Page 67 of Feels like Home (Lake Fisher 2)

Sam stares at the lake again. “She’s only six.”

“Right. But it was important to your dad that he tell you first. He wanted you to know.” I have no idea what he was thinking, but it sounds right. “He wanted to explain it in a way that you could understand.”

“I don’t want him to die.” There’s a tiny quaver in her voice now.

I force out a chuckle that I don’t feel. “I don’t think he wants to either. In fact, I’m pretty sure that if he could change it, he would.”

She bats at a gnat that keeps trying to fly up her nose. I recognize it as an excuse to show annoyance, to mask the frustrated huff and snuffle. “I was pretty mean to him just now.”

“He’ll get over it. He’s probably already over it.” In fact, he’s probably waiting at home for her, anxiously trying to figure out what the hell he’s going to say to her.

“I should probably go tell him I’m sorry.”

“Probably.”

She looks up at me. “Do you think he’ll be mad?”

“No, sweetie. I don’t think he’ll be mad at all.” If he is, I’ll kill him. “Are you ready to go home now?”

She nods.

“Good, because there’s a snake over there.” I point to the bushes right next to us. She jumps up and walks as quickly as she safely can back down the dock toward the shore. I follow.

At the last minute, she turns to me. “What’s going to happen to us?” she asks. My heart breaks all over again for this child who suddenly has to grow up through no fault of her own. “Where will we live?”

And I know in that moment exactly where they’ll live. It’s clear as crystal. I know who will love and care for them because no one can do it as well, as completely, and as truly as I can.

I slip an arm gently around her shoulders. Her fragile shoulders that are expected to bear a burden that would crush an adult. “We’ll have to talk to your dad about that. But no matter what, no matter what, you will be loved and taken care of, all of you. I promise.”

She nods. Then she gets on her bike and rides back toward the cabin. I follow, wondering how my heart still has room to beat inside my chest. It feels so much larger somehow.

We find Aaron and Eli sitting quietly on Aaron’s front porch. Sam rides right up to the porch, hops off the bike, and lets it fall unheeded on its side in the grass. I watch as Sam runs up the steps and straight into her father’s arms. He holds her tightly against him and over her head he mouths the words “Thank you” at me. I give him a single nod, and they turn and go inside together, closing the door behind them.

Eli picks up the bike she dropped and turns to push it back home. I get off my bike and Eli and I walk silently together to put the bikes up. He doesn’t say a word. We walk all the way into the cabin, and he says nothing.

“Eli…” I say, and my voice sounds like a croak. And he still says nothing, but he turns and opens his arms to me, and I fall into them. He holds me close as I finally cry. I’ve held it in for so long. It needs to come out. So I give in and let the flood happen. And through it all, he only makes tiny little shushing sounds. He holds me tight and he doesn’t let me go. Not once for the whole time does he let me go. And as soon as I can talk coherently through my sobbing, I tell him.

“I’m tired of hating you, Eli.”

“I’m kind of tired of being hated,” he replies with a little chuckle.

; And when we go to bed, he pulls me into his arms, and I hold him tight. “Is this okay?” I ask him.

“It’s okay, Bess,” he says quietly. And he kisses my forehead, turns out the light, and he lets me hold him. That’s something I haven’t done in a really long time.

I fall asleep pressed against him, and I sleep harder and deeper than I’ve slept in ages.

30

Eli

I wake up the next morning to the sound of running water. Bess is in the shower, and the door is cracked enough that I can hear the water hitting the shower curtain. Years ago, Bess would sing when she showered. I remember how I used to tease her about it, but she never stopped. Then one day, either she stopped singing or I stopped noticing she was singing, because I haven’t heard it in a long time.

But over the spray of the water, I hear the faint hum of her voice. Bess is singing in the shower.

The water turns off, and I sit up in the bed. Bess pokes her head into the room. She has a towel wrapped turban-style around her hair, and another is wrapped around and tucked between her breasts. “You’re up,” she says, her face bright and shiny with no makeup. Her cheeks are rosy from the warmth of the shower, and her skin is dewy from the water. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”