I reached for her hand, our fingers locking.
“On the beach, with Sarah…I was happy that day, you know?” she said. “The school year was nearly over. We were graduating and finally getting out of this stupid town. You’d be in the city and I’d be at Montclair, just a train ride away. The museums and the theaters and all those people who had never even heard of Holman Beach—the world was changing, and I couldn’t wait. I could walk away and never see that bastard again. I wasn’t even stoned that morning. I had maybe two hits, just to take the edge off. I was reading …”
“… Rolling Stone. Drew Barrymore on the cover…”
“… The sun was so bright over the water; I was face down, and I put on that floppy hat and started reading. God, it should have been just another day. We’d been bringing Sarah to the beach since she was two. She was so smart, and careful …she knew to keep away from the waves. She wouldn’t even let the water touch her ankles without one of us standing next to her. It was safe, Duck. She should have been safe.”
I’d told myself the same a thousand times.
“She never screamed or called out. It was so quiet …you could hear the cars on Ocean Avenue and the sandpipers doing that weird thing they do with their wings. If she had called out, I would have heard it. I swear, Duck …I would have heard. How could something that ruins your life be so quiet?”
On the wall the streaks of blue seemed in motion, like waves, the footprints near the floor edging toward the surf. We stepped forward and dropped to our knees, our hands reaching out, touching those small, beautiful footprints.
On my palm I saw traces of damp paint, the impression of a four-year-old’s foot, the half-circle of her heel, the sole, even the tips of each tiny toe. Again I touched the wall, Amy’s hand covering mine as we knelt on all fours, side by side, sensing those footprints as if they were alive and beating, the vast blue expanse looming above us, the water, the ocean …if only we could follow those footprints and bring them back to us whole—we would dive into the blue and keep searching until we found her. We would carry her; we would float above the crest until we reached the shore and replaced those fading footprints with the soles of her feet. We’d lead Sarah away from the water, across the sand and back to our blankets, our footsteps leaving new impressions, deep and strong; we would carry her back toward the rest of her life.
We both sensed it, the need to be part of it, the need to be closer, and so we stood, hands linked, and fell back against the wall, extending our arms as if we were floating on the water, closing our eyes and feeling the wall against our backs, and perhaps Amy imagined it too, Sarah Carpenter between us, our bodies like a raft, carrying her.
“She’s here,” Amy said, and I squeezed her hand, those tiny footprints all over me now, the wall behind us seemingly in motion, like waves against flesh, lulling the three of us deeper into the blue, and somehow it was okay; whatever might happen was good and right because we were together again, Amy, Sarah, and I. Bringing her back was only a dream but maybe we could carry her forward, toward the light or the spirit or whatever, if anything, might lie beyond this broken life. Those footprints didn’t have to drift away alone, and it was crazy but I felt the pressure of those feet up and down my body as we swayed against the wall, I feel it, too, Amy said, and maybe ghosts were just memories and wishes and everything you ever dreamed coming together in your mind for a single moment.
Amy pressed her forehead against the wall, her arms spread like angel wings as her lips touched the blue, and I swear I heard the softest breath, neither Amy’s nor mine, and two simple fading words: you’re forgiven.
. . . . .
Downstairs I pulled together a snack tray: diced cheddar, apple slices, baby pretzels, and some fresh chunks of avocado. After all that time in my head with Sarah, I was grateful to be moving again, my hands chopping and slicing, separating the avocado from its skin in one long, perfect peel.
I’d turned off the music, so I heard Amy coming down the stairs, the bottom steps announcing her arrival with that familiar wooden creak common to an older house, each step, even the lightest, like the crack of a withered bone. She was still in her pajama shirt, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, but she’d added a second white sock and combed her hair, the flecks of blue paint scrubbed from her knees.
She stood in the doorway while I poured two glasses of iced tea.
“You’re quite the host,” she said, looking around her kitchen. “Thanks for having me over.”
“I thought you might want a snack.”
I handed her a glass and set the tray on the table. She checked the clock on the stove.
“My outpatient appointment is in twenty-seven minutes. I’m thinking of blowing it off.”
“Is that allowed?”
“I’ll call and reschedule. They won’t send the rubber suits after me—too expensive.” She
