The Glass Butterfly by Louise Marley Page B

they left the sparse neighborhood of the church and drove up toward the park and the few houses that dotted the familiar hillside just outside its boundary. “I couldn’t wait to get away from here,” he said. “And now I wish—I wish I could put everything back the way it was.”
    â€œThat’s natural. It’s a terrible loss for you—for all of us—but I know Tory wouldn’t want you to grieve too much.”
    It burst out of him, before he realized he was going to say it. “I’m a lousy son.”
    For a terrible moment, Kate didn’t say anything. He took her silence as an acknowledgment of the truth of what he’d said. When she finally spoke, she said only, “You’re young, Jack.”
    â€œTwenty,” he said bitterly.
    â€œWell. Twenty is young, though you might not think so. You’re still finding yourself.”
    He made a small, involuntary noise that might have sounded rude. He hoped not. It was really a sound of pain and regret. He didn’t know how to explain that to her.
    She glanced at him, and he saw tears in her eyes, tears she had managed to resist during the memorial. “I hope you can have good memories of her,” she said, her voice a little too high. “She was—remarkable.” Her voice cracked on the word, and she turned her head away.
    He didn’t dare answer for fear his own voice would break.
    They drove for a while in unhappy silence. Jack watched the stands of trees grow thicker as they climbed the hill. The maples were like flames of red and gold against the dark green backdrop of the eastern cedars. The beauty of it hurt somehow, as if it were a reproach.
    When they were getting close, Kate said, “I wish you’d reconsider staying at our place. You’d be so welcome, Jack. All the kids are gone, and—”
    He shook his head. “Thanks, Kate, but I’ll be fine.”
    â€œNot nervous?”
    â€œNervous? No.”
    â€œWell, I would be,” Kate said frankly. “Since no one really knows what happened.”
    Jack turned his head to look at Kate’s plain, familiar profile. “You’re the only person willing to talk about it,” he said.
    Kate kept her eyes on the road. “The police talk about it, surely.”
    â€œWell, yes. The sheriff’s people. They always say the same thing. ‘We’re doing all we can.’ ” He shrugged. “I think it’s shorthand for ‘We don’t have a clue.’ ”
    â€œHoney, if Tory drowned—” Kate winced as she spoke the word.
    â€œI know that’s what they think. They said there was no reason to think she’s alive.” They had dragged the river, they told him. Searched the banks, below and even above the site of the accident, and found nothing.
    Kate nodded, pressing her trembling lips with her finger. After a moment, she said in a choked voice, “It could be months before they find her.”
    â€œYeah. If ever.”
    Kate touched his shoulder with her soft hand. “It hasn’t hit you yet, I’m afraid.”
    â€œIt doesn’t seem real.” He watched the familiar flicker of a porch light here and there. He knew every house, every family that lived up here in the foothills. They passed Kate and Chet’s driveway, with its funny mailbox in the shape of a doghouse, before they turned into his own. Tory’s mailbox was a tasteful gray-and-white rectangle, matching the paint of her house. The driveway was long and twisting, a narrow lane with a neat and fairly new layer of gravel. It looked as if she had raked it recently. It led nearly to the top of the hill, where the house had a view of the valley to the east and the park to the west. They had lived in it, Tory and Jack, as long as he could remember.
    Jack had decided, at the age of fourteen, to blame his mother for everything—for having no father, no siblings, no other family.