Sweet Water(52)

But there’s no way the words—“how much do you want?”—can ever escape my lips, no matter how much Martin wants them to. It’s the same thing as asking a mother how much her child’s life is worth, and there’s no number for that. I slowly let go of the checkbook.

I’ve helped more woman like Alisha—single, struggling to raise a family—than she’ll ever know, but none of that matters now.

Still processing all of this, I say, “A rocker guy from town . . .” An Academy grad himself, Alisha said. Memories surface like bubbles in a baking-soda bath, and I stop myself. “What was his name again?”

It can’t be. I’ve been thinking about him so much lately, hearing his music in my head.

Alisha slams the bottom of the pack harder. “They call him Mr. Joshua. I don’t know if it’s his first name or last. He asked that he not be involved. It’s why he didn’t tell the police about the conversation he overheard, but I think he felt guilty, so he told me when I went to see him.”

I grip the table, and my vision goes sideways for a moment. My breathing does strange things. “Are you all right?” she asks.

I tell her yes, but I’m far from it.

He’s back? It can’t be my Joshua. It must be another.

“I wonder why he didn’t disclose that to the cops. It wouldn’t be involving him,” I say, my voice thin.

But what I want to say is, “Joshua Louden? My Joshua?”

No, he lives overseas.

That’s the box I’ve put him in for so long. It’s how I’ve compartmentalized my life. He’s gone—overseas—and there’s no use thinking about him anymore.

Just a colorful character from my past.

He’s not allowed to be back here again.

He can’t be back—here—playing his beautiful guitar. He lived overseas doing his missionary work, but perhaps he’s come home now. And perhaps the music I’ve been hearing wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

“I’m sorry, Alisha, but I don’t think I can give you what you want.” My blood pressure is cooking me in the tiny wooden booth.

“I’m asking you to question your son again. And the sheriff. It will be better for him if he comes forward now.”

“Okay.” I’m breathing heavily.

“I want that journal,” Alisha says.

She knows. She knows.

“He already said he wasn’t with her. The police determined only one set of footprints in the area of the woods where Yazmin was found.” Because the cleaners have covered up the rest.

Dear God, I deserve to burn, but why is Joshua back teaching my son’s girlfriend guitar? He can’t be.

Alisha makes a fist. “I know what he may have told you, but ask him again. And find that journal.”

I flinch. Or else.

She doesn’t say the words, but I read them in her eyes. She’s lost so much already. She won’t let us take this too.

“I need to go. Some of us have to work for a living.” She shoots up from her seat and throws some dollar bills on the table.

I stand up, watching her leave, the checkbook inside the purse hanging heavy at my side. For the first time, I wonder if I should’ve used it, because if Martin finds out about Joshua, it might really be the end of our life as we know it.

I never told Martin about Joshua.

Not about our involvement when I was younger or the fact that we live in his old house. Or about what happened in our downstairs pool.

And certainly not about what happened when he resurfaced in my early twenties during the week Martin and I were broken up.





CHAPTER 14

December 1999

“The ring feels so heavy on my finger.”

“Not a bad problem to have,” Hanna says.

I’m struggling to breathe, practically choking on my own saliva. “It’s obnoxious. Too large. I have small fingers.”

“Try to calm down.” Hanna pats my back. “Breathe.” We’re sitting on an area rug on our apartment floor because I think that’s where I must’ve collapsed when I came inside.

“I just can’t. I can’t right now. It’s too soon.” Everything is hot—my itchy sweater, my wool socks, my hair pasted to my face with melted snow and sweat.

“Push out the wedding date. Give yourself time.”

I fan myself. “Open a window. For fuck’s sake. What is it? Ninety degrees in here?”

“This place never did heat evenly.” Hanna stands, and I hear her unlatch the lock and slide open the window positioned over the heating register. A frosty breeze cools down my current hell. “How many damn karats is that anyway?” Hanna asks.

“Hanna! I’m totally freaking out here.” I’m yanking at the ring, but it won’t come off. “I said yes, but only because I couldn’t say no.” I sought Martin out my freshman year after Tush died. I was the one who’d promised to keep him out of trouble, and I took that vow seriously, but I wonder now if it was too soon to make that kind of commitment.

His empathy, those chocolate-brown eyes full of pain, had sliced into me, but was I trying to put a Band-Aid over old wounds, make up for the person who wasn’t there for me when I was left hurting? Martin needed me, but I needed him more. He knocked the breath out of me with his sadness, the exact kind I understood.