Exactly the way he’d handed me his wedding ring twelve years earlier.
“I’m sorry, Lee,” he whispered. “I just can’t.”
I held his hand.
“That’s okay, sweetheart.”
He looked at me.
“It’s only a truck. You’re still you. That’s what matters.”
His eyes filled.
Then he held me.
—
A week later, I called Carol.
She answered with that same familiar, gravelly voice.
“Well, honey. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I did.”
I hesitated.
“And I’m sorry I hung up on you.”
She laughed softly.
“Don’t worry about that. I’d probably have done the same.”
We talked about Mark.
About the wedding.
About the arrangements she’d made.
And about how frightening the previous few days had been.
When I mentioned that Mark had driven north toward Loon Lake during his moment of confusion, she grew quiet.
“Toward here?” she asked.
