After a moment, she said, “Weston was already there because he’d promised to listen to me read. I never told anyone that part. By the time I could say it out loud, we’d moved away.”
For eighteen years, I’d pictured my son walking past the river and seeing a child in trouble.
“I never told anyone that part.”
Now I pictured him arriving with time to spare, looking for a little girl who wanted to finish her book.
He hadn’t gone there expecting to save anyone. He’d gone because he’d told her he would come.
Sloane opened the book.
“There’s something else.”
He hadn’t gone there expecting to save anyone.
Inside the front cover was Weston’s handwriting.
For Sloane. Save the last page for me.
I reached for my glasses.
I knew that handwriting.
The uneven letters.
I knew that handwriting.
The way he always made his capital S too large.
I touched the page.
“He wrote this?”
She nodded.
“I brought it to the funeral. I wanted to show you, but I couldn’t talk.”
I touched the page.
I remembered the little girl in the blue dress.
The book pressed against her chest.
“Oh, Sloane.”
“I kept it all these years,” she whispered.
“Did you ever finish reading it?”
I remembered the little girl in the blue dress.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Much later.” She looked down. “For a long time, I couldn’t open it. Then one day, I wanted to know how it ended.”
I nodded.
That seemed like a perfectly good reason.
“Then one day, I wanted to know how it ended.”
Charlie quietly turned one of the wooden train cars over in his hands.
I looked at Sloane.
“Why now?”
She took a moment to answer.
“Why now?”
“My parents moved because they thought it would help me forget. But I didn’t forget. I just stopped talking about it. I wrote you letters over the years, but I never sent them. I didn’t know whether coming here would hurt you.”
“It might have,” I admitted.
“I didn’t forget.”
She nodded.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
Then she glanced toward Charlie.
“A few weeks ago, he started asking about the people in our family. Grandparents. Cousins. People who’ve died.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
Charlie looked up at the sound of his name.
“I asked about the river boy,” he announced.
Sloane smiled sadly.
“Yes, you did.”
“He helped Mommy.”
“That’s right, sweetie.”
“I asked about the river boy.”
Charlie went back to his train.
Sloane turned toward me.
“He asked whether Weston had a mother.”
For a second, I couldn’t answer.
“And I realized you might never have known why he was there,” she added.
“He asked whether Weston had a mother.”
We sat quietly for a while.
Then Sloane showed me a photograph on her phone.
It was a classroom.
Small desks.
Colorful posters.
A shelf full of books.
Sloane showed me a photograph on her phone.
“I’m a reading specialist now,” she said.
I looked up.
“You teach children to read?”
“I help the ones who need extra time.”
I studied the photograph.
“I’m a reading specialist now.”
On the bookshelf was another copy of the green book.
“Do you tell them about Weston?”
“Not usually. But sometimes a child gets stuck on a word, and I remember how he used to wait.”
My eyes filled.
“He did that at home too.”
“I remember how he used to wait.”
Sloane smiled.
“I thought he was the only person in the world who could sit quietly that long.”
“He wasn’t always patient,” I said. “You should’ve seen him trying to assemble furniture.”
She laughed.
I did too.
“He wasn’t always patient.”
For a few minutes, we talked about Weston without talking about the river.
Then Sloane began apologizing.
For waiting so long.
For arriving without calling.
For bringing Charlie.
We talked about Weston without talking about the river.
I finally stopped her.
“Sloane, do you think you owe me something?”
She looked startled.
“I…” Her eyes filled. “Sometimes I think I should’ve done more.”
