure. I know this man.

The man asleep in the chair in front of me, I have seen him once before. He is a bit grayer now, but I know his strong jawline and the scar above his eyebrow. I know his strength and his heroism. I know how I have idealized him for years, and I know how his image has gotten me though countless nights of my own pain. I know the sound of his voice. You are safe, you are safe, you are safe, sweet girl.

I know all of this because the man who tortured the love of my life is the same man who pulled me from the ladder just before it collapsed into the burning house.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Saving Graces

Zach and I don’t talk for most of the ride home. I haven’t told him about Chris’s father. I just can’t. The devastation and confusion are too great. For now, this knowledge is solely mine, and I’m not ready to change that yet. One of the things that I love about Zach is that he respects boundaries the way that I do, so he does not press me despite the obvious fact that I am in shock. I do, however, say firmly, “I can fix this. I can get them back. I just need to think.” He doesn’t question me, but just nods, continuing to hide behind his sunglasses as we drive. We stop at a convenience store for gas and something to eat. Both of us are sick to our stomachs, but we agree that some food might help. I scan the drink cases, unable to decide—nothing could possibly sit well. Then I smile and reach for an orange soda.

At the house, I walk through the living room past James, Estelle, and Chris, who have returned from the hospital, and go up to my bedroom. I need quiet. I sit on the side of the bed, the bed that I share with Chris, and stare at my reflection in the dresser-top mirror. I can’t decide if I still look like a kid or if I look like a woman. I’m at a fu

What am I going to say to Chris? I’ve had a long drive to process things, but I’m still missing a piece of our story. I know it. The quilt is cool against my skin when I lie down on the bed, and I tuck my knees up into my chest while I try to digest all that has happened over the past twenty-four hours. Too much. A massive storm of information has engulfed me, as I knew it would. That’s how a storm with such power happens; you sense the build and darkness, you prepare as much as possible, you do what you can to get through it even as it devastates your entire world. Whatever you do, however much you brace yourself, you will still be caught up in forces that you ca

Later I get up and pace. I’m close. I have the answer right here, if I could just … I sit up slowly and look to my dresser. The sea urchin that Chris gave me so long ago sits in the center. I pick it up gently and rub my fingers over it. He said this belonged to me, and I felt that to be true also. Neither of us had a reason, but it simply felt so right that questioning it was not a priority. That’s how it has always been with him. The natural, instinctual flow between us has always felt so right. Now I am sensing that our co

As it turns upside down in my palm, I stop. I’d never noticed that there is a small circular disc on the bottom of the sea urchin. After some gentle prodding, I get it off. The porcelain figure is hollow, and something is stuffed inside, presumably to protect the fragile piece from breaking. I remove a wad of faded red fabric. I put down the sea urchin and hold up the scrap of cotton. I have flashes of memory, sensory input from this small bit of old fabric that triggers emotion and, minutes later, images. Then I know what it is. I know the color and texture very well.

My heart nearly stops.

I squeeze my hand around it as I walk from my room into Chris’s. Ignoring my general high regard for privacy, especially Christopher’s, I begin frantically rooting through his dresser and his closet. It’s got to be here. He must have it.

It is an hour later that Chris appears in the doorway to my room. “Blythe?”

I am sitting on the floor while tears cascade down my cheeks. I am not sad; I am just overwhelmed. I don’t know how to explain this to him because I ca

“Blythe, what are you doing?” He kneels down in front of me.