“So don’t give him back. He can catch the bus with Trixie and Alex. It stops at the end of the drive. I see it every morning.” I shrug.
He stares toward where Mitchell is slumped in the chair. “I’ll need to move into one of the cabins. I wouldn’t want him to get picked on for living like a homeless person in a tent most of the time.”
“Didn’t the Jacobsons offer you a cabin?”
He nods. “They did.” He stares at the fire without blinking. “I turned it down.”
“And now, you’ll need one,” I remind him, gesturing toward Mitchell.
He nods again, slowly. “I’ll need one.” He heaves out a sigh. “I don’t want him to be tainted by what happened. What if it seeps into his life too?”
I sit forward, surprised by the question. “You think people aren’t already talking to him about what happened? I feel sure he’s dealing with it in his own way, more frequently than you would think.” Kids can be cruel, and they know how to exploit weaknesses to lift their positions within group dynamics.
“You think so?” He scratches his head.
“I do.”
“I’ll talk to Jake and see about that cabin.”
I know that the Jacobsons, throughout the years, have bought cabins that people can no longer afford. They usually buy them with the intention of waiting while the people get back on their feet, and then letting them buy them back. But I know that occasionally people don’t come back. They don’t want the hassle, or they don’t want to face the memories, or they just don’t want to come to the lake anymore. The Jacobsons rent those cabins out.
And I’ve heard rumors, mainly from Gran, that the Jacobsons have deals with some of the local churches and civic organizations that they let people who are homeless come and stay in the cabins rent-free until they can get back on their feet. So them letting Ethan use a cabin won’t be unheard of or even out of the ordinary.
“Do you think I should put him to bed?” Ethan asks.
With the way he’s sleeping, he’ll wake up with a crick in his neck if not. “He’d probably be more comfortable in the bed.”
Ethan walks over and scoops him up. Mitchell doesn’t move a muscle.
“You must have worn him out,” I say. I touch Mitchell’s leg as Ethan walks past me.
He steps into the tent, and I see him lay his son gently on the air mattress bed, pull his shoes off, and tuck him into the sheets and blanket we bought that morning. Ethan leans down and presses a lingering kiss against his son’s forehead, taking a moment to stare down at him like he’s one of the miracles of the world and he’s never seen anything like him before.
Suddenly, a sneeze rises in my nose. My throat has been tickly all day. I hope I’m not coming down with something.
Ethan comes back out, grabs the camp chair he’d been sitting in, and drags it over next to mine. He gets it so close that the arm of his chair overlaps with mine.
“You feel like talking?” he asks. He stares at the fire instead of at me.
“Only if you want to.” I don’t want him to go anywhere in his memories that will be uncomfortable or painful.
“I want to,” he replies. He closes his eyes. “I can still remember the day so vividly. I can still smell the scent of her perfume when I think about it. And I can still smell the rest of it too.”
“The rest of what?”
He doesn’t look at me. He just stares at the fire and starts to talk.
And I listen.
20
Ethan
Melanie, Mitchell’s mom, and I woke up early in the morning because we’d planned to go on a day trip, just the two of us, to a wine tasting. Essentially, it was a place that grew grapes—to call it a vineyard would be a stretch—made and sold wine, and they’d created “an experience.” Melanie had been wanting to go for a while, so I’d bought tickets for her birthday.
She settled into the car next to me, the lilac scent of her floating over to me. I’d always loved the way she smelled. Mitchell kicked his little feet in his car seat behind her and sucked on his pacifier, which we couldn’t get out of his mouth. I was afraid the kid would never speak a word, since that thing was always jammed in his mouth. But he wasn’t ready