It was harder than you’d think, giving up on something like that.
That’s when she noticed the marina lights down the shore, glowing warmly over swaying masts.
* * *
—
ISAAC DIDN’T APPEAR. Not at four or five or five thirty. At six thirty, with the world going dark, she began pacing the salon. Maybe she hadn’t twisted his words. Maybe he had meant exactly what he’d said and, like her mother and Lorrie, was relieved to be rid of her.
At seven, she decided to quit thinking for the night. She was so exhausted she felt certain she could manage it. In the morning, she would have to face her options, but for now she curled in the bow berth with its moldy cushions and sails. Using a small flashlight, she tried to read Gunkholing in the Puget Sound. She was staring at a picture of a lone boat in a pristine bay when Simplicity lurched dockward, bowing under the weight of a man climbing on board. She clicked off the light, pulled a sail over her, the damp heat of her breath falling like mist.
When she recognized the weight and rhythm of his steps, her heart went crazy with relief.
He was coming down the companionway. “Evangeline?”
She ran her hand over the mound of her belly, glad the baby was sleeping. Though it was childish, she wanted to be found right where she lay. Isaac passed through the galley but stopped in the salon, landing on the cushions with a tired sigh.
After a while, he said, “I know you’re in the bow berth. I saw the light. And these are your packs out here.”
She couldn’t make herself move. Couldn’t speak.
“I’m not sure what you heard. But you’re not a mistake, Evangeline. I worried that I was the mistake for you.”
She wanted to throw off the sails and go to him, tell him, I know, I know, but found herself battling anger. Why had it taken him so long to get there? Why had he made her suffer like that?
He spoke as if reading her mind. “I should have been here before. I just couldn’t . . .” He was quiet a long time. Finally, he said, “I’m here now.”
The words were like Isaac himself, unprotected yet firm as steel. Those three words unfolding into so much more: I have found you once again, but this time you will have to take the final steps. Yours is not the only heart that has ever been broken.
She thrashed around a little to confirm she was there, to give him one more chance to come to her. When he didn’t move, she found her voice. “I’m in here.”
The boat rolled, something big going by. “I know where you are.” He waited a moment. “And you know where you can find me.”
This was no idle power play. She knew that. He needed her to prove that what they had—whatever this new family was—could go both ways. That she could learn a new approach to dealing with problems other than running from them.
A foghorn sounded in the distance. Loose halyards jangled a few boats down, and the fresh sea air that had entered with Isaac swirled into the berth. The boat was rocking ever so gently. She knew that Isaac could sit there forever if that’s what it took for things to right themselves.
Suddenly the berth brightened as if a switch had been thrown. Peeking from under the sail, she saw the dark walls shimmering and reached out, sparks trailing her hand as if with phosphorescence. “Wish you could see this, baby,” she whispered. “It’s kind of crazy!”
She wrestled out of the berth then, telling herself she’d have to get up at some point anyway. As she walked into the salon, Isaac stood, gazed at her steadily a moment, then picked up her two bags.
* * *
—
THAT NIGHT AS SHE LAY IN WHAT HAD to be the softest possible bed, Rufus cuddled by her side, she kept thinking of Isaac’s smile as she’d walked into the salon. His mouth had not changed, but his whole face and body had glowed.
57
The day after I found Evangeline, I called George. I told him what had happened, that I wanted to compensate him for the food she’d eaten, for any additional utility costs.
“And, if in studying your boat—because, George, she was reading the manual on the engine, if you can believe that—if she messed something up or caused damage—”
He cut me off. “There’s no damage. I was down there this morning and could tell someone had been on board. I assumed it was a transient, so I did a pretty thorough check. Nothing missing or amiss. Well, except for some empty cans of stew.”
That news was more a relief than expected, and I realized I’d been concerned she’d pocketed souvenirs from the boat. We talked a bit longer, and then George said, “No worries, Isaac. Evangeline’s going to be all right. She’s whip-smart and motivated. Maybe not always in the right direction.”
We both laughed, and I think he was waiting for me to say good-bye. When I didn’t, he said, “There something else on your mind?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes. I’d like to reconvene the clearness committee if you think the group is willing.”
“They’re willing,” George said. “I’m certain of it.”
* * *
—
A WEEK LATER, when I arrived at the meeting hall, it was as if we’d continued uninterrupted—the same chairs and lamps and extension cord, though a new lavender candle had been placed near my seat. George and Ralph and Abigail were already seated when I arrived, and our greetings were subdued. Some new shyness there.
George had been right to question my prior work in the committee. I’d wasted those early sessions distracting myself with false guilt. I’d never perceived Jonah as dangerous. Not really. I’d slanted those normal boyhood stories because it was easier to feel guilty about missing a danger no one could have foreseen than to face the larger role I’d played in my son’s death.
After an opening silence, I said, “I want to talk about my son.”
After some minutes, George said quietly, “Of course.”
I couldn’t find any words, so we sat in that still room, a frog croaking outside. Ralph cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as if his back were bothering him.
Out of this strained silence, I finally said, “Daniel could be cruel.”
I saw on their faces how they knew this to be true, and I almost cried out for the pain of it. I swallowed. “I’d see him at times, taunting boys less powerful than himself. I’d tell myself it was good-natured teasing or blame the other boy. I refused to recognize this quality in him, refused to see the bully in my son.”
Proper silence was allowed, and then George asked, “Do you have any idea why you would choose not to know this?”
The obvious answer was that it’s never easy to think ill of one’s child. But George knew I’d always assessed my son’s errors of moral judgment as a fact of youth and attempted to address them. I was less judgmental and thus clearer eyed than most. We are all the time battling the beast. There is no disgrace in it. Why did I have such a blind spot here?
I thought of my own father, the shame I felt for his passivity. The shame I felt for my own: watching Katherine save Daniel from the sea lions, refusing to know that my wife was cheating or that Peter needed help, avoiding my family in the guise of discernment. Katherine had betrayed me. My son was murdered. Even God, it seemed, had abandoned me. I was life’s prey.