Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

16—Flight 1622
    Dr. Raleigh is an old Air Force friend of Dad’s. He’s a grief counselor at a residential facility near Portland. I’ll be there for two months. Dad said he called Raleigh for some objective help, but I think he called because he’s not sure what to do about me. I’m not sure what to do about me either.
    It’s been nine days since Lake Erie swallowed my family. I try to remember what we did together nine days before they died, and I can’t. Does that mean I took them for granted? Who doesn’t think there will be endless days of games and stories and afternoons at the park with her baby? Of jokes and kisses and morning coffee with her husband?
    Jack grew up on the water and knew his way around all sorts of boats. He said himself the rental was a beautiful craft. They had mild weather, calm water, and all Jack’s experience on their side. It was supposed to be their special morning together. How could something so family-affirming be the opposite? The lake gave no hint of its intentions.
    I left today with my grass too high, my bills unopened, and my laundry on the floor. I might lose my job. I didn’t ask for leave—just packed when Dad said pack and left Jeannie to make my excuses. Some of my friends don’t even know what happened. How would I tell them? Call them up with the news?
    I think Jeannie told Dad about the pills, but she denies it and I won’t ask him. Does he think I didn’t consider him reason enough to hang on? If Annette swallowed a bottle of pills, I would feel like I’d failed her. Now I feel like I failed my dad.
    He had the foresight to know I’d miss the Shelton trial. I’d forgotten. The assistant D.A. arranged a deposition yesterday afternoon. I hope it goes well for them in court. Their nightmare is ending. Mine is nine days old.
    I didn’t tell anyone where I’m going, not even Jeannie. Just told her I was leaving for a while to get help with putting my mind and heart back together the best way I could.
    August 8—Emerson House
    Only one nurse here knows my name without looking at a chart, and I still pick up mail from a cubby slot marked for the last person who stayed in my room. I miss home, and I’m afraid to go back.
    What does it feel like to drown? A man who drowns knows he’s dying. What does a baby know? I think they both know terror—the man, because he understands what’s happening, and the baby, because she doesn’t. I imagine a father grieving for a baby he can’t save, and a baby crying for a father she can’t find.
    It hurts that Jack and Annette are gone, but it hurts more that they suffered. Ask any woman to imagine—really imagine—her husband helpless to save himself and their baby. Imagine him in the final moments when he becomes aware of an outcome he’s powerless to prevent. Ask a mother to imagine her baby sinking below the choppy surface of a vast lake, spitting water, eyes open even while she sinks—her arms stretched upward, reaching for air, her feathery hair pulsing in the murk. A tender, trusting life, delicate and vulnerable, and the loveliest creature her mother ever beheld…Swallowed. I don’t understand how anyone recovers from losing a family.
    I tell this to my counselors in various forms and different words every day at our sessions. They say my pain will ease with time. I listen and nod and force brave smiles, and I wonder if I’m the only one here who doesn’t believe I will heal.
    September 14—Homecoming
    I take a deep breath after being home for two hours and know this is the hardest day yet. So, I sit down at my kitchen table and write.
    My house is full of beautiful things that hurt to look at.
    I read a poem taped to the refrigerator. Jack wrote it on our fourth anniversary. It’s smudged from the years and I wish I’d framed it instead of taping it to the door. On the table in front of me is a stack of mail the neighbor has collected. On top is a card from
Motor Trend
magazine asking if Jack wants to renew for another year.
    I look at the refrigerator again and smile and cry at the kid art she made with her teacher’s help at daycare. A finger painting. Random crayon scribbles on yellow construction paper.
    In the windowsill is a plaster handprint from last winter. Behind me, her toy box waits in the living room. I have the unworldly sensation that the toys want to know when she’s coming back to play, but I don’t know how to answer them. Her bath toys are in the tub, and the half-empty