I wanted to know where Matthew had been.
I wanted that answer more than anything.
But I could see how carefully he was choosing his words.
Every time I asked something, he looked down before answering.
Sometimes he pressed his lips together.
Sometimes he rubbed his thumb against his finger.
I began to recognize the movement.
He did it when he was uncomfortable.
He did it when he was trying to remember.
And he did it when he looked at me.
That last part was difficult.
I had imagined my son being happy to see me.
I had never seriously considered how frightening it might be for him.
A man he remembered only in pieces had suddenly appeared after eleven years.
That man was calling himself his father.
And that man was crying in front of him.
I wiped my face with my sleeve.
"Sorry."
Matthew looked at me.
"You keep saying that."
I managed a small smile.
"I know."
"You don't have to."
I looked at him.
He shrugged.
"I just don't know what I'm supposed to say."
That was the first time he sounded like a young man instead of someone answering questions in an interview.
I felt my shoulders loosen.
"You don't have to say anything."
He considered that.
"Okay."
We sat quietly.
I looked around the room.
There was nothing personal in it.
No family photographs.
No toys.
Nothing belonging to either of us.
Only a table, two chairs, and a closed door.
I wondered whether Matthew would remember the sound of my voice if I spoke long enough.
Then I realized I was thinking about myself again.
I had spent eleven years grieving what I had lost.
He had spent those same years living a life I knew nothing about.
Those were not the same experiences.
I needed to stop pretending they were.
Matthew leaned forward.
"Do you still have pictures of me?"
The question caught me off guard.
"Yes."
"From before?"
"Yes."
He looked at his hands.
"A lot?"
I nodded.
"More than I can count."
He took a breath.
"Do you look at them?"
I had promised myself I would not overwhelm him.
I tried to answer simply.
"Sometimes."
That was not the whole truth.
For years, I had looked at those photographs because they were the only way I could see his face.
But I did not want to make him responsible for my sadness.
He studied me.
"I thought maybe you'd gotten rid of everything."
I shook my head.
"No."
His eyes moved toward the door.
Then back to me.
"Not even the old stuff?"
"Not even the old stuff."
He nodded.
I could see him thinking.
I wanted to ask what he had been told about me.
I wanted to know whether he had spent eleven years believing I was gone.
But I was afraid of asking too much at once.
So I waited.
He was the one who spoke again.
"I remember the beach."
My heart began beating harder.
I forced myself to stay still.
"What do you remember?"
He looked toward the window.
"The sand."
I nodded.
"And the bucket."
"Yes."
He rubbed his forehead.
"There were other kids."
"The children's club."
He looked at me.
"Yeah. I think that's what it was."
I wanted to tell him everything.
I wanted to fill in every missing part.
But I remembered what he had said about the photograph.
He was not sure which things he remembered and which things he had learned afterward.
I did not want to place my own memories inside his.
So I kept quiet.
Matthew stared at the table.
"I remember somebody laughing."
My hands tightened in my lap.
Robert.
The name came into my mind immediately.
But I did not say it.
A laugh was not a name.
I knew that.
And I had already made enough mistakes by assuming things.
"Do you know who it was?" I asked.
Matthew shook his head.
"No."
"That's okay."
He frowned.
"Is it?"
I looked at him.
"Yes."
He pressed his fingers together.
"I keep thinking I should remember more."
I recognized that feeling.
I had spent eleven years thinking I should have noticed more.
Should have stayed downstairs.
Should have gone to the beach sooner.
Should have questioned Robert.
Should have understood what was happening.
The word should had followed me everywhere.
I did not want to give it to Matthew.
"You were a child," I said.
He looked down.
"You don't have to explain that day to me."
For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to argue.
Then he nodded.
"I don't remember the ocean."
I went still.
He looked directly at me.
"I remember being near the beach, but I don't remember going into the water."
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
That did not prove he had never entered the water.
Memories could be incomplete.
Especially memories from childhood.
I knew that.
But hearing him say it brought me back to the photograph.
Robert.
The red bucket.
The pool.
The people searching.
And the fact that I had never personally seen Matthew disappear into the ocean.
I lowered my eyes.
"I didn't see that happen either."
Matthew watched me.
"Then why did you think it did?"
I took a breath.
"Because that's what everyone believed."
He said nothing.
I could hear how weak the explanation sounded.
Everyone believed it.
As though enough people agreeing could turn a guess into a fact.
I looked at Matthew.
"I should have asked more questions."
He shook his head slightly.
"Maybe nobody knew."
"Maybe."
That was the problem.
I no longer knew which parts of the story had been established and which parts had simply been repeated.
Matthew leaned back.
I could see he was tired.
I did not want to keep him sitting there while I worked through my guilt.
"Do you want to stop?" I asked.
He looked surprised.
"Talking?"
"Yes."
He thought about it.
"Maybe for a minute."
"Okay."
I nodded toward the door.
"I can get Ramirez."
Matthew looked at me.
"You don't have to go."
I stayed very still.
He shifted in his chair.
"I just mean we don't have to talk about the beach."
I felt my eyes burn.
"Of course."
He looked around the room.
Then he asked whether I had been living in the same place all those years.
I answered.
He asked ordinary questions.
Small questions.
Questions that did not require either of us to explain something terrible.
I answered them as plainly as I could.
Sometimes he smiled.
Sometimes he looked away.
I did not try to make the conversation into anything more.
After a while, he asked for some water.
I reached toward the door.
Then I stopped.
"Do you want me to ask Ramirez?"
He nodded.
I opened the door and called quietly.
Ramirez appeared.
Matthew asked for water.
Ramirez said he would bring it.
When the door closed again, Matthew looked at me.
"You still say my name the same way."
I turned toward him.
"What do you mean?"
He shrugged.
"Matthew."
He repeated it the way I had said it.
I felt my chest tighten.
"I guess I do."
He looked almost embarrassed.
"I remembered that."
I had been frightened that nothing familiar remained between us.
But something did.
Not enough to make up for eleven years.
Not enough to answer the questions waiting outside.
Just the sound of a name.
I looked at him.
And for the first time since entering the room, I smiled without forcing it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: I Left Matthew With More Questions Than Answers, Then Returned to the Photograph and Asked Ramirez What He Knew About Robert
For Eleven Years, I Believed My Son Had Disappeared Into the Ocean, Until an Old Photograph Made Me Question Everything
Part 6 of 20
