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Charles, the stay-at-home dad

I still have no idea where Ray is. He wasn’t waiting when I got back to the campsite. I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible has happened to him. To us.

It’s hard to focus on my marriage when I can’t get the image of that hand out of my head. I was high on fear and determination to find my son, and I kept going, through the waves that charged the coast, past where I knew Lei and Javi could have ventured. The alternative, that they’d gone out into water instead, was unimaginable, so I kept going, knowing I wouldn’t find them. And then I found her. I’ve tried to write that scene so many times. In life it was so much worse than any of my imaginings. Her stiff fingers caught in my flashlight’s beam. Stella, I now know. The confusion, the terror. The guilt. I should have helped her. Instead I ran away.

It’s still early, maybe six, the campground hazy with the promise of morning. I sit on a picnic table, at a safe distance from the other parents, berating myself for Stella, for Ray, for too many mistakes to count. I haven’t had a gummy since last night. My head throbs in a way that could be relieved by another. But I don’t want to be high right now. I can’t remember the last time I thought that. In another scenario, this would feel encouraging. With my temples pounding, the cut on my forehead burning, and the fear that I’ll never see my husband again, that Stella may not survive the night, it’s hardly a comfort.

Stefan and Evan are in the kitchen area, making huge vats of congee, one of Ray’s specialties. They’ve erected tarps to block the wind, which continues to punish us, even if its gusts are less frequent than before. The erratic nature of it makes it more unsettling, particularly as it carries the rich umami from the kitchen, reminding us that we’re hungry, that we’re thinking of food while Stella fights for her life. Yoo-Jin whispers with the Hollywood moms, filling them in on what she witnessed at the Visitor Center.

“Sofía’s a godsend. There’s no way Stella would be alive without her. Now we have to hope that a helicopter can get here in time.”

“I still don’t understand. How is Travis here?”

“Why would he hurt Stella?”

“Do you think it was revenge, for what happened in the classroom?”

“Did he push her off the cliff?”

“Do you think he came here to kill her?”

“If he comes anywhere near Sawyer, I’ll fucking kill him,” Brady says, fists balled, ready for a fight with no challenger. Then he begins to cry. It’s so stunning, everyone stops asking questions and stares at him. None of us really know what happened in that classroom, with Sawyer and Travis. Cassie and I certainly never talked about it. We’ve all heard stories, though, stories we dismissed because Mona is a gossip and because believing them was too painful.

My heart pounds as I think of my husband somewhere on this island with Travis. Travis has no reason to hurt Ray. Then I realize with a thudding horror that no one has seen Cassie either.

Brady flops onto the bench at my feet. I stare down at him, worried about Cassie. She and Travis are close. Too close. He wouldn’t hurt her, would he?

“I fucked up,” Brady says to the ground. Since I’m the only person in earshot, it appears he’s also saying this to me. “Mona, she said she was going home to get a bag . . . she’s left me. She’s really left me.”

“I’m sure she just didn’t want to drive all the way back to Ventura.” I try to sound sympathetic, but I’m too distracted by my own fears—for Cassie, for Ray, for Stella—to focus on his more paranoid ones. “I’m sure she tried to call you, to tell you she wasn’t coming.”

With that, he starts wailing, talking all at once about how he can’t live without her, can’t go to prison, can’t break apart his family, can’t mess up his kids. I want to ask, Prison? but he’s progressed to other incoherent fears about how his kids are going to get kicked out of school, how they’ll lose their house, how he’ll ruin their lives, Mona’s life. I should cut him off, intervene as he continues to spiral. Instead, I let him exhaust all his fears.

When he finally falls quiet and the latest gust has passed, I say, “I’m sure when you talk to her, you’ll see it was a misunderstanding. You two are family.”

Brady grabs my pant leg. “You think so?”

I need my words to be true as much for myself as for Brady.

“I do.” Before the vow vacates my mouth, Brady smothers me in a hug. I hug him back because I want to be a believer like Brady, to subscribe to the gospel of my words, but the truth of a fight like Ray and I had, like Brady and Mona apparently had, too, is that it unearths all the ways you don’t know your partner. You don’t know who betrayal will morph them into. Where it will send them. If they’ll come back. And if they do, if they’ll forgive you.

Brady releases me, suddenly sheepish. He lumbers toward his tent. I watch the pitch of his shoulders, perched a little higher as he unzips the door where his children are somehow asleep inside. Most of the kids are still asleep. We’ve managed to protect them from what’s happened. For now. We won’t be able to protect them from this forever.

In the distance, a figure materializes in the morning haze. It’s cinematic. The hero’s return. As they come into focus, I realize it’s my husband.

Ray points to a picnic table near the hills, where no one will overhear us. I head over to him, unflappable and alarmingly calm. Whatever is going to happen, it’s already been determined. There’s nothing I can do to make this better. Or worse.

Ray sits on the table, waiting for me. When I’m close enough that I can see the chickenpox scar on his temple, his red-rimmed eyes and waxy, gray skin, I realize we’re convening at Stella’s picnic table, that we’re uncomfortably close to her empty tent. We’ll have to pack her things, bring them back to the mainland for someone in her life. She’s at that age where her emergency contact could be a parent or a partner. I don’t even know if Stella is with anyone, if she’s close to her family. I know so little about her, which makes it more obvious that we should never have forced her to come on this trip.

Right away, he notices the gash on my forehead. “Jesus, what happened to your head?”

Ray touches my cut, causing me to wince, then runs his index finger along my cheekbone, still bruised from Dave’s fist.

“I must be quite the sight,” I say, but Ray’s expression is too serious for banter. I can’t tell if he’s worried or angry. Likely both.

“I was looking for Lei,” I begin.

“Lei?” He interrupts. His voice verges on fear, so I swiftly detail what happened, emphasizing how quickly we located Lei and Javi. I tell him about Stella, about finding her. About Travis, the little I know anyway.