Chapter 5 - Journey to the Water
Three weeks later, we loaded our family SUV for a drive upstate.
The decision to go back to the site of David’s drowning had not been made lightly. We had spent hours discussing it during quiet moments after the children were asleep. I was terrified that taking Aaron back to the place of his deepest trauma might shatter his fragile progress, but our family therapist—whom Aaron had finally agreed to see twice a week—supported the journey.
“Trauma lives in the body and in the physical spaces where the safety was broken,” Dr. Evans had explained to us. “For thirty years, Aaron has kept that lake frozen in his mind as a place of death. He needs to go back to understand that the lake is just water, and he is no longer the helpless boy on the shore.”
The drive took four hours. The four girls sang along to music in the back seats, while Theo slept peacefully in his rear-facing car seat. Aaron drove with both hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
As we turned off the highway onto a narrow, gravel road lined with dense pine trees, the atmosphere in the car shifted. The thick canopy of leaves created long, dark shadows across the windshield.
Aaron’s breathing grew shallow.
"We can turn around, Aaron," I said gently, reaching across the center console to place my hand over his rigid knuckles. "If it's too much, we can turn around right now."
Aaron swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "No. If I turn around now, I'll be turning around for the rest of my life."
We pulled up to a quaint, brown-shingled cabin nestled among the trees. Beyond the cabin, visible through the tall trunks of the pine forest, lay the vast, sparkling blue expanse of Pine Lake.
The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting a blinding, golden glare across the water’s surface.
The girls spilled out of the car with excited chatter, marveling at the trees and the fresh, cool air. Ellie immediately took Lily by the hand to check out the wooden porch, while Nora and Grace pointed at a pair of ducks swimming near the shore.
"Maya, take the girls inside the cabin," Aaron said, his voice strangely calm now. "Aunt Clara unlocked it for us."
"Aaron, do you want me to come down to the water with you?" I asked, holding Theo close against my chest.
He looked at me, then looked down at Theo. A profound, solemn quiet had settled over his face.
"No," Aaron said softly. "I need to do this step first by myself. Then I need you and Theo."
I nodded, my heart pounding in my throat as I watched my husband turn and walk alone down the grassy slope toward the water's edge.
I led the girls inside the cabin, settling them with some snacks and coloring books in the rustic living room. Then, holding baby Theo, I stood by the large bay window overlooking the lake.
Down below, Aaron stood on the narrow wooden dock that extended into the clear water.
He stood completely still, his arms hanging at his sides, staring out at the gentle ripples of the lake. From thirty yards away, he looked tiny against the immense background of the pine trees and the water.
I held my breath, watching him.
I saw his shoulders begin to shake. He dropped to his knees right on the wooden planks of the dock. He covered his face with his hands, his body rocking back and forth in a silent storm of grief.
Thirty years of agonizing guilt, thirty years of running, thirty years of trying to replace a lost brother with a unborn son—all of it was pouring out of him onto that old wooden dock.
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I gave him fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to weep for the nine-year-old boy who had drowned, and for the eleven-year-old boy who had been left behind in the dark.
Then, taking a deep breath, I walked out of the cabin door, carrying our son in my arms, and walked down the grassy hill to join my husband.
