“Is that . . .” the new voice asked with astonishment.

“Tell him I’ll be waiting here,” Mary called to me. “Don’t forget. Tell him I’ll be waiting in the white house, beyond the shore.”

I raised my arm to let her know I had heard, because I knew for sure if I turned and saw those two kind women standing there, I’d never be able to leave.

The walk from the beach that had seemed to take days took only moments going back. That could be the way of things. Maybe going in is always a long journey, but it’s not as far away from us here as we think. And then there was the shore and the long stretch of glassy water.

I stopped and felt the life of the sand pulsing through me. How was me bringing back this journal going to help you?

Then I was back in, swimming out as far as I could, clutching the book. I went under, and it was so much harder to swim like that, with a book in my hand. Going down was so much harder.

I couldn’t do it. I felt my lungs begin to let go, preparing for that deep breath in, but when I thought I was drowning, the silver-haired woman was there, pulling me back through the water.

This time, though, we came up in the lake. The water was icy cold, and she pulled me to the shore.

“Thank you, Pearl,” she said, gasping, weary. I felt the book in my hands, and then it was gone. She took it, and she was gone.

I realized something, Grampy, but too late—the only way I could have helped you. It was the sand. I should have brought back some sand for you.

Gone

There are three days of doctor visits, expensive house calls that I know I can’t afford, and we can’t get rid of your fever. You are in and out of sleep or unconsciousness or something other than reality. You whisper things I can’t quite hear, your eyelids alive and fluttering with visions or dreams. Tom is in and out of the room, bringing cold compresses and Tylenol and coffee. I do not leave your side.

On the third day, you are worse, which hardly seems possible. Your skin goes clammy and white, and your breathing is raspy and holds long pauses that leave me counting the seconds. Tom and I decide you need to go to the hospital, so we load up his car and head out the driveway on a cool autumn morning. I sit in the back with you resting against me, and I open the window a few inches so that the cool air rustles around us, promising better days.

Your eyes crack open as if the last weariness has come on you. You reach into your pocket, pull out your hand in a fist, and raise it up. The car leans as we go around a turn, and Tom accelerates onto the back roads. You open your fist, and in your palm is the thin shimmer of what looks like sand, but lighter, like a teaspoon of talcum powder. When you speak, your voice is so weak that I have to lean in closer. Each word is a quiet whisper.