The wheel is still there in the river. When I pluck the small plastic disk from the icy water a whimper turns my flashlight back to the house. The curtains tremble. Something creaks in the windless night.
The wheel is the worst thing. The last thing. The first thing. It’s wet and muddy when I bring it into the house where the rest of the bright green pedal truck rests in pieces. I pop it back onto its axle and snap the axle back into place.
I hear a thump in the nursery. A soft familiar cry.
My husband tried to help before he left. It was the best a man like him could do. He burned photographs and coloring books, little hats and little socks, melted down toys and bottles and pacifiers into a shimmering puddle. If a memory is burned away, what fills that empty place?
Appointments with experts were rarely kept. I pretended the midnight weeping faded, that I did not hear footsteps through the old nursery, or awaken from a nightmare when a tiny hand clutched my own. Such a fragile thing. I hid the pedal truck somewhere dark and cold, someplace safe, someplace where my husband would never find it.
“It’s not him. It’s something else.”
My husband. The last time we ever spoke.
“A mother knows.”
“He’s angry.”
“He’s scared.”
“It’s a punishment. We’re cursed.”
“Stop blaming me.”
My husband. When his car rumbled away he never even looked back.
I pop the steering wheel back into place. This time everything will be put right. This time.
Something cold and clammy touches the back of my neck.
Does this plastic muddy mess truly tether him here? Should I lose him again?
Something whispers in my ear.
What if my husband was right?
If it’s something else, who or what is behind me?
My hands are shaking.
I don’t know what to do.