Emmy comes out into the hallway and we both watch him go. Just before he disappears, I call, “Thank you.”
He turns, gives me the same straight-faced nod I’ve gotten before, and then he’s gone.
As my daughter and I stare through the empty door out into the empty yard, I wonder to myself if it was a good idea to let him get close to Emmy, to let him see her room. I mean, if he’s crazy, who knows what he’s capable of?
Normally I don’t scoff at my paranoia, but this time I do. Something tells me that Cole would rather die than see Emmy shed a single tear. Or any little girl for that matter. I’d say if she were ever to be in good hands, crazy hands or not, those hands would belong to Cole Danzer.
I just wonder if the same thing applies to me.
SIX
Cole
I KNOW THE little girl isn’t Charity. She looks like her. Almost exactly like her. She even smells like her, that sweet powdery scent that I’ll go to my grave remembering. But I know it’s not her. It can’t be. I know that.
I’d give anything if she was, though. To have another chance. To be a better father. To spend more time, pay more attention, do all the things I should’ve done. Could’ve done. Didn’t do. I missed my chance, though, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. Never. I can’t.
That’s why I can’t let her go. Not this time.
Despite what people say about me being crazy, despite what the doctors say about what I see and hear, I know that my daughter is gone. I know that I can’t hear her or see her or talk to her. Yet I do. I do because I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll lose her forever. And I can’t risk that. I can’t let her go.
I never wanted to feel again. Anything. Anything at all, other than the gut-wrenching sadness that reminds me of what happened. Of who I am and what I did. I never wanted to feel hope or love or desire again. I don’t deserve to feel. At least not anything good. I only deserve pain and heartache and sadness. And guilt. Suffocating guilt.
But damn her, she’s making it so hard! Watching me like she does, tearing me up with her soulful gray eyes. Laughing with her daughter, with the girl who looks so much like everything I lost.
I knew when I first saw them that day on the beach that they’d be trouble for me. And I was right. Already, I can’t stop thinking about them–the little girl who looks like mine and the woman whose face I dream about.
SEVEN
Eden
IT’S SUNDAY AND we’ve been in Miller’s Pond for exactly one month on the nose. Today, Emmy and I are visiting the beach. I figured we had better enjoy it while we can. It seems the weather is getting colder by the day. Plus, I needed to get out of the house. I found myself watching obsessively for Cole to show up for work across the street, but he never did. It’s the first morning he’s missed since we’ve been here and for some reason, it has me all out of sorts.
I spent the first two hours continually glancing out the windows for his arrival. Then, when he didn’t show, I spent the next two hours wondering why. Is something wrong? Did he finish his work? Where will he go now? Will I get to see him again?
Of course, I got no answers, which only left me more frustrated. So, Emmy and I decided to go for a jaunt outside.
I bundle her up with a hoodie over her sweatshirt before we strike out on the short walk to the beach. I wanted her to wear gloves, but she loves the feel of the sand and since I won’t let her go barefoot, we compromised by me carrying her gloves in my pocket. She might need them before the day is out.
“Can we build a sandcastle today?”
“Not today. It’s too cold. The water might turn you into an Emmy-sized ice cube and what would I do with that?”
She giggles. “You can’t put me in your drink. I’d drown.”
I smile. “Yes, you’d drown if I put you in a drink, so let’s save the sandcastle until it’s warmer, k, doodle bug?”
“Okay.” She doesn’t seem overly disappointed.
On the beach, Emmy chases the waves in and out, but not as long as usual since she can’t get her feet wet. She picks up some wet sand and throws it into the surf a few times, but that doesn’t last long either. Within twenty minutes, she’s running up to me so we can go for our walk.
“Can we walk now, Momma?”
“Sure,” I tell her. “Let me check your hands.”
Obediently, she lays her fingers in mine so that I can feel the temperature. They’re freezing.
“Time for gloves.” I take them from my pocket and hold them out for her to shove her tiny hands into. She flexes her fingers several times until the knit fits just right. I touch her nose and her ears next. “Let’s put your hood up, too. Your ears are cold.”
“Mooom!” she whines. I know she’s not happy when she calls me Mom.
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. It’s hood up or head for home.”
With moody eyes locked onto mine, she pulls up her hood and hands me the strings to tie under her chin.
“Thank you.”
We start off down the beach, Emmy shooting up ahead into the empty straight stretch. She runs as fast as her little legs will carry her on the hard-packed sand.
I think we both see the castle at about the same time. I’m thankful that Emmy slows so I can catch up to her and stop her before she gets too close.
“He’s building another castle, Momma,” she says, excitement widening her eyes when Cole’s head appears on the other side of the structure. “And there’s more flowers!”
She starts to walk on, but I stop her. “Maybe he likes to do this without people watching, Em. Let’s let him build this one and we can come back over tomorrow to see it when it’s all finished. How about that?”
“But he has flowers,” she argues woefully, pointing at the bunch of daisies buried in the sand. “And he gave me one last time.”
“I know, baby, but I think he likes to leave them there for someone special.”
I wonder if this has something to do with his dead daughter. It’s obvious that his castling is more than just a pastime. Even from this distance, I can see how red and angry his strong hands look. I can only imagine how cold they must be working the wet sand on this chilly, windy day. Yet he has been here for who knows how long, building another castle.
It’s every bit as elaborate as the first one we saw. Maybe even more so. Why does he do it? Who does he build them for?
Emmy must be wondering the same things because she starts asking questions as I tug her around to start back the way we came.
“Who does he leave the flowers for, Momma?”
“I don’t know, sweetie, but I bet they’re for someone very special to him.”
A thoughtful pause.