Ethan Greywater's Arc

Chapter 10 of 10

Ethan knelt in the open doorway. His wife's hand still cooled on his cheek. Her face had gone hard. She waited for him to remember what he had done to her. He searched inside himself and found only a wall. The memory would not come. The door stood open, but she blocked it with her words, and he had nothing to answer. "I don't know," he said. "I can't reach it." Margaret drew back her hand. She did not speak. She reached into the light behind her and brought out two things. One was a torn photograph, soft and creased from handling. The other was a worn diary with her name pressed on the cover. She held them both out through the open door. He took the photograph first. His fingers closed on it, solid now, because the door was open between them. A small boy in a cap squatted on a path and waved at the camera. The boy was Sammy. Ethan had taken that picture himself, years ago, before the yard, before the grave. "Turn it," Margaret said. He turned the photograph over. His own handwriting ran across the back. One line about a trip they never took. He had promised her that trip. He had cancelled it. He remembered why now. He had cancelled it to go to the yard that night. Margaret pushed the diary into his other hand. "Read the last page I wrote." He opened it. The pages were thin and curled. Her writing filled the final page. She had written that she followed him to the yard. She had seen him raise his hands over the other woman. She had tried to stop him. And he had pushed her back. She fell. She struck the stone. She did not get up. The wall inside him broke. The memory flooded through. He had not only killed the woman casting the curse. In the dark, in his panic, he had thrown Margaret aside. He had killed her too. His own wife. He had buried the memory because he could not carry it. He looked up from the diary. "I did this to you," he said. His voice shook. "I pushed you. You hit the stone. I killed you." Margaret's face did not soften the way he hoped. Her eyes filled with light. "Now you remember," she said. "Now you can't pretend you were only saving us." She stepped back from the doorway. The light pulled her with it. Her hand rose, not to welcome him, but to hold him off. "I needed you to know before I decide," she said. "I don't know yet if I can let you cross to me." The door stayed open. Ethan held the photograph and the diary in his solid hands. The memory was his again, whole and terrible. But his wife had not forgiven him, and the way through her still hung in doubt.