“No.” I shake my head. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’thaveto,” she interrupts, hitting me with a penetrating look. “But Iwantto. Ineedto. He’s my friend too, you know.”
And in spite of the chemistry she and I share, she wants him to be more. Still. Always.
I have to keep reminding myself of that so I never get my hopes up again.
“All right.” I dip my chin. “If that’s what you wanna do, I’m not gonna stop ya.”
“Good,” she says decisively, and then we fall silent, listening to the chatter of a nearby raccoon as it forages for food. Even in the winter, the swamp has a deep, green scent. And it’s almost like you cantastethe life in it.
“Does it ever bother you being here after…” She trails off and starts gnawing on a hangnail.
“After what? Sullivan’s death?” I finish for her.
She nods, her eyes too wide.
“No,” I tell her honestly. “This ol’ shack has seen a lot more love and laughter than it’s ever seen death. When I’m here, I’m reminded of the former, not the latter. Why? Does it botheryou?”
“I thought it would. I mean…” She swallows. “I’ve been having dreams about it. That night.”
“That’s normal.” I nod. “But the good news is, it’ll happen less and less. Then one day, you’ll realize it’s been months since you’ve had a nightmare.”
She watches me quietly for a while. Eventually, she asks, “But it never goes away completely, does it?”
“No,” I tell her honestly. “It’s like that line inLes Miserables.‘Every blade has two edges; he who wounds with one wounds himself with the other.’ It’s impossible to kill someone, or witness someone being killed, without suffering psychological scars. And they’re the kind you carry with you forever. The trick is knowing when to ask for help in dealing with them. Have you…thought of talking to someone about it?”
“I’m talking to you.”
“A professional, I mean.”
“I know what you mean.” She looks into her mug. “And I don’t think I need to. It’s not like it haunts me or anything. I don’t feel a whole heck of a lot of remorse now that he’s dead. Not after what he came here to do to us. But sometimes I’m ashamed that Idon’tfeel more guilty, you know? Is that crazy?”
“Given the situation,” I tell her, “I reckon that’s pretty normal. Still, if it ever starts to feel like it’s too much or too heavy, promise me you’ll go see someone.”
“I will,” she swears. Then, “What about you? How doyoudeal with it?”
“I spend a lot of time thinking on it. Going back over everything, trying to figure out if there was anything I coulda done differently.”
“There wasn’t,” she says adamantly.
“I know. That’s the whole point. When I come to the conclusion that I handled it the only way I could, it allows me to sleep at night. But, like you, I still dream. There’s no escaping that.”
She nods. “I noticed you washed the pier. How in the world did you manage to get the blood out?”
“It’s amazing what a good power washer can do,” I tell her.
After that, the night closes around us, and I wonder (not for the first time since I’ve been back) how I ever spent ten years living away from the water’s edge. This place, where two worlds meet and create a marriage of wet and dry, solid and liquid. Two dimensions that manage to bow to each other while still vying for supremacy.
Life in the swamp is a slow, steady tug-of-war.
That’s what I love about it.
When Maggie drains the last of her coffee, I reckon she’s on her way out, having said all she came to say. So I’m more than a little shocked when she blurts, “I’ve chosen.”
“Pardon?”
Her eyes seem to take up her whole face when she stares at me. “You told me I need to choose. I have.”
