On the eighth day of Taylor being missing, I arrive home late from investigating and searching in Sandcastle to find Anna packing.
It’s in no way surprising, not in the least unexpected, but the blow is still staggering.
Unable to speak, I sit on the bed that until a few weeks ago I thought would always be ours, and try my best not to cry or put my hand through the wall.
Anna is looking down as she goes about her tasks, but as her hair moves I can see that she is quietly crying.
“I . . . I’m not sure what to say,” she says. “I just need to be alone right now. Everything’s murky right now, but . . . this has more to do with grief than anger, more about me than you.”
I have no words, no outward response except a sad little nod.
“I’m sorry for how I treated you when my thyroid was . . . wasn’t working properly. I’ll regret that the rest of my life.”
I shake my head and try to wave her apology off, but she isn’t looking at me.
Though the chainsaws and generators can no longer be heard through the night, the increased truck traffic and night crews working around town still can be, and I think about how my hurricane-ravaged region looks like I feel.
“I know this doesn’t matter,” she says. “Nothing does, does it? But I’m not leaving to punish you. I’m really not. If I could stay I would.”
I nod but she doesn’t see it.
“I need to be alone right now,” she says. “Have to be. In many ways I already have been, but I . . . I just can’t be here—not in this house, not in this life . . . or whatever it is.”
With all we’ve been through we’ve never known brokenness like this before. And to be experiencing it at the same time, each unable to help the other . . . is a hopelessness like none other I’ve ever known.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking down and I can taste the blood in my mouth.
“I should’ve never taken us over there,” I say. “And the moment I had even an inkling that it might not be safe I should have grabbed y’all and left.”
“I . . . I wasn’t going to say anything,” she says. “It doesn’t help and . . . But . . . I am going to say this and then I won’t ever say it or anything else about this ever again.”
I brace myself for what she’s about to say, though I have no idea what it is.
“The night . . . the night she was taken . . . you wanted us to leave then . . . before it happened. And I realize I’m the one who said we could protect her until the next morning and leave then, but . . . you knew something was wrong with me. You could tell by my behavior that I was . . . unwell . . . irrational . . . incapable of making reasoned decisions . . . So why did you let me decide? Why didn’t . . . when I needed you to most . . . why didn’t you make the right decision for us, for our family, for your child?”