On Mystic Lake

Today, he’d gotten off work three hours ago and their nightly ritual had begun. First, dinner on the porch (lasagna and green salads from Vittorio’s), then they quickly washed the dishes together.

Now, Nick sat cross-legged on the cold plank floor, staring down at the multicolored Candy Land game board. There were three little pieces at the starting box, a red, a green, and a blue.

But there are only two of us, Izzy, he’d said when Izzy put the third man down.

That’s Annie, Daddy.

Nick watched with a growing sadness as Izzy stoically rolled for Annie and moved her tiny blue piece from square to square.

“Come here, Izzy,” he said at last, pushing the game away. She crawled across the floor and settled into his lap, hooking her spindly legs around him. He stared down at her. The words congealed in his throat; how could you tell a little girl to stop believing?

“She’s comin’ back, Daddy,” Izzy said in the high-pitched, certain voice of an innocent.

He stroked her hair. “It’s okay to miss her, Sunshine, but you can’t keep thinking that she’s going to come back. She has another life . . . she always did. We were lucky to have her for as long as we did. ”

Izzy leaned back into his laced fingers. “You’re wrong, Daddy. She’s comin’back. So, don’t be so sad. ”

Sad. Such a little word, no more than a breath; it didn’t begin to describe the ocean of loss he felt at Annie’s absence.

“I love you, Izzy-bear,” he whispered.

She planted a kiss on his cheek. “I love you, too, Daddy. ”

He stared down at her, lying in his arms in her pink flannel jammies with the bunny feet, with her black hair still damp and squiggly around her face, and her big brown eyes blinking up at him with expectation.

He knew then, as he’d known so many times before, that no matter what, he’d always love Annie for what she’d given him.

The air was crisp the next morning, chilly with the promise of fall. The flowers were fading now at the end of summer, and autumn colors—orange and green and scarlet—had replaced the bright hues of August. A cloudy sky cast shadows across the cemetery, where acres of grass rolled gently toward a curtain of evergreen trees. It was well cared for, this final resting place for most of Mystic’s citizens.

Nick walked slowly toward the easternmost corner of the cemetery. Izzy was beside him, holding his hand. With each step, he felt his insides tighten, and by the time he reached his destination, his throat was dry and he needed a drink desperately.

He gazed down at the headstone. Kathleen Marie Delacroix. Beloved Wife and Mother.

He sighed. Four words to sum up her life. They were the wrong four words; he’d known it at the time, but then he’d been so twisted with grief

that he’d let the small, round-faced funeral director handle everything. And in truth, Nick didn’t know what other words he would have chosen, even now. How could you possibly express the sum of a person’s life in a few words cut into smooth gray stone?

He glanced down at Izzy. “I should have brought you here a long time ago. ”

Izzy let go of his hand. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper. Last night, when he’d told her they were going to come here, Izzy had picked up a piece of paper and her crayons, then she’d gone into her room alone. When she emerged, she held a picture of her mom’s favorite flower. Daddy, I’ll give her this. That way she’ll know I was visitin’ her.

He had nodded solemnly.

She walked over to the wrought-iron bench and sat down. Smoothing the paper on her lap, she stared at the headstone. “Daddy said I could talk to you, Mommy. Can you hear me?” She drew in a ragged breath. “I miss you, Mommy. ”

Nick bowed his head, thinking of a dozen things at once, and thinking nothing at all. “Heya, Kath. ” He waited for her to answer, but, of course, there was nothing except the swaying of the evergreen boughs and the trilling call of a bird.

This place had so little to do with his Kathy. It was why he hadn’t come here before, not since the day they placed her gleaming mahogany casket in a gaping hole in the earth. He couldn’t stand to look at the evenly clipped carpet of grass and know that she was below it, his wife who’d always been afraid of the dark and afraid of being alone. . . .

He reached out, touched the cold headstone with the tip of a finger, tracing the etched canal of her name.

“I came to say good-bye, Kath,” he said softly, closing his eyes against the sudden sting of tears. His voice broke, and he couldn’t speak out loud. I loved you for most of my life, and I know you loved me, too. What . . . what you did was about something else, something I never could understand. I wanted you to know that I forgive us. We did the best we could. . . .

He touched the stone again, felt it warm beneath his fingertips, and for a moment—a heartbeat that winged into eternity—he imagined her beside him, her golden hair streaming in the sunlight, her black eyes crinkled in a smile. It was the day Izzy was born, that was the memory that came to him. Kathy sitting up in the hospital bed, her hair all askew, her skin left pale by exhaustion, her pink flannel nightgown buttoned improperly. She had never looked so lovely, and when she looked down at the sleeping infant in her arms, she’d begun softly to cry. “Isabella,” she’d said, trying the name on her tongue before she looked up at Nick. “Can we call her Isabella?”

As if Nick could deny her anything. “It’s perfect. ”

Kathy had continued to look at him, while tears streaked down her cheeks. “You’ll always take care of her, won’t you, Nicky?”