I blot the tears that are slipping down my face and clutch my wet tissue, waiting for Dawn to go on.
“See, I fought so hard. I blamed everyone. I blamed myself the most. I told Timmy that he could go to the beach alone that day. He use to take a swim and collect shells and sand dollars, trinkets that tourists had lost. That sort of stuff. He’d bring it all to me, just as pleased with his treasures as could be. He always went for walks on the beach just to look. He knew I loved his little gifts and he wanted to please me. I blamed myself for liking the things he would bring me. I thought that maybe if I had acted indifferent to them, maybe he would’ve stopped doing it.” Dawn plucks two more tissues from the box on the buffet and blots away her own tears. “He was a very good swimmer. I never could have known that he wouldn’t come out of the water that day. I blamed Tim Senior, my husband. For what, God only knows,” she ponders, shaking her head from side to side. “I think I just wanted someone else to raise their hand and say, ‘It’s my fault. Blame me.’ That way I could point the finger and assign some type of responsibility, ya know?” Dawn raises her brows at me and I nod, knowing fully what she means. “But there was no one to blame. It was just an accident. He’d had one seizure when he was a toddler and the doctors thought it was a fluke. They did some tests and watched him closely, but it never happened again. The best they can figure is that he may have had a seizure while he was in the water and he drowned because of it. He was a great swimmer. It was the only thing that made sense. Nearly lost my marriage afterwards. I was mean and I pushed away everyone because I didn’t know how to handle that kind of hurt. No one does. Then one day, I realized that I was so scared of losing my memories of Timmy that I was smothering them. I had twisted them up into a mess of blame and regret and what ifs. I was making my life such an ugly mess and that it was the greatest injustice to the beautiful life that Timmy had while he was alive. I owed my son to keep those memories safe and untainted.”
I cover my mouth with my shaky hand to stifle my soft sobbing. “Dawn—I—I’m so sorry.” I offer my muffled condolences, the words I hated hearing, from behind my quivering hand. I don’t know what else to say.
Dawn smiles that same sullen little smile and nods her head gently. “Me too, honey. Me too.”
Silence falls all around us as we both take in our respective losses.
“You know I walk on the beach every morning for my Timmy?” she questions, looking to me with another rueful smile crinkling the edges of her eyes. “Sure do. I walk along and pick up things that I think he woulda picked up. I know that somehow he’s walking right alongside me. I plant my flowers for Timmy too. Brings me peace growing somethin’ pretty for my son.” Dawn smiles wide, giant tears swimming in her green eyes. It’s a forced smile, anyone can see that, but it comes from an endearing, honest place in her heart and I could never thank her enough for sharing her story with me.
Seeing a living, breathing version of myself gives that little inherently human part of me renewed resolve to cultivate the hope that I’ve run from at just about every turn. It’s past time for me to cultivate and grow something pretty in memory of Jake and everything beautiful that we shared together.
“I lost my husband, Jake. He was murdered,” I numbly offer the synopsis of my loss. I’ve never said it aloud. For reasons unbeknownst to even me, saying the word “murder” has always been impossible. The word itself spells out just how heinous human beings can be when properly provoked. I’ve never known the reason for that man’s actions that night and I doubt I ever will. The case remains unsolved and I fear it may stay that way. Jeff, Jake’s former partner, gives me updates when they arise, but they’re sparse and seem to grow even fewer and farther between by the day. I’ve resigned myself to not knowing. It’s the only part of my story that I’ve managed to come to terms with. After all, catching the culprit doesn’t bring Jake back. It doesn’t expunge the ache that seems to devour me daily. It doesn’t right the wrong. True to the pattern of criminal behavior, I’m sure that intruder will be tossed in prison one day, if he isn’t already there. I can only hope that the bars of that prison are as closely set and indestructible as the bars that have caged me for two years. Though invisible, my bonds feel like iron shackles that I have felt less than optimistic about being freed from.