Free Matters of Faith by Kristy Kiernan Page A

they’re just young and brash,” I offered, taking my basket to the counter.
    â€œPerhaps. Made fresh cookies,” she said, nodding toward the basket of homemade cookies next to the register. I looked longingly at them and inhaled. The aroma managed to seep out of the plastic wrap that covered them. There were more chocolate chunks than dough, and the peanut butter cookies had little hash marks made by a fork, just like my mother had made when I was a child. But I shook my head and paid her for the produce, promising to pass a kiss along to Cal.
    I stashed the bags behind my seat and headed to the video store, my final stop. Nothing too grown-up, nothing too childish. Choosing for this new dynamic was more trying than I would have thought. Did other parents go through this? I never noticed mothers agonizing over tiny bras, or picking up and putting down an R-rated movie seven times. Had I truly become so protective that my own decision-making skills had been warped beyond repair?
    Finally I chose a comedy, and then, as I approached the counter, my eye was caught by Winona Ryder in a blue skirt, held from behind by a leering Christian Slater. I grabbed the box before I could go into another fugue of mothering and plopped Heathers on the counter along with the other movie.
    I drove home with the windows down, the spring already steamy with a humidity that I loved feeling on my skin, and the radio loud. I had a couple of hours before the kids got home, and even thought that perhaps I could convince Cal to bake some more bread and maybe join me in the shower. The night before had been tense, enjoyable, frightening, and exhilarating all at once. I was ready to plan for a more relaxing time tonight, all the jitters gone, the jagged edges smoothed.
    I was singing along with the radio, some Justin Timberlake thing that I would never in a million years have admitted to Cal that I liked, when I turned onto our drive. I hadn’t even slowed down when I saw the workshop door fling open and Cal come running out, his mouth open, tearing at the passenger door handle before I could come to a stop to hear what he was screaming.
    Everyone talks about their heart pounding, jumping out of their chest, but when I heard that he was screaming our daughter’s name over and over I never felt my heart at all. There was nothing but a great sucking hole in my chest, with nothing to fill it but the echo of Meghan .

Six
    WHEN we reached the marina, all the emergency vehicles were already there, their lights going but their sirens off. I didn’t know what that meant and stuttered, “What’s happening?” at Cal, but Cal was already out of the car while it was still rolling, stumbling when his feet hit the pavement before righting himself and tearing for the dock.
    I slammed into park and took a different route, toward the ambulance, grasping at the handle of the cab, startling a young woman in a paramedic’s uniform. I was talking before she could get a foot on the ground, spewing forth Meghan’s medical history, the list of things that could go wrong, and what needed to happen now, right now, and where was she, where was my daughter and what exactly had happened, and why was everyone just standing around and why weren’t the sirens on?
    â€œThey’re almost here,” she said, placing her hands on my upper arms, trying to hold me together. “We can’t do anything yet. Coast Guard is still a mile off. It was faster for them to come in than for us to go out. Everything is going to be fine, they’re almost here.”
    I spun out of her grasp and headed for the dock, where I could see Cal, gesturing toward the marina where the big boat was, and as I got closer I could hear him shouting.
    â€œGod dammit, where are they? I can get her, I can get her!”
    â€œSir, listen, listen!”
    As I arrived by Cal’s side, we all fell silent and sure enough, we could hear a boat, going