“Let’s call him John,” she said as the nurses placed your daddy on her chest. “Little Johnny.”

Screams at the Cabin

Tom pushes the throttle forward, the boat charges ahead, and I am thankful for the nighttime spray of the lake—the cold mist wakes me up and helps chase away my splitting headache. When Tom first suggested we take the boat to look for you, I was hesitant, wondering if crashing over the water would make me feel sick again. But it hasn’t, at least not so far. I feel more alive than I have for some time and settle into the seat, close my eyes.

Where have you gone?

When I mentioned your story about the cabin, Tom shook his head.

“I’m sure she didn’t go that far,” was all he said, and the conversation was over.

I didn’t object. After all, it was nonsensical to think you could have hiked all that way, either through the woods or along that winding country road, especially considering the state you were in when you went to bed, feverish and still weak from your near drowning.

But Tom and I had spent the next twenty minutes searching through the house, the surrounding woods, and the edges of the lake, with no luck. If he noticed the state of the rug and the wood floor in your room (which he had to have seen), he hasn’t said anything about it. I’ll take this as a good sign, although he may be waiting until we find you before he kicks both of us out.

The night is chilly and the stars are bright. I can even see the haze of the Milky Way, that cloud of stars that boggles the mind. I hope you are looking up, seeing the same sky. I hope you haven’t gone far.

The cabin comes into view as the boat turns toward the shore. When I say “into view,” what I mostly mean is that there is some strange shape to the shadows, the darkness begins to align itself, and the form of the house somehow becomes present among the trees, even if I can barely see it. Tom cuts the engine as we approach the bank, and the dock also emerges from the shadows. It all seems to happen magically, these things coming into view where at first there is only darkness.

Without the roaring of the motor, our approach feels almost ghostly. We drift seamlessly through the water, soundlessly, and the overhanging branches of the large oaks and elms and sycamores reach for us, drawing us close. There is a soft scraping as the underbelly of the boat makes contact with the dock, and our approach shifts slightly. Tom grabs one of the large wooden supports that rises above the deck, slows the boat to a stop, and ties us up. He steps out first and looks over his shoulder. We make eye contact, but he doesn’t say anything. Not with words. But his eyes say, This is completely ridiculous. I can’t believe we came all the way out here.