“They just left. They’re going to canvass the neighbors and do a little digging. They weren’t happy with our lackluster security.”
“Door locks not enough?” I pick up my bag.
“Especially when we don’t use them.” He tugs my bag out of my hand and places it behind him.
“What do you mean?”
“Follow me.”
He leads me around the corner of the garage to the side door. The potted wisterias flanking the small threshold have been kicked over. Did no one think to right them? I wrestle with the terra-cotta pot to the left of the jamb, which has rolled onto the collection stones that serve as a catch basin for our gutter.
“Take a look.” Clint opens the simple white door, painted to match the siding on this side of the garage.
I upturn the pot and spin it in place. While fingering the light-purple blossoms, I glance into the garage.
My breath whooshes out of me.
I drop my hand and stumble through the door, pushing up against Clint. His arm moves automatically around me.
“Has she seen this?” I whisper.
“She was the one to find it.”
^^^
An hour later, we’re sitting at the kitchen table. Light dances over the table strewn with the remains of a blueberry pancake breakfast. Clint’s instinct had been the right one. Back two days ago—had it really been only two days? Not even forty-eight hours?—he suggested ice cream and then lunch yesterday. Kind of brilliant. Whether it was anger fueling our appetites or the desire to delay the family discussion we were soon to have, this time we all ate. Heartily. Now the three of us sit back in our seats, satiated. A drip of maple syrup runs down Clint’s mason jar of boiled liquid gold—the only sign that something is radically amiss.
My husband never lets sticky messes go unwiped.
I tossed my baseball cap in the mudroom and unwound my elastic when we came inside. My hair has dried into a limp mess. I’m trying to not let it distract me, as I tuck loose strands behind my ears. The fact that my hair is even a blip on my radar indicates how much I don’t want to have this conversation.
I clear my throat, and Erika jumps up with her and Clint’s plates.
“I’ll do the dishes, but then I need to get on my physics. We have a quarter test on Monday.” She turns on the water in the sink and opens the dishwasher.
Clint grabs my plate and the platter of remaining pancakes. “Honey, why don’t you take a seat? We don’t have to do this right now.” He sets the dishes on the counter.
“You’re always on me about chores. I’d think—”
“Come on.” He tugs lightly at her sweatshirt to get her to return to her chair. “The police are coming back. They’re going to want a fuller story.”
Fat tears roll down her bloodless cheeks. Her blue eyes shine. Both Clint and I have hazel eyes, though different shades. When Erika was born with deep-blue eyes, everyone said they’d darken to a color similar to ours, but they didn’t. They lightened. In times of stress or in streams of sunlight, her irises look like the sky on a perfect summer day. I swallow a sob and then bite down on my lips. Just now, I see how identical in color and brightness they are to Lucas’s.
“Do you know who might have done this?” Clint asks.
I flinch as Erika shrugs.
“We need more than that. Maybe start from the beginning.” Clint sits back down.
“I don’t know how,” she whispers, hunched over in her chair.
“Is this about that terrible substitute?” I ask. My heart clunks behind my ribs. Secrets really are prisons.
“No. But I don’t know.” She exhales a huge sigh that catches.
I tip back in my chair to grab the tissues on the kitchen desk behind me. I place the box in the middle of the table. When I was a financial advisor, we had a grief counselor visit our office. In that line of work, you are often talking to clients through some of their worst and best times—family deaths, long-awaited weddings, and confounding seasons of career retirement. I remember many things from her presentation, but two things in particular: Don’t rush a person to tell you what they need to tell you, and never hand them tissues. The second one only made sense after she explained that giving someone a tissue may imply that you are uncomfortable with their tears and you wish them to stop. That may, in fact, be the case, but better to have boxes of tissues within reach. They can decide when to use them.
Our daughter might need to cry. And we’re here for it.
