I don’t know what to say to that—she has been fishing for a date ever since Pearl showed up in elementary school four years ago. I clear my throat and swallow hard. The day feels much, much warmer. When I don’t reply, she takes a more serious tone.

“Mr. Elias, is everything okay?”

“Oh, fine, fine,” I say.

I clear my throat again. Is this a side effect of my impending demise, or is it only from the fall pollen? Or is it because of Ms. Pena with her red lipstick, her shining smile, her fitted blouse?

“Pearl was telling me about the teacher’s aide in class today,” I begin, scanning Ms. Pena’s face. She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t say anything. I continue. “She told me the aide was a woman with white hair who helped her draw a map. A map of where I grew up?”

The confusion finally sets in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Elias,” she says, shaking her head. “We didn’t have a teacher’s aide.”

“Did you draw maps?”

“Pearl may have drawn a map during art class.”

“Was there a substitute or an aide in art class?”

She shakes her head. “Not that I know of.”

With that short sentence the dread rises in me, and a dim version of the chills I felt earlier. Oh, Pearl. Let’s not do this again.

“Thank you, Ms. Pena. Thank you for your time.”

Ms. Pena gathers herself, enough at least to regain her playful tone. “My time is your time, Mr. Elias. Remember that! My time is always your time!” She giggles, blushes, and turns to help another student. She peeks at me over her shoulder, but I turn, pretending not to notice.

An active imagination is one thing. Outright lies are another thing completely. I do not mind you pretending or drawing fantastical things, but this feels like an unnecessary deception, some deliberate crossing.

But the image of the white-haired woman is not one unfamiliar to me. I remember the stories Mary used to tell, and another chill spreads through my body, and a lightness, and I wonder again how long I have.

My mind is so distracted that at first I don’t see that the swings are empty, both of them. They hang in that still day, barely swaying. And your backpack is no longer leaning against the swing.

You are gone.

The Emptiness

Oh, Pearl, I think—a common refrain.

When I see the emptiness of the swings without you, I feel the emptiness of the lake, the waiting for Mary to come around the corner in her kayak. Tom arrived first, leaving his kayak in the water and running past the cabin. Shirley arrived next, pulling both her and Tom’s kayaks up onto the pier one at a time, then jogging to the cabin, hugging me, telling me what happened in words that didn’t make sense.

Accident. Fell in. Tom’s going for help.

Shirley paced, frantic, shrugging off my questions, saying over and over, “I don’t know, Paul! I don’t know!”