Page 37 of His Loving Wife

“What?”

“When Noah was struggling with the fish, why did you let go? One minute you had your arms around him, and the next you’d taken a step back.”

“I was going to get a harness to help him reel in the catch, and the next thing I knew he was overboard. It all happened so fast.”

And yet, there was another moment where that wasn’t the case. He let go twice. Why, I don’t know, and I’m not even sure if he knows the answer.

“I can’t keep doing this—”

“Can’t keep doing what, Kate?” He slaps his hands against the counter, and I jump.

How can I tell him I’ve lost my respect for him, my trust? And his reaction, whether he’s wounded or not, doesn’t make it any easier.

I don’t answer. I back away, wandering into the bedroom, away from the sight of him.

You’d think after a trauma, we’d pull together. I imagine that’s what most families do. Mine doesn’t. We go our separate ways, trying to work it out for ourselves before reconvening with the group. I learned that after the home invasion, and tonight we’re no different, each escaping to different corners of the rental property, hiding beneath excuses.

When the pizza arrives, we gather at the table, each doing our part to pretend this afternoon didn’t happen. For several minutes we eat in silence.

“We should come back to this place next year,” Noah says, in between bites of food.

“You think?” Andrew looks quizzical.

“I love it here,” he says. “There’s not all that touristy crap around like in other places we’ve been.”

“Language,” I prompt, lowering my eyes in Noah’s direction.

“It has been nice. I like having our own pool,” Willow adds, her eyes drifting to the sliding glass doors. It’s so dark outside, we only see our own reflection. The four of us sitting around the table.

I admire them for trying to ease the awkward tension. This has been the crux of this trip. We’re trying to be the people we were before, the people we should have been all along. Before Paul re-entered our lives. Today’s accident doesn’t change the desire to return to normal.

Andrew’s thoughts must be falling in the same rhythm. He says, “It means so much to know you’ve been happy here.”

I reach my hand across the table, laying it over his. I squeeze. I was too harsh with him earlier, even if I was being honest. I don’t want what happened on the boat to color our remaining days here.

“We’ve come so far in the past year,” Andrew continues, lifting his head to watch the faces of our children. “We’re really lucky we’ve made it through. Most families don’t bounce back after such a tragedy.”

I wonder, at first, who he’s thinking about. What other stories he might have heard from Second Chances or elsewhere. I wonder what outcomes those families had. Then, I look at our children. I wonder what their reactions to this conversation will be. We rarely speak about what happened that night, and when we do, it’s never so openly.Making it through.Tragedy. These are words we’ve chosen to avoid. The kids stare ahead, their eyes on Andrew, but the flush in their cheeks is gone and their jaws are noticeably slacker.

“We’ve made it a long way,” I say, hoping to change the topic to something else. Our nerves are still tender from what happened on the boat; we don’t need to revisit the home invasion. “I’m looking forward to the fall.”

“I mean just think about it,” Andrew continues, as though he hasn’t heard me. “Where we were a year ago. What we were going through. I can remember the fear, knowing there was this intruder in our house. Not knowing what he wanted but knowing it couldn’t be good. And I knew the people I cared about most in this world were being threatened. I knew then I’d lived my entire life without really being afraid. Without feeling a need to protect. And all at once, those emotions overwhelmed me.”

The way Andrew looks right now, the way his head is tilted to the side and his eyes are almost closed, you’d think he was lost in some happy memory. Listening to a song. It’s such a strange, open confession, I think none of us want to break him from his trance, and yet I know this needs to end.

“Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“Maybe weshouldtalk about that night,” Andrew interrupts, his eyes piercing through me as though I’ve just let out a slur. “I’d like to hear what they have to say. About that night.”

My mouth is open, and yet no words come out. My eyes dart to the children, Noah, then Willow.

“I… I was scared,” Noah says, an obvious attempt to appease his father.

“Yes, we were all scared. But what scared you the most? What were you really feeling in that moment, son?”

“I was afraid something would happen to one of you.” His voice is quiet, a small peep that reminds me of a mouse. “I was afraid I might not see you again.”

“That would have been terrible, wouldn’t it?” Andrew says. “To not see your family again.”

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