Sweet Water(16)

Martin’s glasses are bumping the top of my head, and he’s rocking me back and forth in a silent dance. “Perhaps. Donations not go as expected?” he asks, breathing into my scalp, still fishing for answers.

“It was a productive morning, actually,” I say of my meeting in the city to discuss my newly appointed position as chief fundraiser for the new Impact Program to assist inner-city single mothers. “I suggested they include single fathers in the mix for funding too.”

Martin looks down into my eyes with his half smile. The laugh line on the left side of his face remains long after his smile has gone. It’s one of the things I’ll never tire of because I’m pretty sure I’ve provided most of the laughs to form it.

“And?” he asks.

“And they said they don’t really have the population or the need for that.”

“Oh . . .” Martin stares up into his lenses, lips pressed firmly together, as if he’s trying to carefully word his response. “Well, I’m sure it’s because of city demographics, not because you’re all alone on the I-was-raised-by-a-single-father island,” Martin concludes.

“Sure,” I say, and sometimes I think I come up with these initiatives just to find the few kids who are struggling the same way I did, but I know that’s not fair. Then again, it’s not fair that Martin gets to sign off on any self-serving thing he wants. London would’ve been a done deal if the acquisition went through, whether I wanted to move or not.

“So you’re bummed they didn’t put out the funding for the dads? You want the money to go to the people who really need it, don’t you?” Martin asks, always the voice of reason.

I sigh, because that isn’t what’s wrong at all. I didn’t get into nonprofit work because I’m looking for something to do. I grew up on the lower side of middle class, and I love helping others in the same situation. My mother was a volunteer at church, and she often took me with her, and it was “in my heart to do that type of work,” as my father always said following our first food drive.

I’ve been allotted an undeserved fortune for someone of my status, and I know it’s partially due to luck, but suddenly, after meeting Yazmin, it feels as though my luck has run out.

It’s a fear that crept up during our early days of marriage, when I was just assimilating to this new lifestyle, and then more recently as we approached the empty-nester stage—when is the fairy tale going to end? It didn’t start out honestly, first with the circumstances surrounding the engagement and then with the purchase of the house. I have a horrible feeling that it’s all a ruse.

“Do you want me to make a call to Bill?” Martin asks of his older brother, who also happens to be city commissioner. Martin’s brow twists in a way that always makes it look like he’s about to tell a joke, but he knows how much I despise using politics to push my own agenda.

“No, no, it’s not the project, actually. I met Finn’s new girlfriend today.” My voice has gone dry. I inhale Martin’s cologne, still Polo, still casual comfort.

“And?” he asks, holding me at arm’s length so he can read my expression.

“And she was awful,” I say honestly.

“Sarah!” Martin laughs at me, and it echoes all the way to the ceiling like it always does in this room. And usually when laughter travels in our home, I love it, but not today, because this isn’t funny.

“Well, she was. She wasn’t friendly, and she . . . was controlling Finn, whispering in his ear, and she . . .” I sigh, embarrassed that the last fact is more bothersome to me than the rest.

“She what?” he asks, as if this is all so amusing.

“She insulted our house,” I say.

“Oh no,” Martin says, and then he stops chuckling, staring down at me with a rare grace of seriousness. He knows there’s no way I can accept her now. “Well, hopefully their relationship will be short-lived.”





CHAPTER 5

Present

Blackburn Road creeps up on me like a snake through the trees, the popping of the gravel onto the turnoff where the road ends and our driveway begins shaking me out of my shocked stupor. I wipe my nose with my wet sleeve, the buttons of my shirt scraping the skin of my chapped cheek. “How can you just drive home as if nothing’s happened?” As if we didn’t leave a dead teenage girl in the woods?

“Something has happened. To our son. You need to start putting him first in this situation,” Martin says.

“But . . . what about the girl? And what if someone hurt her?” Like our son. This doesn’t make sense to me, the way Martin and his family rationalize our part in this atrocity.

“We do what we have to do to protect our family, Sarah. You know Finn isn’t the one who hurt that girl. I’m sure of it. It’s time for you to stop doubting your son.” His voice is icy and punishing. I don’t know this side of Martin.

“I don’t doubt him.” I hug the shoulders of my puffy vest, feeling more alone than I ever have in my entire life, because I doubt my own husband far more than I do my son. This is an ugly side of his human prism I’ve never seen before.

“Everything will look clearer in the morning.” Martin’s reassurance is empty, and I don’t believe him one bit. The morning is where light lives, and it will most certainly shine a beacon on what we’ve done and the monsters we truly are. Yazmin was seventeen years old. Her beautiful eyes were rolled in the back of her head—lifeless. I gasp.