Marceau appears confused, and I wonder if something got lost in translation.
“What I mean is, the young man helping my son, what was his demeanor? I’m sure he was shocked. Did he seem . . . ? What is it?”
“I’m sorry,” Marceau says. He offers an embarrassed smile and shakes his head. “I think I don’t understand. Your son helped the man who was drowning . . .”
“No, my son was the man who was drowning.”
We’re both quiet for a few seconds. Marceau’s eyes dart around. He scratches at his chin.
I start to feel a cold sensation. It forms in the pit of my stomach and spreads. “Luca, did the man who was swimming — did he tell you he was my son?”
“I must be confused . . .”
“Wait. Dark hair. Light blue eyes. That’s a young man named Michael, my daughter’s fiancé. My son, Sean Lindman, was the one in the water. I’ve been told the boom struck his head and he went in. Then Michael jumped in after him . . .”
Marceau is backing away. He steps wide into his boat. “Of course. Yes. That’s right.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. We’ve just . . . It’s been a difficult few days. Please just tell me if you assumed that Michael was my son, or he told you he was my son . . .”
Marceau meets my gaze. “It was all very fast.”
I grip the boat. I’m not letting go without an answer.
“I think I might assume. Because he say he live here. On the lake. And I take the boat back, and see the house, so . . .”
“But my husband arrived at the boat launch. Didn’t you talk to him? How did you know which house? I’m sorry. It sounds like I’m—”
My buzzing phone interrupts me. A quick glance at the screen reveals an unfamiliar number. I’m not even sure of the area code. It’s vaguely familiar, but I’ll wait for the voicemail.
Marceau, meanwhile, shakes his head. “Your husband? I did not meet him. Your son — or the young man — he describe the house. Back in the cove. Big gray house, the windows, the boathouse. Because he was going in the ambulance. He said if police came, or someone needed to know about the boat.”
“But you just turned around and brought it back.”
“Yes, I have the tow rope and the sailboat is small, so . . .” Marceau shrugs. He’s uncomfortable, trying to leave.
Somehow, Michael gave him the impression that he was my son. If Michael came right out and said that, Marceau can’t say with certainty.
I let go of the boat. With his tie lines aboard, I give the bow a little push as he ignites the engine. He putts backward into the gunmetal water, then changes gears. He waves and then forwards the throttle, pushing waves until the speed lifts the boat out of the water to plane the surface.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Sean is as I left him. The machine does his breathing. Paul is asleep in the chair. I don’t wake him, but instead spend some quiet time with my son. Already, he smells like the hospital — sterile and stale. I pet his blond hair, run my fingers against his cheek and jaw. “I love you.”
I begin to read. Eventually, Paul wakes up. He blinks at everything, getting his bearings, and sees me. For a moment, we only look each other. Then he lifts his eyebrows in question, asking silently about Joni.
I shake my head.
Paul asks, “Where do you think she went?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
He stands, stretches, grimacing as he tips from one side to the other, hands on his hips.
I apologize to him for the previous night. “There was a lot going on.”
He waves it off. “I understand.”
Looking at Sean again, whose serene face is the same, whose arms are down at his sides, the bedsheet taut across his chest, I’m reminded that he’s not going anywhere. I don’t want to miss it if he wakes up, but I can’t hold my breath. Paul and I need to talk.
*
We’re outside, behind the hospital where the parking lot extends, and I’m smoking a cigarette in the shadow of the building. “I can’t help it, Paul.” I’m on the verge of tears. “I keep thinking about one of my clients.”
“The one who died?”
I nod.
“When is the funeral?”
“It was today. But that’s not . . . I keep thinking about her situation. That she left her child. Gave him up when she was young. She would talk about him. She’d tell me about leaving him. About what it was like, how she felt empty. How she felt nothing.”
Suddenly I’m shivering. I step toward the sunlight. “Paul, I just . . . I feel like I’m coming apart. Did we abandon Joni when she needed us most? Sending her to prep schools? Signing her up to model for those stupid magazines? Did we rob her of a . . . ?” I can’t finish, and my body goes limp as I cry.
Did we rob her of a childhood?
Paul takes me in a hug. He rubs my back. “This is a hard time. This is so hard. Our son is in there. But he’s going to be okay. And Joni is tough.”
Pulling it together, I gaze into Paul’s eyes. “Yeah?”
He smiles faintly and nods. “You’ve just got to relax. Our daughter is forever a source of drama. We have to pace ourselves.”
I laugh a little through the tears. “Yeah.”
Then, after a few breaths into Paul’s chest, I lean back. “You don’t think we fucked her up?”
“No.”
I nod, trying to accept it. Part of me knows I’m focused on the wrong issue. But that’s how the mind works sometimes.
“Something else I need to tell you,” I say. “The man who brought Sean to the boat launch, his name is Luca Marceau. We need to thank him properly somehow.”
“How did you find out?”
“He came to the house. I was just leaving, but he rode up on his boat and we talked.”
“Weird, but okay.”
“Well, the whole thing was weird. He also met Michael. And he seems pretty sure Michael said he was our son.”
Paul is quiet.
I end up being the one coming to Michael’s defense. “It’s possible he was just being efficient. Michael is practically our son-in-law. And in a crisis, it’s best to keep things simple.”
I pull farther away from my husband to get a better look at his face. Paul stares off into the sea of parked cars, sun-spangled in the late August morning. I shield my eyes as I look there, too; it’s nearly blinding.
Paul says, “Are you going to tell me about the police?”
I take a deep drag of the cigarette, then let it out. “Okay.”
He looks at me, waiting.
“Maybe Michael didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Sean. I’m not sure. But he’s been in touch with her.”
“Her who?” Paul’s jaw is clenched, his eyes distant. “Laura?”
I nod. I explain about the police being notified of her last call. That it went to Michael.
Paul listens, his eyes drifting back to the parking lot. He holds out his hand, his first two fingers extended. I pass the cigarette to him and he drags on the cigarette. The smoke issues from his nostrils.
He hands it back to me, and I mash it out on the ground.
“I’m going back inside,” Paul says.
I nod, but stay put.
“Em, you coming?”