“I’d love to help. Thank you, Jackie. This is the sweetest gift ever.”
“Do you have a chair? It’s easier if we sit down.”
“Of course!”
Sally drifted toward the door. Peered out. “Is the kitchen that way?” She gestured to the left.
“You can’t miss it.”
“Should I make coffee?”
She was leaving them alone. The project, Rae understood, was a light to help a distressed child navigate a dark journey. The retelling of the night when Lark died.
“That would be great,” Rae said. “Jackie, would you like tea? I have ginger, peppermint, and chamomile.”
“Chamomile, please.”
After Sally left, Rae grabbed two chairs. Together they sat down. She asked, “Can we do this chronologically? Start when Lark was a baby?”
“I was hoping you would say that. Can I show you my favorites? It’ll only take a minute. Then you can decide if they’re the ones you want in the album.”
“Sure.”
The girl slid the grouping of photos near, of Lark from infancy to age three. Pushing the album aside, she began lining them up in neat rows. Keeping her hands busy as she steered herself back to the night of the slumber party.
“Stella was mad at Lark all week long. Uncle Griffin didn’t like Stella’s mom anymore. I don’t think he ever liked her much to begin with . . . they weren’t dating very long.”
“You’re close to Stella. That must’ve been awkward for you.”
“It was. Big-time. Me and Stella . . . we thought it would be cool if they ended up together. Then we’d be related, like new cousins. And Stella doesn’t get along with her dad. She’s hardly talked to him, since her parents got divorced. He lives in Shaker Heights now.”
“Stella wanted a new dad?” What child wouldn’t want Griffin? He was patient and kind, perfect father material. “She was angry because Lark was bragging that Griffin was her father?”
Jackie nodded. “It made Stella really mad. She didn’t want Lark to come to the slumber party, but I’d already asked her to go.” Her fingers paused on a photo of Lark as a chubby toddler. She wore a bright-yellow swimsuit with a design of watermelons embroidered on the fluttery skirt. “Rae, is it my fault Lark died? She wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t encouraged her.”
Briefly Rae hugged her. She knew not to pull the child off task. It was clear this was difficult for Jackie.
“No, sweetie. It’s not your fault. I encouraged Lark too. I knew she was fighting with someone, but I didn’t want her to miss the party.”
“Stella and Lark went outside together,” Jackie said, “right after Mrs. Thomerson left for the drugstore. The other girls were in the basement, watching the movie. I told them to come back inside. I could see it was icy—they didn’t even have their coats on.”
“They wouldn’t listen to you?”
“Stella did—finally. She came back inside. She went down to watch the movie.”
A tear plopped down on the desk, startling Rae. The urge to offer solace was strong; she didn’t dare. Now that Jackie had begun the awful tale, it was best to let her finish.
Her hands fluttered like butterflies, hovering above the final photographs in the group. Sorting quickly, organizing with efficiency.
“I went back out, to reason with Lark. She told me to go away. That she only needed a minute to herself. To cool down. Or decide to leave. She was sending a text. She was by herself, Rae. I’m positive. She was sending a text and pacing near the pool.”
Grief welled inside Rae.
Should’ve stayed home.
The grief threatened to pull her into the watery depths of despair, but she focused on what Jackie had revealed instead. The glimmer of light at the center of a tragic story.
No one had caused Lark’s death. It was a terrible accident. How could I lose my precious child this way? My beautiful, perfect girl—taken in the most banal way. There was no sense to it, no reason. If any number of things had been different—if Rae had agreed that Lark should stay home, if the girls hadn’t argued, or if Chardon hadn’t experienced a freak snowstorm in October and Lark hadn’t gone outside and slipped on the ice—she’d be alive today. She’d be painting her toenails three shades of green and leaving butterscotch candies on Connor’s books whenever she’d worn through his patience.
She’d be here, in Hester’s studio, making it her own. Mom, what do you think of this? Holding her latest artistic creation aloft, leaving paints and brushes scattered about for Rae to clean up.