His brother's voice wasn't rough. It was the kind of direct that comes from love. From three decades of knowing someone. She didn't give you permission because she wanted you to struggle with it. She gave it because she knew you.
She knew you'd find a way to feel guilty about being alive. Caleb pressed his thumb into the edge of the table. It's not guilt exactly. What is it? He thought about it for a long time.
Fear, he said finally. Same as before. I loved someone with everything I had and I lost her. And I know I know the math doesn't add up. I know that what happened to Diane isn't a pattern.
I know that. He stopped. But knowing a thing and feeling safe from it are different things. Yeah. Darnell picked up his glass.
They are. That's true. So, I'm slow because slow feels manageable. Slow feels like I can handle what happens if it goes wrong. What if it goes right?
Caleb looked at his brother. Darnell raised his glass. I'm just asking. Ava appeared with her drawing, which turned out to be a detailed map of the park where everything had started labeled in her careful 7-year-old handwriting with locations that included the bench, the swing, the place dad got scared, and the place where the lady was. Darnell looked at the map for a long time.
"The place where dad got scared? He froze, Ava said simply. When I pointed, his feet stopped working. Darnell looked at Caleb. Caleb said nothing.
Can I keep this? Darnell asked. Ava. No, it's for the wall. Ava took it back with the authority of a curator.
But I can make you one. I'd like that very much. Ava went to get paper. Darnell looked at the space where she'd been and then at Caleb. She's Dian's granddaughter, I swear.
Right down to the way she holds a pencil. I know. Diane would have lost her mind over this kid. I know. She would have been at that school every week volunteering.