Page 113 of The River Is Waiting

“Oh. My now-daddy has a beard, too, but his is neat.”

“Uh-huh. He keeps his trimmed.”

“But sometimes he leaves whiskers in the sink. Yuck.”

“Well, sweetie, you can’t have everything.”

I park. We get out of the car. Walk toward the building and climb the long set of cement stairs to the prison’s main entrance. I recall the earlier times I’d do this, my nervousness increasing with each step.

Mrs. Millman has beaten us here; she’s waiting for us just inside the building. She smiles and tells Maisie she’s pleased to meet her. “I’m excited to share your father’s mural with you and your mother. Would you like to see it?” Maisie says she does. “Well, come on then. Follow me. I’ve gotten us VIP clearances, so we can avoid the usual rigmarole. Having worked here for over three decades has gotten methatmuch clout at least.” She waves to the guard behind the counter and he waves back. Apparently as VIPs, we get to sidestep the metal detector. Thank God for that! I recall that bleak room where I waited my turn to pass through the metal detector, my panic when I couldn’t figure out what kept triggering it.

Halfway up the stairs, I ask Mrs. Millman how long she’s been retired. “Since the start of the pandemic,” she says. “They’ve been dragging their feet about hiring my replacement and reopening the library, but I’m going to keep bugging them until they do. It’s a crime that these fellas don’t have access to reading materials.”

As we reach the second-floor landing, the baby gives me a sharp kick and my “oof” gets Mrs. Millman’s attention. “Someone’s very active today,” I tell her. When she asks how far along I am, I tell her seven and a half months.

Turning to Maisie, Mrs. Millman asks whether she’s hoping for a little brother or a little sister. “I wanted a brother, but it’s going to be a girl,” Maisie tells her.

“And I bet you’re going to be agreatbig sister,” Mrs. Millman says. Maisie shrugs and says she doesn’t know yet.

I worry less about my daughter than I did before, when I was getting calls from school about her disturbing behavior; Bryan has had a stabilizing influence on her and they’re genuinely fond of each other. But she’s the odd girl out with the kids in her class and the girls across the street whose parents bought the McNallys’ house. Bryan says he thinks it bothers me more than it does Maisie—that some kids are content not to run with the herd. She has made one friend at school this year, a boy named Rory, but he’s pretty eccentric, too.

When we enter the library, Mrs. Millman turns on the lights and points us toward Corby’s mural. “I’ll leave you alone with it,” she says. “Take your time.”

We stand before it, neither of us saying anything for a minute or more, our eyes moving up and down, back and forth. It’s almost as if it’s casting a spell.

Maisie’s the first to speak. “Hey, are those pterodactyls?”

When I see what she’s pointing to, I tell her, “No, I think those are blue herons. But I wouldn’t be surprised if pterodactyls were their ancestors.”

“Ancestors would be like their great-grandparents. Right?”

“Well, in this case more like their great-great-great-great-great-grandparents.”

“Wow,” she says. “Cool.”

Mrs. Millman rejoins us, carrying a photo of the painting that was, she says, Corby’s inspiration for the mural. “The artist was Pieter Bruegel the Elder, a Renaissance painter who lived during the sixteenth century. Most of his peers were painting commissioned portraits of courtiers and other prominent people, but Bruegel’s subjects were commoners—peasants atwork or play. This one’s calledLandscape with the Fall of Icarus, although the boy’s death is curiously understated.” When she points to it, I can see what she means.

Maisie butts in to ask her whether this library has any dinosaur books. “A couple at least,” Mrs. Millman says. “Come with me and we’ll have a look. Let’s give your mom a little alone time with your father’s painting.” I don’t know what Dr. Patel has told her, but I think Mrs. Millman gets the gist of why I’m here.

Thinking of Dr. Patel’s advice, I speak softly, privately. “Corby, I’m here. I’ve come to see your mural.” Saying it, rather than just thinking it, somehow seems necessary.

“I feel so moved by what you’ve created. I can almost see you working on it, bringing it to life day by day, section by section.” I come closer, focusing on the brushstrokes, following them with the tips of my fingers. Doing this makes me feel closer to him than I did during those awkward hugs in the visiting room.

“I… I recognize that it’s you in the foreground, looking down from some higher spot at those men floating down the river where we released your ashes this morning.” I choke up, wait, and then go on. “One of those men in the inner tubes looks like it might be Manny.… I see Maisie and me on a path that runs alongside the river.… And Native women and men going about their lives like those peasants in the painting Mrs. Millman said inspired you.

“Oh, there’s Mrs. Millman, wading into the water with Dr. Patel near those three boys who are skipping stones. When I met with Manny, he gave me a study you did of those boys. I had it framed and hung it in the hallway between Maisie’s bedroom and mine. Ours until…” My voice cracks. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a tissue. Wipe my eyes, my nose. “I could never bring myself to scatter your ashes until today, Corby, but this morning I was finally able to release you.”

I dread saying the next thing, but why am I here if I don’t? “Corby, I’m so sorry for your suffering, not only for the horrible way your life wastaken from you by the virus, but also for all the ways you suffered having to bear the responsibility for Niko’s death.” I take another deep breath and will myself to continue. “The truth is, I bear some of the responsibility for our tragedy, too. I sometimes smelled alcohol on you when you slept next to me. And I knew you were taking more of those pills than you should have been. I wish I’d confronted you instead of telling myself that things would be okay again once you found another job. I wish I had been a better wife.

“In the time you were here, I regret that I only managed to visit you so rarely, and never with Maisie, even though I knew how badly you wanted to see her. During those times when I did come, I would sit across the table from you trying to cope with the confusion of emotions I was feeling: sorrow, anger, despair, love. Please know, Corby, that despite everything that went wrong between us, I never stopped loving you.”

I’m struggling to continue, but I have to face the pain and keep going.

“I’ve thought many times about what I said to you in anger the last time we talked. When I found out why they weren’t releasing you, I assumed the worst instead of listening to your explanation. I must have sounded as cold and unforgiving as my mother. But then last year I received an unexpected letter from Manny and we arranged to meet in person. He wanted me to know that you had been clean and sober in the almost three years you two had roomed together.

“I was in tears when he told me how horribly you suffered because of those guards and… and how they did something so ugly to you, I can’t even say the word. Manny said you started taking that prescription to ease your suffering after that happened. When I learned what the circumstances were, I was finally able to get in touch withyourpain instead of just focusing on my own. Corby, even though it’s too late, I want you to know that Ihaveforgiven you for what happened the day Niko died. I’m so sorry I withheld that forgiveness from you while you were alive.”

I hear Maisie and Mrs. Millman somewhere else in the library. Maisie’s enlisted her in the game she sometimes plays with Bryan.

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