The Last Secret by Mary Mcgarry Morris Page B

she telling me this for? And Lyra, she keeps banging her Barbie doll on my arm, tryna get me to laugh, and it's like, all of a sudden I know, I know what she's talking about. ‘I better go,’ I said. And then she holds my face, like this,” he says, hands cupped at his cheeks. “And she says how she loves me like her own son, that's how close we've always been. Both families.”
    “What did you say?” She can barely get the words out.
    “Nothing. I was like … freaked. I took off I went home. And I never went back. It's all just … just so fucked up!” He punches the dashboard so hard it leaves a dent in the pale blue leather. “Why? Why's it have to be so fucked up?” he groans. “I don't get it! I just don't get it!”
    She drops Drew off at home and tells him she'll be right back. As she drives, she thinks of that day at the beach years ago. The two women, in memory so much younger then, their backs to the hot wind, kneeling, squatting on the square blue canvas, its corners weighted with smooth, flat sea rocks, while they passed out sandwiches to the three children. Robin's peanut butter and Fluff, marsh-mallow spread a delicacy forbidden in Nora's kitchen. Nora had packed plums, grapes, yogurt, individual bags of Goldfish crackers, organic lemonade pouches.
    A brilliant day. The dazzling heat that had driven them to the water's edge, undiminished by the steady wind from the land. They shouted to be heard over the crashing foam-curdled waves, the wind'swhine. Voices swelled around them, up and down the beach, children laughing, screaming, mothers calling, each part of something for which she had no name but deeply felt, an inner stillness, a pure moment, a riotous communion on the edge, the very edge of the earth. And for one so seldom trusting happiness, it seemed a kind of rapture, as she watched Chloe, Drew, and Clay run into the surf, hurling themselves headfirst into the churning tide, then surfacing, staggering against one another, sand streaming down their backs and legs, wet hair plastered in dark clumps over their brows and ears as the tide surged in. Squinting under the straw weave of her hat brim, she dug her fingers in the coarse wet sand, the water seeping instantly into each channel as they plunged into the waves again and again. With Nora as sentinel, Robin leaned back on her elbows, her face tanning so easily compared with Nora's pale white skin. Then lifeguards in orange trunks began patrolling the beach, buoys in hand, blowing their whistles. The surf was too rough. Chloe and Clay came running out of the water, but Nora couldn't see Drew. The waves were higher, breaking closer together.
    “Where's Drew?” she screamed.
    “He was just with us!” Chloe shouted, looking back in fear.
    As Nora ran in, sand was being sucked out from under her feet. When she was chest deep, she saw the flail of white sticks, his skinny arms, fighting the wind-driven waves, struggling to get back in. He was eleven. Only eleven, she remembers thinking, a speck in the vast-ness, the deafening, watery tumult. Never a strong swimmer, she dove against the wave, pulling herself as best she could toward him, getting closer, fighting the current. He was trying, but she could see the terror on his face as the riptide carried him away. Her arms beat against the surge. Faster. Legs kicking. Trying to scream his name, only swallowing more water, then, feeling herself being borne away. Her chest ached, she was tired. Salt stung her eyes. Something snagged her neck, the loop of an arm, and she fought back, thrashing to push free of whatever was dragging her away from her child.
    “It's all right! They've got him! They're bringing him in!” Robin screamed against her cheek. “Stay with me!”
    “No!” Nora tried again to pull away. Robin wasn't taking them back in, but out, even farther from the beach.
    “Don't fight me. I'll get us in,” Robin gasped, pleading. “Trust me!”
    And she did. On her back, with her face