He reached over and squeezed her hand, then adjusted the rearview mirror and pulled away from the sidewalk. I knew what Shirley meant. I knew exactly what she meant. Because that’s how it had felt to me too.

“I saw her there tonight,” Mary whispered so quietly I wasn’t sure if the two up front had heard her.

Shirley’s head snapped around. “What?” she asked, her face no longer in that saint’s ecstasy.

“The woman who was at the cabin last summer.”

“Where?”

“Behind the priest.”

“Where should we go?” Tom asked, either not hearing or not caring what Mary was talking about.

“Tom!”

“What?” he asked in a wounded voice.

Shirley turned back to Mary. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I told Paul.”

Shirley’s piercing gaze darted over to me, and I could feel Tom’s eyes searching me in the rearview mirror.

“And?” Shirley asked, directing the word at me.

“And what?” I asked.

“What did you do?”

“What did I do?” I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. “I didn’t see her.” How could I tell them that the person Mary told me she saw wasn’t there? That she was a figment of her imagination? That Mary was probably mentally unstable? This beautiful girl. My young wife.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Tom asked me.

I eased away from Mary and stared out the window at the small town of Nysa as we drove through.

“So we’ll go to the diner,” Tom said, but Mary spoke up.

“Can you drop me at my house, Tom?”

A heavy sort of quiet settled in the car, and no one said anything. Soon the town was behind us and we were out in the countryside, the trees reaching down over us. Then we were flying through the flat, empty fields. Snow began to fall, swirling at us through the night, strobing in and out of the car’s headlights, distracting, mesmerizing.

Let’s Not Leave Her Alone Anymore

You are wrapped in a thick down comforter, lying on one of the deck chairs like a sideways cocoon, like a moth waiting to be transformed. The blanket even comes up over the top of your head so that only your face is showing: your sweet, round eyes are closed, your lashes tender and at peace. I panic again, convinced you have died after your submersion in the lake, your near drowning, but then I see the slight expansion and retreat of the blanket where it wraps around your chest. The thought that races through my mind, that you are alive, that you are fine, sends a rush of relief through me.

Tom swoops out of his house and onto the deck carrying three mugs. He bends his knees and manages to place one of the mugs under your chair—hot chocolate with a generous portion of cloud-like marshmallows floating on top.

“Something warm to drink,” he says, handing me a cup of black coffee.

I have to admit, the warmth is welcome. Even though the sun is still shining, this late September day has gotten cooler, and a brisk wind sweeps up off the lake. I look out at the water, and it doesn’t bring the same sense of peace that it often has before—I have this sense that something sinister lies beneath its surface. I think of your story, of the woman beneath the water, beckoning to you. I shake my head to clear it away. I have enough to worry about in life without taking on your imaginary stories. Such as this knot on my head. Such as finding you a place to live after I’m gone. Such as dealing with the pit that has resided squarely in my stomachever since I saw those photos Tom took of your grandmother.