by Ani Katz
Or she would end up like Evie, reckless with a rage that she would never fully understand, stumbling headlong toward drugs and johns and her own self-immolation, forever mauled by her trauma.
That couldn’t happen to my daughter. I couldn’t bear to imagine her alone in a world so full of peril, without me there to protect her. She couldn’t live like that, failed by everyone who loved her.
She couldn’t live knowing that I was the one who had killed her mother.
I didn’t think anymore. I was calm. Blank. I made the turn onto the parkway, drove us over the bridge. I knew there was water down there, churning below us, but it was too dark to see it.
At the beach I parked close to the rail, just behind the wall of the dunes. I put out my hand and stroked my daughter’s shoulder, watched her stir. She let out a little moan as she peered into the impenetrable darkness outside her window. Then she turned to me, her eyes still squinted shut, still half asleep.
Where are we?
Come on, I whispered. Let’s walk for a little while.
She was too tired to resist, to ask any more questions. She was my daughter, and she trusted me.
It would all be over soon.
We got out of the car, walked a little way out onto the beach. I reached for my daughter’s hand and we looked out over the white-capped waves, the snow dancing around us. She yawned, leaned her head against my chest. I held her close as she shivered.
Daddy?
What, love?
I’m tired.
Then lie down, I said.
Right here?
Sure, I said. Here, I’ll lie down with you.
We lay down together, shoulder-to-shoulder. The sand still held a hint of warmth from the heat of the day, even as the snow fell soft on our faces. We gazed up, watched the blinding swirls come down on us from the dark, melting before they reached the ground.
Can we go home?
Soon, sweetheart, I promised. Soon. Isn’t this beautiful?
She didn’t answer—she had fallen asleep again. Very gently, I turned her onto her side and covered her as much as I could with my coat.
I walked to the car and retrieved the club from the backseat. Then I hurried back. The last image I have is of a dark mound on the sand. The back of a dark head.
* * *
—
Everyone uses the photograph of us on the beach.
It’s sunset, and the flash has turned us into ghosts against a red sky.
My wife is farthest away, wrenching herself toward the water, her slender arm raised in what looks like a wave of farewell.
My daughter is between us, her hands gripping ours, holding us together.
And I’m closest to you, my chin raised in confidence and my eyes bright with pride, trying hard to look like a good man.
That was me. That was my family.
Club in hand, I walked quickly across the windswept beach, but not so quickly that I could hear my breath, or the beating of my heart.
It was a mercy that I only had to hit her once.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to:
Julia Kenny, my dauntless, dedicated, visionary agent, for loving this book and working so hard to get it into the world; Veronique Baxter in the UK; and everyone else at Dunow, Carlson, and Lerner.
Margaux Weisman, my incredible editor, for understanding exactly what I wanted to say and helping me say it even better; Patrick Nolan, for having total faith in this project; and the brilliant design, editorial, and marketing teams at Penguin.
Jason Arthur and everyone at William Heinemann, for championing this novel early on.
Paul D’Amato and Myra Greene, for encouraging me to write when I wasn’t really supposed to.
Ren Khodzhayev, for the essential reading recommendation.
Aloisia, whose farm was the perfect writer’s residence.
Lilly Atlihan and the entire Beyrer clan, for always welcoming me into their home.
My family: Jonah, Emma, CJ, and my parents, Susan and Eric.
Sara J. Winston, for the original spark and the years of sincere enthusiasm thereafter.
And Edwin Aponte, my first and best reader, who believed in this story, and my ability to tell it, before I had written a word.
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