Page 33 of His Loving Wife

“Dad!”

Noah’s voice wakes me before I’m fully asleep. I sit up, watching as he wrestles with his fishing pole.

“I think I got something!”

“Impressive,” Andrew says, taking a step back.

Noah pulls harder on the line but doesn’t gain any distance. “Whatever it is, it’s big. I don’t think I can get it.”

“Keep trying.” Andrew’s voice is low, his eyes on the side of the boat.

Noah tries to yank the pole toward him, but it’s useless, his feet shuffle closer to the side.

“I can’t get it, Dad. I need help.”

There’s a moment where Andrew does nothing, just continues to watch. Then he wraps both arms around Noah, trying to steady his grip so Noah can reel it in.

“Put a little muscle in it,” Willow says.

“I’m trying,” Noah shouts, and his voice sounds so small. Willow lets out a wicked laugh, whereas I feel torn.

Andrew lets go. His eyes never leave our son, but he’s no longer there to provide the strength he needs to reel the fish in.

“Dad, I’m losing my grip. I need your help.”

Andrew wraps his arms around Noah again. I stand, making my way toward them.

“Just give up,” Willow says, turning away from the excitement.

“It’s too heavy,” Noah says, and it sounds like there’s fear in his voice.

“Hold on.” Andrew lets go again, moving to retrieve something else from the other end of the boat.

Just then, Noah loses his grip on the pole. It goes into the water as though there is some type of magnetic pull underneath. As it goes over the edge, Noah reaches after it, slamming his body against the side of the boat. He loses his balance, and in one swift but excruciating moment, his body topples over the side, landing in the water.

At the sound of the splash, we all rush to the point where Noah just stood. Within a few seconds, it seemed, he was gone. The panic rises from my stomach to my chest, clenching my heart with icy knuckles. I grasp the side of the boat, staring at the ocean in hopes Noah’s head will break the surface.

A second later, it does. He takes a gulp of air, then plummets beneath the water again.

I scream. A thick, terrifying sound, more visceral even than the one I released on the night of the invasion. That night I’d felt I didn’t have a chance to react; in this moment, my greatest fears are coming to fruition, and my child is at the center.

“Andrew, do something,” I shout, but my words are followed only with silence. Noah’s head pops up again, only to be overwhelmed by another current, and he goes under once more.

I turn around. Andrew is sitting, his eyes fixed on the scene in front of us. His mouth is partially open, as though amazed, and his left knee is rapidly shaking. But he’s still. He looks afraid, horrified, but does nothing.

“Andrew!” I shout.

For a brief moment, we make eye contact, but his expression is blank, paralyzed by fear. It’s written all over him—the worry, the defeat. But he doesn’t act.

“Noah!” Willow yells, and I can now hear the fear in her voice, too. “There he is.”

I follow the direction of her finger, and catch sight of his head in the water, his body being pulled further away by the current.

I take another deep breath, but it feels as though no air has entered my lungs, and in one jump, I’m in the water.

The sudden coolness stuns me and awakens my senses all at once. Water seeps into my mouth and rises up my nose, a fishy, salty taste. I spread out my arms and pop my head through the surface. From this angle, the waves appear larger than they do from the comfort of the boat. I look back, and can see Andrew is standing again, Willow at his side.

“Kate!”

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