Page 32 of His Loving Wife

A few months later, when I returned to the local community center for my weekly swims, I was grasped by that same terror. The water, a living breathing organism, had plans to destroy me. I’ve not been swimming since.

It wasn’t a reaction I was expecting to have after his death. It seemed like I could almost imagine the currents overpowering him, pulling him under, squeezing the last breath from his lungs. Perhaps I wouldn’t have such a reaction if there were more answers about his death. But answers, I don’t have.

“Mom, are you coming?” Willow walks inside, sliding the glass door closed behind her.

“Just finishing up.” I turn around and grab a Tupperware off the counter. My hands begin to shake, and I drop it, the plastic plopping against the floor.

“Are you okay?” Suddenly, Willow sounds mature beyond her years. Kinder.

“I’m fine.” I smile, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Willow nods, unconvinced. They know I’ve had a complicated relationship with water after Dad’s death. I still appreciate it from a distance—much like my relationship with him my entire life. In the past year or so, I forced myself to get over this mental block, if not for my own well-being then for my children. They didn’t have the same fears I did. They didn’t sense the impending doom I felt when the water surrounded me. And I didn’t want to inflict my own fears on them. So, I took them to pool parties and swim meets and even days at the lake. I’d watch them more closely than before, but I’d let them enjoy the moment because it was theirs to have. I pushed my fears to the side.

Maybe that’s something I owe to Paul Gunter, too. Our latest trauma has replaced my previous one.

Chapter 16

Now

The motor’s whirring helps drown out my thoughts. Andrew cuts the engine, and the boat rocks from side to side, balancing on the waves of the Atlantic. I’m sitting toward the back, crouched down in an irrational attempt not to fall over the edge. There’s a small chance of that happening, but my anxieties make it feel like it’s inevitable.If it could happen to my father…

I focus, instead, on Willow and Noah’s gleeful expressions. This is the happiest they’ve been the entire vacation. Noah stays at the wheel with his father, his head whistling from left to right, taking in every view. Willow’s hair blows away from her face. Her eyes are closed, as though she is pocketing this sensation.

I remind myself Andrew is an expert boatsman, having spent years maneuvering lake currents with my father, and even before then, during his own childhood. We’ve not taken a boat on the ocean in several years, but he looks as comfortable as ever.

Until he doesn’t. Now that we’ve stopped in the middle of the sea, land so far away you have to squint to catch a glimpse, his demeanor has changed. It’s a subtle shift. Not even the children pick up on it. It’s something you only notice after several years with a person. It’s the way he fumbles with equipment, the way he looks over his shoulder, as though he’s expecting someone else to be here in the middle of nowhere. That’s the impact Paul has left on us. We question our abilities in a way we didn’t before, doubt our safety, all too aware of the dangers beyond our control.

“Dad, can we lower the line?” Noah asks.

“Sure, sure,” Andrew says, both hands on his hips. He cocks his head toward Willow. “You want to fish?”

“I’m fine,” she says, her phone raised above her head. “I’m just going to relax and take some pictures.”

It’s all she’s done since the boat stalled. She’s snapped dozens of selfies and expertly poised shots. Her ankle and manicured toes by an anchor in one, her hand reaching over the side of the boat to feel the water in another.

“Dad, the stuff?”

“Right.” Andrew shuffles to the back of the boat, where I am, and starts rummaging through bags.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice low.

“Great. It’s a beautiful day.” An artificial smile covers his face. “How about you?”

“I’m okay,” I say, my tone conveying he needn’t worry. After he walks back toward Noah, I take a sip from my water bottle and stand. I make my way to the side of the boat, my balance shifting at first, and look at the surrounding water.

My fears aside, the view is beautiful. The sun’s rays beam across the water, creating the impression of dazzling diamonds across the surface. The sky is a clean, calming shade of blue, only a few bulbous clouds in sight. I even value the scent of salt and sweat. I try to focus on these sensations, and not on the image of my father’s last moments in a similar setting.

“Mom, where are those sandwiches?” Willow asks.

“In the basket by the cooler.” I take a seat across from her, my back against the side of the boat. “Sure you don’t want to fish with the boys?”

“Maybe later,” she says, snatching a triangular sandwich and taking a bite.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Andrew shouts from the other end of the boat. “I’d like to see you both give it a try.”

Andrew knows I’m not one for fishing. We’re fortunate I’ve made it this far on this little excursion. Noah casts his line into the ocean. Andrew monitors him from behind, but every so often he’ll glance back at me and Willow, like he’s trying to keep tabs on us, too. I know he’s trying to look after me, be the protector he feels he has to be. Sometimes I wish his attempts weren’t so obvious. If he doesn’t think I’m worrying about Paul Gunter, he believes I’m paranoid about the water. It makes me feel fragile.

I lean back on the boat, pulling my hat over my eyes. It’s easier to concentrate in this position. I can hear everything around me without having to see it. Willow’s chewing. Noah’s excitement. Andrew’s praise. Water splashes against the hull and, every so often, I hear the squawking of birds overhead. I feel the gentle rocking of the boat, and it almost puts me asleep. I can feel my lids getting heavier, my reaction to everything around me dwindling.

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