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“And Henry…” The chief stops, hesitates, like he’s not sure if he should continue. Like he’s overstepping some kind of boundary, blurring the lines between personal and professional. Finally, he exhales, decides to push forward. “I’m so sorry about all of this. Your family… you’re good people. All of you. You’ve been through hell.”
I hear my dad sniff as a little wet choke erupts from his throat. The sound makes me uncomfortable. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my dad cry before; he’s never even come close.
“Thank you,” he says again, clearing his throat.
“It’s not your fault,” the chief continues. “Over four hundred kids under the age of six drown in pools every year, mostly in June, July, and August. It’s hot, Henry. Hotter’n hell.”
My dad is quiet, but I can picture him nodding along, dabbing at his eyes with the handkerchief he keeps stuffed in his back pocket.
“Your air-conditioning is out. She probably just thought she’d take a dip, cool off. Outgoing tide could have swept her up quick.”
“Yeah,” my dad says. “Yeah, I know.”
I slide the window shut and walk slowly back to my bedroom, feeling a daze settle over me as I process what I just heard. It makes sense, their story. It is hot, Margaret was hot, complaining about it constantly. I remember her in the studio, the sweat dripping from her neck and her cheeks a fiery red. I remember her in that bath, ice water prickling her skin. She had asked to sleep outside, looked longingly out that window, ached for the wind whipping off the water to bring her some sense of comfort, of relief—but still, I know it’s a lie. IknowDad is lying, because Margaret never would have wandered out there alone: deciding to take to the marsh, submerge herself in the water until she was too deep to turn back. She would have never done that on her own.
But she would have done it with me.
I remember her coming into my bedroom that night: climbing into my arms, pushing herself close, even when she was afraid. Margaret followed me constantly; it didn’t matter when or where. She was a quiet little body trailing me around like a shadow—and shadows don’t move on their own.
I lift my hand to my neck, touch the area behind my ear that I had scrubbed clean. It stings. The skin feels red and raw like carpet burn, and I close my eyes, trying to think. Trying to talk to her, summon her, wherever she is. I need her to tell me what happened, what I should do, the way we did before: pinching our eyes shut, trying to recreate that feeling of prickling skin on your neck. Of knowing you’re not alone.
Even though it’s still sweltering, I feel a trail of goose bumps erupt down my spine.
When I woke up this morning, there was water on the carpet, the bathroom floor. Damp towels growing musty in a heap and a clean nightgown replacing the one I had fallen asleep in. Fresh mud caked to my skin.
I think of my mother, the way she had looked at me in the kitchen: anger and sadness, her shoulders stiff and her mouth a thin cut across her face. The way she had stood up, brushed past me, and slammed the door behind her. She knew, and my father did, too. Maybe they had wandered out there, unable to sleep after Margaret told them about the footprints, and found us outside together in the dark, our white nightgowns glowing in the moonlight. Me, standing at the edge of the marsh, while Margaret floated gently beside me, face down, her hair splayed across the water like a blot of ink, expanding slowly.
I picture them running across the grass, yelling her name. Pulling her from the water, her wet, limp body no longer too hot but, suddenly, too cold. Mud clinging to her skin, her hair. That terrible, awful smell.
I imagine my mother carrying her inside, laying her delicately on the kitchen tile. Shaking her shoulders, begging her to wake up—or maybe just pretending that she was still asleep. Maybe she couldn’t handle those wide, unblinking eyes so she had simply pulled her lids shut with her fingers and prayed for them to click open on their own, just like that doll’s.
And then there’s my father, leading me inside, just like that nightof the fire: my hand in his, entirely unconscious, as he stripped off my clothes, patted me dry. Led me back to bed with unseeing eyes.
I can picture it, I can: Margaret, waking up next to me as I flung myself from the sheets, tossing my legs over the mattress in the dark. Following me down the hall, down the stairs, into the backyard. Working up the courage to reach out, grab my shoulder, as I approached the edge of the marsh.
“Did you try to wake me?” I had asked.
“Mom said not to. It’s dangerous.”
“It’s not dangerous. That’s an old wives’ tale.”
She listened. Margaret always listened to me. To everything I said.
“I won’t hurt you,” I had told her. And she nodded her head, believing. Trusting.
It was a promise I couldn’t keep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
NOW
I can barely breathe as I sit in the silence, Waylon’s laptop glowing in the dark like that spring tide moon. I continue to stare at the headline, the memories pummeling over me like water from a broken dam, until I hear a low growl from somewhere across the house.
I slap the laptop shut and twist around, relief flowing through me when I realize it’s just Roscoe pawing at the back door.
“Oh God,” I whisper, my head feeling airy and light. “I’m sorry, buddy.”
I stand up and walk back into the kitchen, guilt washing over me as I realize he hasn’t been outside all day. Then I open the back door and let him out, deciding to step into the backyard with him. I need some air.
