But whenever I questioned the accident, his expression changed.
“Margaret, you need to let it go.”
I stared at him.
“How can I?”
He sighed.
“The lake took them.”
I shook my head.
“We don’t know that.”
His jaw tightened.
“Margaret, please.”
I looked at him.
“Roscoe wasn’t reckless.”
Garrison nodded.
“I know.”
“He checked the weather.”
“I know.”
“He made the boys wear life jackets.”
Garrison looked away.
I continued.
“And nobody found a single body.”
He closed his eyes.
“Sometimes that happens.”
I stared at him.
Then whispered:
“I don’t believe they’re gone.”
Garrison looked at me for a long moment.
Then said quietly:
“BELIEVING THAT WON’T BRING THEM BACK.”
Six years passed.
The girls grew older.
Clara graduated from college.
Willa began studying music.
Maisie turned twelve.
Our house changed.
The boys’ bedrooms remained almost untouched.
Jory’s basketball shoes stayed beneath his bed.
Tobin’s comic books remained stacked beside his desk.
