I grab at it. It billows under my grasp. I push it aside and dive under after hearing Paul call my name a second time.
The cold sharpens my senses. Kicking with my feet to plunge deeper, I open my eyes. The sun penetrates enough and the water is clear so I can see the sandy bottom. I touch it with my fingers and arc my back and start back toward the surface. Then, keeping myself submerged by letting out some air and fanning upward with my hands, I search. I do a complete circle in the water.
Seeing nothing, I break the surface for a breath.
“Emily!”
I’m back under again. Paul knows what I’m doing; I don’t need to explain myself to him right now or listen as he tries to dissuade me. I search farther out, going until the bottom disappears beneath me. I swivel back. The metal posts supporting the dock come into view. I swim around them and partly under the dock.
Joni is nowhere.
Breaking the surface again, I don’t see Paul right away. Then I spot him — he’s fished out the sweatshirt that drifted over to him and is wringing it out. I kick for the ladder on the side of the dock, then climb out and stand, panting, hands on my hips, water pattering down onto the treated wood.
“My first time in since we got here,” I say between breathy exhalations. My chest and ribs hurt from last night’s accident, but the cool water was exhilarating.
Paul gives me an angry glance. He finishes wringing out the sweatshirt and hangs it from the back of one of the Adirondack chairs occupying the dock that runs along the bank, connecting the two others. Shaking his head, he starts up the lawn for the house. He’s clearly upset with me.
“I thought I saw someone in the water,” I call after him.
Paul stops immediately. He walks back toward me at a brisk pace. Not much gets Paul emotional. But when it does, he’s all in. “I know,” he says testily. “I figured you thought someone was in there. But you’ve just been in a car accident, Emily. You have a giant bruise on your face. I know they said you weren’t concussed, but you’ve definitely had some sort of reaction.”
He stands, fuming.
I say, “You could’ve jumped in.”
His nostrils flare and his jaw twitches. “I could see no one was there. Just you, thrashing around.”
He turns and walks away again. I open my mouth but close it. It’s no use. I know he’s upset because he’s worried; he’s lacking control. It’s his self-esteem, I decided long ago. Paul needs to feel capable and in charge, or he fears being rejected — even after all these years.
I watch until he goes into the house — he gives the side door a little slam — and then I take off my T-shirt. We’re located in a corner of the lake, a kind of cove, with the nearest neighbor a quarter mile away. Boating activity stays mostly restricted to the main body of the lake. We get the occasional fisherman puttering back into our area, or the kayaker or canoer who’s exploring the shoreline. But it’s typically quiet and private, like now.
I drop my shirt and squeeze out my hair; it’s short and will dry quickly. For now, I scrape it back out of my face. I sit and take my wet sneakers off, remove the socks. As I do, I look at the boathouse.
The boathouse sits in the water. It’s like a garage, but for boats. In bare feet now, I rise from the chair. The boathouse is navy blue with dark red trim. There are two windows on my side. I step between docks and peer in the first window. I can see the sailboat and part of the dinghy.
Next to the window is the door. I grab the doorknob, find it locked.
“Paul . . . ?”
My call to my husband is half-hearted; I know he can’t hear me all the way up at the house. But it’s odd — why is the door locked? We only do that when we’re away. I check the first window again, then move to the second. I can’t see in much better; the angle is bad and the glass is dirty. Paul has been meaning to connect all the docks with a short piece, one that joins the U-shape inside the boathouse with the U-shape on the outside, but he’s been preoccupied building his boat. A gap remains between them. Since the door is locked, that means if I want to get inside, I’ve got to go back in the water.
I head back for the ladder and lower myself down, push off and do a breaststroke. What’s compelling me, I’m not entirely sure. A feeling. Maybe residual symptoms from last night’s accident — Paul could be partly right.
I swim for the open mouth of the boathouse. At least there’s another ladder in there, a metal ladder from an old boat that we hooked to the inner docks. It’s rickety, but I climb up. Now I’m standing next to the sailboat. It’s shady in here, and when the wind blows, evaporating the moisture on my skin, I feel a chill.
It’s gloomy in the boathouse. The walls are exposed so that the studs are visible, making it feel a bit like being inside a ribcage. There’s an old anchor hanging on the back wall. Several bright orange seat cushions. A long run of rope, thick and frayed, hanging from a ten-penny nail. In the corner, a basket filled with fishing poles.
The sailboat is tiny. I remember when Paul bought it. Second-hand, from someone local. Paul had seen it on the side of the road. It’s blue and white and a little beat up. We named it Couchsagrage, after an Adirondack legend. Paul thought it was funny to give such a small boat a long name. But he taught himself how to use it, then both of our children. The only one who wouldn’t know what to do is me.
I continue to inspect everything. The sailboat looks normal, I decide. The dinghy is the same as it ever is, a round-bottom boat with four bench seats and two rowing oars, plus the trolling motor and battery.
As I walk along, I almost trip on a green fishing net. I jam it into the basket along with the poles. Two more windows look over the rest of our cove — the shoreline sweeps around and heads back for the main body of water just yards away from the boathouse. Nothing out there, and nothing in here.
I start back to the other side. Before climbing back down the rickety ladder, I notice something carved into the wood. In between two vertical studs, etched into the exposed plywood, a heart with an arrow through it and two names.
Joni
Michael
And beneath those, today’s date. Well, no — yesterday’s date. When they were down here together and I heard them splashing around and Joni giggling. They must’ve been carving this.
My fingers brush the grooves. I’m not sure who had a knife; maybe it’s in here. I look around on the dock but don’t see one. Then I notice it — a small pocketknife up on the windowsill. Well, not much of a windowsill, but just the framing-in of the window. I hadn’t seen it when I peered in. Must be Paul’s.
As I turn away, another carving catches my eye. This one isn’t as deep, as if scratched out quickly.
Not a heart, not names, but a sentence. Five words.
I want my mommy back.