My husband remained seated.
He looked at Jeremy.
Then he looked at me.
I could tell he wanted me to say something.
Perhaps he wanted me to end the conversation.
Perhaps he wanted me to tell Jeremy to rest.
But I didn't.
I had spent too many years allowing difficult conversations to disappear.
"Why did you tell him to be quiet?"
My husband rubbed his face.
"I was trying to calm him down."
Jeremy shook his head.
My husband noticed.
"Son, you were very upset."
Jeremy looked at him.
"I remember."
Those two words had become difficult for my husband to hear.
He stood and walked toward the window.
I watched him.
"Please don't leave the room every time he says something you don't like."
He turned around.
"I'm not leaving."
"Then answer me."
He looked down.
For a moment, I thought he might finally tell us something.
Instead, he said:
"I was frightened."
I nodded slowly.
"So was I."
He looked at me.
I continued.
"I was frightened when you came home without Janice. I was frightened when the police couldn't find her. I was frightened when Jeremy stopped speaking."
My voice broke.
"But I never stopped asking questions."
My husband sat down again.
Jeremy was watching him.
I looked at my son.
"Do you want to continue?"
He nodded.
Then he looked at his father.
"I didn't want to forget."
My husband frowned.
"Forget what?"
"Janice."
My mother-in-law's voice came from the doorway.
"Nobody wanted you to forget her, sweetheart."
She had apparently come back into the room.
My father-in-law stood behind her.
They had been waiting downstairs.
My mother-in-law approached Jeremy.
She touched his shoulder.
"We all miss her."
Jeremy nodded.
Then he looked at his father.
"Dad said not to tell."
My father-in-law slowly lowered himself into a chair.
My husband looked toward him.
"Please don't."
His father stared at him.
"Don't what?"
"Turn this into something it isn't."
My father-in-law didn't answer immediately.
Then he looked at Jeremy.
"Nobody is going to stop you from speaking."
Jeremy seemed to relax slightly.
I reached for his hand.
My mother-in-law sat beside him.
For a moment, we were all gathered around the boy who had spent eight years communicating without words.
I looked at my husband.
"Whatever happened, we need to hear it from him."
He shook his head.
"I don't want him reliving something painful."
I understood that concern.
I had the same one.
But there was a difference between protecting a child and preventing him from telling the truth.
I turned toward Jeremy.
"You can take a break whenever you need."
He nodded.
Then he looked at his grandparents.
"Do you remember Janice?"
My mother-in-law began crying.
"Every day."
My father-in-law nodded.
"Of course we do."
Jeremy looked at the photograph.
Then he said:
"She was scared."
Nobody moved.
My husband stared at him.
I felt my stomach drop.
I wanted to ask what had frightened her.
But Jeremy looked exhausted.
He leaned against me.
I put an arm around his shoulders.
"That's enough for now."
He nodded.
My husband remained quiet.
My father-in-law looked at his son.
And my mother-in-law held the edge of the photograph album as though she were afraid it might fall.
That evening, I finally understood something.
Our family had been remembering the same terrible day in different ways.
I had remembered the loss.
My husband had repeated his explanation.
Jeremy had remembered something he couldn't bring himself to say.
And the grandparents had been left with the same unanswered questions I had.
Eight years had passed.
But the day at the lake had never really ended for any of us.
Click here to continue reading: PART 19: The Anniversary Dinner Was Over, but My Son Was Finally Ready to Speak and I Refused to Let His Voice Be Lost Again
Eleven Minutes Apart, Two Children Who Seemed to Understand Each Other Without Ever Needing the Rest of Us
Part 18 of 20
