Charlie looked up at the sound of his name.
“I asked about the river boy,” he announced.
Sloane smiled sadly.
“Yes, you did.”
“He helped Mommy.”
“That’s right, sweetie.”
“I asked about the river boy.”
Charlie went back to his train.
Sloane turned toward me.
“He asked whether Weston had a mother.”
For a second, I couldn’t answer.
“And I realized you might never have known why he was there,” she added.
“He asked whether Weston had
a mother.”
We sat quietly for a while.
Then Sloane showed me a photograph on her phone.
It was a classroom.
Small desks.
Colorful posters.
A shelf full of books.
Sloane showed me a photograph on her phone.
“I’m a reading specialist now,” she said.
I looked up.
“You teach children to read?”
“I help the ones who need extra time.”
I studied the photograph.
“I’m a reading specialist now.”
On the bookshelf was another copy of the green book.
“Do you tell them about Weston?”
“Not usually. But sometimes a child gets stuck on a word, and I remember how he used to wait.”
My eyes filled.
“He did that at home too.”
“I remember how he used to wait.”
Sloane smiled.
“I thought he was the only person in the world who could sit quietly that long.”
“He wasn’t always patient,” I said. “You should’ve seen him trying
to assemble furniture.”
She laughed.
I did too.
“He wasn’t always patient.”
For a few minutes, we talked about Weston without talking about the river.
Then Sloane began apologizing.
For waiting so long.
For arriving without calling.
For bringing Charlie.
We talked about Weston without talking about the river.
I finally stopped her.
“Sloane, do you think you owe me something?”
She looked startled.
“I…” Her eyes filled. “Sometimes I think I should’ve done more.”
“More what?”
I finally stopped her.
“With my life.”
I waited.
“I have a good job. I love my son. I’m happy most days. But then I remember that Weston died and I didn’t.”
