Pocketful of Sand

When he finally recovers, he turns toward us and, God help me, he smiles. And what a smile it is! It changes his face completely. He was gorgeous before. Breathtaking even. But when his lips curve and his teeth gleam and his eyes light up, he’s the most potent male force I think I’ve ever encountered.

I stare helplessly as he speaks to my daughter. “It’s beautiful, Emmy. I’m glad you liked the castle.”

With her eyes stuck on Cole (and I can’t really blame her for that), Emmy wiggles until I set her down. She backs up slowly, never looking away and never taking her thumb out of her mouth. When she reaches the edge of the kitchen, she raises her fingers in a gesture for him to follow her.

Cole looks to me for approval. I nod, having no idea where this is going, but anxious to find out. Emmy doesn’t engage anyone. She hasn’t since we left home. For that reason alone, my heart is so full of hope right now that I can practically feel it trembling, like it’s teetering on the cusp of something wonderful.

Cole follows Emmy, and I follow Cole back to Emmy’s room. She stops just inside the door and points to the daisy Cole gave her. She wanted to frame it so we could hang it on her wall.

She didn’t let go of it until we got home that day. When she finally did, she insisted that we preserve it. I let her help me press the flower between newspapers and cardboard, and then we set a heavy book on it for a week. When it was ready, I used one of my old frames to display it for her. She wanted it hung right across from her bed, where she could see it every day, she said.

Cole squats down in the hall outside Emmy’s room, never getting too close to her. “Did you do that yourself?” She shakes her head and points to me. “Your mom helped?” She nods. “Moms are good helpers, aren’t they?” She nods again. “Well, you did a good job. Maybe one day you can help me make one like that. For a present.”

Emmy says nothing, just stares at our big interloper like a tiny fawn caught in headlights. We all hold perfectly still in this oddly poignant moment. Eventually, Cole slowly stands and says to no one in particular. “Guess I’d better get going.”

He turns to squeeze past me in the narrow hallway, his soap teasing my nose and his warmth teasing the rest of me. I flatten my body against the wall, afraid to touch him. Whether for my sake or his, I don’t know. I just feel like that would be opening the door to something I can’t control.

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?