stare at it. “Here’s your chance, son,” he says. “Take it.”
So I reach out and wrap my hand around that little brass-colored key.
And I swallow past that lump that’s back in my throat so I can say, “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
I scrub my hand down my face, a little frustrated by how much he’s made me feel tonight, how he’s made things so clear and yet so muddled all at the same time.
“Think about what I said, okay?” he says quietly. “About forgiveness.”
I nod. “I will.”
He’d said I need to forgive myself. I’m just not sure if I’m ready to do that yet. I’m closer now than I have been in a really long time, though. I feel more peaceful after this talk with Mr. Jacobson than I have since I got out of prison. He’s helped me to see things much more clearly.
One thing that I know is true is that while I may not feel worthy of my son, my son is worthy of having a father. And that just happens to be me.
26
Abigail
“You’re out of bed,” Ethan says as soon as he walks into my cabin. He didn’t even knock, which surprises me, but it doesn’t bother me. He walks over and feels my forehead with the back of his hand. “Your fever is down.”
I nod. “I took my meds all by myself.”
He looks down at his watch. “What time?”
I give him a weak smile. “The time I was supposed to take them.”
“Did somebody cut them up for you?” He drops a bag from the tackle shop onto the kitchen counter.
“Nope.” I give him another weak smile. “I took them whole.”
He whistles. “Somebody’s feeling better.” He walks back to me and bends over to kiss my forehead. “I’m glad.”
“I’m still weak as water, but I do feel better.” It’s been three days since my symptoms started. My sore throat is tolerable, and my skin doesn’t hurt anymore. Just my muscles hurt now. And maybe my bones. But when my skin hurts, I know I’m sick. I grab his hand as he turns to walk away from me. He stops and turns back. “Thank you for taking care of me,” I say quietly.
“You’re very welcome,” he replies. “Somebody had to do it. You were pretty damn pitiful.”
I keep my seat at the kitchen table, where I have been sucking on a glass of purple juice. “Are you all done preparing for the big storm?”
“I think so,” he replies. “We’re just supposed to get a lot of rain from it. They’re predicting that the category four hurricane will stall on the coast and sit there and churn for a few days, which means we’ll get a shit-ton of rain from the outer bands of the storm. They’re calling for at least a week of it.”
“Is it safe to stay here?”
He nods. “Your cabin’s not in a flood zone. None of the cabins are. But the campground will probably flood if we get as much rain as they’re predicting. Some of the roads and bridges will flood too. It’s liable to be a mess.”
“You got all this from the local weather app?”
He shakes his head as he empties the groceries he bought onto the counter. I see chicken soup with little pasta stars in it, and a loaf of bread.
“No, I got it from Mr. Jacobson, who might as well be the local weather app. If he says it’s coming, it’s coming.” He suddenly turns and looks at me. “You want to give me your opinion on something?”
“Of course. If you want it.”
“The local fire and rescue crew is responsible for water rescues when we have a lot of flooding, or so Mr. Jacobson says. People try to drive through high water, stall out, and sometimes they even get swept away by the rushing current.” He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, the fire crew has called an emergency meeting to gather volunteers to help with water rescues and downed trees. They’ll show everybody how to use the rescue equipment, but they don’t really have anybody, except the people on the fire squad, that does water rescues. They’re calling for volunteers, and Mr. Jacobson asked me to go along with him and Jake tomorrow night, for the meeting.” He waits a beat. “Do you think it’s a terrible idea?”
“Do you want to volunteer?”
“I don’t see why not. The only requirement is that you have to be able to lift a certain number of pounds, and they prefer people who know how