Placebo

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You are there when they recover the bodies.

The day is gray with thick, somber clouds hanging heavily in the sky. Mist lurks above the bay, circling in a breeze that comes in damp and cold off the water.

You stand onshore watching the divers position their boat at the place where the witnesses say they saw the minivan go in. As you wait for them to reappear, your heart squirms like a thick, wet animal trapped inside your chest.

It was your wife’s minivan.

And she had your two sons with her.

The silence is stark and chilled, disturbed only by the wet slap of waves against the shore.

For some reason, even though the van disappeared into the bay more than two hours ago, you still hold out hope that somehow Rachel and the twins have survived, that some inscrutable miracle has drifted down from heaven and stopped the water from pouring into the van.

You try to convince yourself that the vehicle has become a safe haven filled with air, a metal bubble of life — proof that a loving God exists and cares enough to step into time and save lives; you tell yourself that someday you’ll all look back at this and stand in awe of the unimaginable possibilities of divine intervention.

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