The Sandcastle Sister by Lisa Wingate

Author:Lisa Wingate
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781496407634
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Published: 2015-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 2

DURING THE THIRTY-MINUTE DRIVE HOME, I couldn’t decide whether to develop new theories, scream like a banshee, or just break down in tears. Rounding icy curves as the headlights glinted against mounds of dirty snow, I had the urge to let go of the wheel, close my eyes, and just stay wherever the car came to rest . . . until the cold or carbon monoxide put an end to all of this. In some logical part of my brain, I knew that was an overreaction, but the idea of going broke and taking my cousin with me was beyond unbearable.

There has to be a way out. There has to be something I can do . . .

Yet no miraculous possibilities came to mind. Finally, the icebound waters of Lake Michigan glinted through the trees, and I looked toward it, seeking the comfort its shores usually provided. This time, all I could see was a vision of myself, floating cold and silent beneath the surface.

Stop. That. The words in my head were a reprimand, strong and determined like my mother’s voice. You are not your father.

But occasionally over the years, I had wondered—was there, inside me, the same demon that had taken him from us before I was six years old? Before I even knew him as more than a feeling, a snatch of sound, a mist of memory?

Could I, without even seeing it ahead of time, come to a place where giving up seemed the best option?

How was the thought even possible for me, knowing firsthand the pain a decision like that left behind? Knowing what happened in the aftermath when a person you loved entered the cold waters and swam out to sea with no intention of returning to shore?

Someone should tell the dead that saving the living isn’t as simple as leaving a note to say, It’s no one’s fault. For the living, it’s always someone’s fault.

Turning onto the cabin road, I cleared my head and felt the tears beginning to come, seeking to cleanse. Tears felt like the only thing I had left. They swelled and pounded in my throat as I drew closer to the little lake cabin that had been home since I’d moved back to Michigan. Fortunately, Mrs. Doyne, who lived in the house out front, kept her cabin rentals at 1950s prices. She was more interested in having responsible, long-term tenants than in making money off the property.

Dressed in her nightgown and probably ready to turn in, she waved from behind a picture window as I passed by the house. One of her ever-present crossword puzzles dangled in her hand.

I had the random realization that even Mrs. Doyne would be hurt if I walked onto the softening ice of Lake Michigan, however far it would take to fall through. Get your act together, Whitney Monroe, she’d probably say. Life goes on. Mrs. Doyne had survived the death of her husband of fifty years, her one true love. She worked in her gardens, volunteered all over the area, and mentored a Girl Scout troop.

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