Owen almost wrecked the vigil by refusing to come. He relented when I threatened to curtail his screen time. But his displeasure’s obvious from his hunched, hostile posture.
We’re in Norman Gaynor Park, between the parking lot and the sea cliffs. It’s where Stan’s jacket was found. Jo thought it was a suitable place for the vigil. It’s freezing, with a savage wind off the water.
While we’re all bundled up, in his ripped jeans, oversized coat, and dark hood, Owen looks ready to steal someone’s car. At least Chad’s dressed appropriately in a button-down shirt, navy sweater, and his fitted school raincoat. And Zoe, whose hand I’m holding, is stealing everyone’s heart in her pink rain slicker and yellow hair ribbons.
The vigil was Jo’s idea. She organized everything. Missing person flyers. Candles. Yellow ribbons. All I had to do was show up and play my part, plus drag my kids along.
Jo passes me an unlit candle. She’s holding one too, along with a cordless microphone she borrowed from the school. She peers up at the sky. “I hope the rain holds off a bit longer.”
I nod and check my watch. It’s almost seven, and dark. I turn my back on the sea and clutch my candle.
More people came than I expected, especially given the weather. A hundred, at least. Or 150? I recognize most of them but not all. Kids, staff, and parents from Stanton House. Members of our country club. Ladies from yoga and tennis. Women from the book group I stopped attending two years ago. People I see walking their dogs or recognize from the local coffee shop. Clients of Stan’s.
Everyone looks sympathetic and serious. Many come over to hug me or shake my hand. They’re all kind, all offering to help. All these faces of people whose names I should know.
I feel everyone’s eyes on me. Do I look like a fraud?
“You okay?” asks Jo.
I nod. People are still coming from the parking lot. Some are carrying bunches of flowers. A few hold yellow balloons. Jo’s got my assistant, Daisy, passing out candles and flyers.
When the stragglers have been absorbed into the group, Jo pulls a lighter from her pocket. She lights my candle first, then Chad’s. He uses his to light Owen’s. I light Jo’s. She turns to the young woman beside her. I recognize her: a waitress at Stan’s favorite café. My throat shuts. All these people here to support us. It’s touching. Or is she his lover? She favors low-cut tops. She’s twentysomething and pretty.
My candle flickers. I cup it with my palm to block out the wind.
“Are you okay to say a few words?” Jo asks me. “Or should I speak on your behalf?”
I wipe my eyes. “No, I want to thank all these people.”
Jo nods. Her hand’s on my elbow. “Yes, good.” She passes me the microphone.
I clear my throat. “Hello, everyone,” I say. People look up. Silence settles. “I’m Dana McFarlane, Stan’s wife. I want to . . .” Emotion overtakes me. I’m not putting it on. I’m truly devastated. I take a deep, shaky breath: “I want to thank you all for coming tonight, for caring about Stan.” My voice disintegrates. Chest heaving, I hand the mic back to Jo.
She speaks well. About people coming together in tragedy. About community spirit. And how hope prevails.
I fix my gaze on my candle’s flame and let Jo’s words flow over me without thinking too hard. The flame’s bright and fragile. I’m not sure what to hope for. Afterward, various people come forward to say they’re sorry. Many offer to help. With what I don’t know. I say thank you over and over. All this undeserved kindness. If only they knew. I start trembling.
I need a moment to myself. I turn and walk toward the sea cliffs.
I’m standing there, punishing myself by staring out to sea, when footsteps approach. I turn to see Chad.
“Mom?” He stops beside me.
I study him. His face is abnormally blank. “You okay, hon?” I ask.
He shrugs. “How can I be okay when Dad’s dead?”
I’m so stunned it takes me a second to react. “What?” I gasp.
“Everyone at school says so.” His voice betrays zero emotion.
Fear and anger flare through me. My God, kids are cruel. What awful rumors have the twins overheard? I should have pulled them out of school. I should have found a good counselor. I shouldn’t have forced them to attend this damn vigil. Are people here to honor Stan, or did morbid curiosity attract them?
“You don’t know that!” I say. “He’s not dead!”
Chad bows his head. Tears fill his eyes. His lips squeeze shut. “Whatever.” For once, he sounds like Owen.
A scuffling sound behind us makes me turn. I freeze. Maybe fifteen feet away stands Detective Shergold. I had no idea she was here. She’s not looking our way but toward the crowd. Shit. What did she overhear?
I reach for Chad’s elbow. “Let’s get out of here,” I say. I propel him along the gravel path, toward our car.
Up ahead, in the parking lot, engines are starting. People are leaving the vigil. Good nights ring out. Car doors slam.
I slow my pace. I’m too spent to talk to anyone else. I keep my head down.
“Mom?” says Chad. He sounds young all of a sudden, his voice high and breathy. “What’s going to happen?”
Despite knowing I shouldn’t, I look back at the cliffs and ocean, black and unforgiving. Detective Shergold is still watching the dispersing crowd.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But we’ll find him. It’ll be o—”
He cuts me off with a harsh laugh. “No, Mom. It will not! We both know Dad’s gone.”
I’m so shocked I stumble. He sounds angry and sure.