The Passing Storm(92)

They went into Hester’s studio. Anxiety trailed Jackie as she caught sight of the wooden desk—the one Lark had used when working on her crafts. Recently, Connor and Quinn had moved the desk back to where it stood before Lark’s death, near the wall of glass. Beside it, the row of houseplants on Kameko’s much smaller, kid-size table gave the studio a cheery feel.

From the bag, the girl hefted out a large photo album. New, white leather. Next came a large manila envelope, stuffed full. Opening it, Jackie spilled out a host of photos—of Lark.

As a baby, during her toddler years and beyond. Lark cartwheeling across the lawn before Jackie’s house with a group of girls. A snap Connor took last summer, when they walked the farm together. And more photos of Rae hugging her daughter or tickling her—lifting her from a bubble bath. Rimming Lark’s mouth with that first tube of lip gloss in sixth grade. More images of Rae with her daughter than she could count.

Joy and grief tangled inside her. Rae pressed her hand to her heart. As she did, she felt another hand come to rest on her back. Sally’s.

Steadying her, one mother to another, as Jackie bent over her work.

“Uncle Griffin asked your dad for the photos.” Shuffling through the images, Jackie began sorting them into groups. She ran a nervous palm across her short, jagged hair. “Is it okay that I’m making an album for you?” She looked worried then, her eyes darting to Rae’s. “I wanted to make it as a surprise gift, but it’s better this way. I’m making an album for everyone in my family—they get to help. Pick out the photos, how they want them ordered.”

“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.