You skip ahead, and I follow you inside.

Tom is in the kitchen—I can hear him taking plates from the cupboard. “I hope you guys like ham and cheese,” he says.

You have vanished again. I think I hear you upstairs. But that isn’t what gets my attention.

The Russian nesting doll? It’s not on the bookshelf anymore.

It’s gone.

Photographs

We stay at the cabin long into the afternoon. I even take a nap while Tom shows you some trails in the woods. By the time we’re loading up the boat, the sun is lower in the western sky and the shadows of the trees reach out far into the water, rippling, waving goodbye.

The boat’s engine roars to life, and we pull away into the lake, racing the darkness home. You cannot take your eyes off the cabin, and even long after it is out of sight, you sit at the back of the boat, watching it retreat behind us.

“We’ll tell him tomorrow,” I reassure you. I’m beside your bed, tucking the blankets in around you. “Will that make you feel better?”

You nod. The carpet is awful.

“Should I roll that up and move it over beside the wall?” I ask. You understand what I’m saying. The room might not seem so bad if we get the carpet out of the way.

You nod again. I take the cut-out squares of carpet, put them in a small pile, and place them in the closet. I have to wrestle with the rug to peel up the edges—it was attached to the floor with some kind of glue, and it takes me a long time to free it from the wood. After a long battle, I roll the carpet the long way and slide it over so that it’s up against the wall.

The whole time I’m doing this, a heaviness presses against my chest. It was a good day. It was a good day with Tom. What will he say when he sees this?

The knot throbs on my head, so much that I don’t even reach up to make sure it’s there. I know it is. And with each throb comes the question.

What will you do when I’m gone?

What will you do when I’m gone?

What will you do when I’m gone?

Tom seems to have a soft spot for you, but what will he do after he finds out about the carpet? And do I even want you to stay here in this dead town, grow up in this dying place? We didn’t see a single child when we were in town. It’s beautiful out here, but would that be enough for you? Each hour seems to bring a change in my perspective, and right now I’m skewing pessimistic.

I wander over to the small table and flip through the books you’ve been reading. Then I step over to the window and stare out into the country darkness. I envision taking the boat out at night, roaring around the lake, docking, and going inside the dark cabin. Where did that nesting doll vanish to? Did Tom put it somewhere? Why?