Vacation

Again, she just lay there. Keeping her eyes closed.

Give him time, Dr. Kleiner had said at the rehab wing of Kings County Hospital. Time to do the work, time to make his leg stronger.

But time also to get over what had happened.

And that’s what she was doing.

She emptied her straw bag filled with beach towels. After a cool night, the sun was already hot.

She looked around at the other families on the lakeshore.

*   *   *

Simon kept digging a massive hole only feet away from Christie’s blanket.

Sharon Blair sat nearby in an aluminum beach chair with circus stripes. Floppy hat, oversized shades, lost in a book.

Which was good, since Christie had had enough talk.

Maybe we’ve all gotten used to being alone, she thought. Independent.

Or suspicious.

Now she was just as glad to sit, listen to the kids squealing in the icy water, and watch the occasional cloud hit a mountain peak.

Simon kept on digging.

While the two Blair boys went in and out of the water as though performing some kind of drill.

“Simon, why don’t you go in? Cool off.”

Another scoop of sand came out. “I will. Digging now.”

Christie made a small laughing sound. Keeping it light.

“That is one big hole.”

Christie remembered how at the Jersey shore her dad would always make the joke whenever she dug.

Digging to China?

Time to retire that, Christie thought. The thought of those days at the beach, her whole family, didn’t bring her any sense of joy.

“You go in later, I’ll go in with you, ’kay?”

“Sure,” Simon said.

Christie turned back to the water.

Obviously something had happened with Simon and the other two boys. Bit of bullying, perhaps? Teasing? Did he get scared?

Christie guessed he’d eventually tell her.

Eventually kids tell things.

Just have to be patient.

And she wondered: was she also thinking now not just about Simon, but her husband as well?

*   *   *

The dream—so vivid, lifelike, that in his nightmare sleep Jack tossed and turned in the bed.

His family in a car.

The rest stop. And Can Heads surrounding it. First a few. Then more. Circling it, banging on the metal. Probing.

For some reason, he was on the ground, unable to get up. No gun—nothing he could do but watch the scene at the car as a window shattered. The another. The screams of his kids. Christie yelling.

Still he lay on the ground, more Can Heads on top of him, pulling, picking at him. He would be alive to see the horror that would engulf his family.

He moaned in the dream.

Then in the room. Quiet sound at first, then louder, and then—

His eyes opened wide. Taking in the unfamiliar bedroom. The late morning light through the curtains.

The dream lingered, the feelings holding on even as he sat up in bed, hoping to shake off the horror. He cleared his throat.

“’Lo? Anybody home?”

The cabin quiet. He could see the porch door open, with only the screen door shut to keep the outside and the bugs away.

A small tent of a note with his name on it sat on the dresser.

He moved to get out of bed, feeling that familiar jolt of pain that was part of the everyday routine of getting up. Getting up, moving. Doing some stretching in bed.

That would be followed by the pressure of finally placing his right foot on the ground. It always hurt first thing, the first time he stood on it. As if the leg just wanted to be inactive forever and give in to the wound.

No fucking way that was happening.

He walked over to the note and picked it up.

Down at the beach, sleepyhead. See you there! Xoxo, me.

Jack put the note down.

*   *   *

“Morning,” Jack said to Tom and Sharon as he sat down next to Christie on the beach towel.

Tom made a knocking gesture at his head—obviously also the worse for wear after the cook’s moonshine.

“There you are!” Christie said. “Thought we’d have to take drastic measures to get you up for lunch.”

“Guess … I was tired. All that driving.”

He couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark sunglasses.

“Yup. Lot of driving. And…”

Jack nodded and turned to Simon.

“Morning, Mr. Simon. Tunneling, hm?”

“Hi, Dad.”

Christie lowered her glasses a bit, and gave Jack a look up and down. “I see you’re in your bathing suit.”

He grinned. “Yeah. I mean, it is a beach.”

“Kind of expected you to wear khakis and”—she leaned close—“strap your ‘little friend’ onto your ankle.”

“Right. Let everyone know I’m a cop.”

Truth was, he had looked at his ankle holster and thought of doing just that. Did he go anywhere without a gun these days?

Hardly.

Instead, he had taken the gun and holster and buried it under a pile of his shirts in a bottom drawer of the bedroom dresser.

Not that he felt comfortable now.

“Well, good. Maybe we can all go in the water, then.”

Christie made a small nod in Simon’s direction.

Jack could see that his son hadn’t gotten his suit wet.

He turned back to Christie. “Yeah. Let me toast a bit. Then we all hit that water.”

“It’s cold,” Tom said. “It will wake you up, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe I’ll wait.”

“Tonight’s the fireworks—sit together for dinner again?”

Jack looked at Christie. Did she like them?

“Um, sure. Great.”

“We’ll save you places.”

Jack looked around at the islands of umbrellas and chairs and blankets.

Then: “Where’s Kate?”