Andrew Deer died on a Sunday evening in May.
It was the kind of evening that felt like the beginning of something. The sun lingered like it had nowhere else to be. The peonies lining the road just outside Heisson were heavy with color, days away from bursting. Even the sky seemed rinsed clean, like the long gray season had finally lifted.
He was running the ridge trail that looped down toward Heisson Bridge—the old steel crossing over the East Fork Lewis River—his breath coming easy. Not always the case. He’d only just started running again after the long winter. But tonight, his legs felt light. He passed a cluster of blooming dogwoods and noticed the sky behind them, all melted gold.
Amanda had taken the kids to grab Thai food in Battle Ground. Yellow curry, pad see ew, mango sticky rice. It was her idea to surprise him. After all, he’d made a big speech at lunch about this being the week they’d finally go see the old farmhouse on McConnell Road—the one with the broken barn and the dream. “It’s time,” he’d said. “We’ve been circling it long enough.”
She rolled her eyes, smiled, and said, “Crazy man.” Which, in Deer code, meant I believe in you.
He was thinking about that farmhouse—string lights, dance floors, maybe one of his kids would get married there—when a horn burst behind him. Short. Sharp. Almost playful.
He turned just enough to see the silver Civic. He saw his daughter’s small hand waving from the back window. But his mind didn’t register it.
He flinched hard right. A reflex. The concrete still slick in patches. His foot caught the lip of the bridge.
He slipped.
There was no scream. No chance to catch himself.
He fell over the side like a sack of wet flour, arms reaching for a railing that wasn’t there.
The twelve-foot drop ended in a stone shelf just beneath the bridge. His temple struck first. He died on impact.
The current took him like it had done it before—gentle, efficient—and carried him through a ripple of reflected sky.
Amanda didn’t realize what had happened until the boys stopped laughing.
And then they started screaming.
Cannon Beach.
Their first date was with a group of friends—one of those low-key college outings where everyone secretly hoped it would turn into something more. They spent the day drifting in and out of salt-aired shops, smelling candles and pretending to care about overpriced mugs. At a little used bookstore, they argued (playfully) over which Dostoevsky novel was more depressing. Andrew claimed The Idiot was the most misunderstood book in history. Amanda called him a snob.
They didn’t hold hands, not yet. But they kept walking side by side long after their friends had peeled off. It was Amanda who pointed out the tiny white chapel tucked just off the main road. “I’ve always dreamed of planning weddings,” she said, almost embarrassed. “Not just my own, like… lots of them. Making them beautiful.”
Andrew turned toward her, too fast. “I’d make that happen for you.”
And he meant it. Even then.
Year One.
They were married now. Just shy of twelve months in. Amanda was working as a secretary for an insurance company in Hazel Dell. Andrew, armed with an English degree from Portland State, was fielding shipment calls for a two-man logistics company out of an office above a vape shop.
She was making more money than him. She never said it. But he knew.
He tried writing in the evenings, but most nights he stared at a blank screen, scrolling Craigslist for jobs that didn’t ask for five years of experience and a miracle.
One night, she brought home a flyer for a “Dream Mapping” workshop. He didn’t go. But they still talked about dreams. They still said things like, “When we buy our farmhouse…” as if mortgages were won like raffle tickets.
The Craigslist Farmhouse.
The ad said “Fixer—rustic charm—once-in-a-lifetime potential.” Amanda said it had character. Andrew said it had mold. She printed out the pictures and taped them to the fridge. He added a tab on his budgeting spreadsheet called Venue Costs (Est).
They looked at the pictures every morning while pouring cereal. They said things like “We could host twelve weddings a summer” and “We’ll turn the barn into a dance hall.”
They never scheduled a showing. They didn’t even have savings.
But they kept dreaming.
Now there were diapers.
And wipes. And tiny shoes that never stayed on.
The three-year-old was a storm of joy and tantrums. She refused to nap unless she could fall asleep on Amanda’s chest, and Andrew often came home from Uber shifts to find both of them knocked out on the couch, the TV playing nature documentaries they never watched.
Their bills had doubled. Their time had halved. And yet they still talked about the farmhouse like it was waiting for them.
The Burnout Year.
It rained almost every day that December. Andrew drove Uber down in Portland six nights a week. Woke up groggy. Ate in the car. Listened to other people’s problems in the backseat and nodded silently like a priest in denim.
Once, a drunk woman vomited all over his passenger seat and fled. He spent the rest of the night scrubbing upholstery in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. Amanda was already asleep when he got home.
That month, they missed two bills. Skipped church four Sundays in a row. Had one real conversation. It ended in silence.
He told Amanda, “I think I’m becoming a ghost.”
She didn’t argue. She just leaned her head on his shoulder, tired in a way that made even dreams feel heavy.
Date night.
They said it every time: “We’ve got to do this more often.”
They never did.
Last conversation.
Sunday lunch. The sun had finally pushed through the clouds. They sat at the kitchen table while the kids threw couch cushions on the floor to make a spaceship. Amanda served leftover rotisserie chicken and cut-up fruit.
Andrew leaned back, smiling like a man who had finally found the thread again. “This is the week. I’m calling the realtor. Let’s go see that farmhouse.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re getting that look in your eye.”
“What look?”
“The one you had at Cannon Beach.”
He laughed.
She reached across the table and put her hand on his. “I’m proud of you.”
He stared at it. Her hand. Her wedding ring. Her.
“We haven’t done anything yet,” he said.
She shook her head. “Andrew. We’re still here. That counts.”
He looked out the window. The dogwoods were blooming again.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “We’re getting close.”
They say trauma scrambles memory. Amanda could never remember whether she honked once or twice.
She had been surprised to see him up ahead—running just along the edge of the road as she rounded the bend toward Heisson Bridge. For a moment, she thought she might pull over, tease him, maybe offer him a ride the rest of the way home.
She never imagined that a simple honk would echo for the rest of her life.
She couldn’t remember what song the boys were singing.
But she would remember the splash.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the sound of something heavy meeting stillness.
She would remember how the Thai food stayed warm in the backseat.
How her youngest whispered, “Is Daddy okay?”
And how, for one flickering second, she imagined him bobbing back up—laughing, drenched, shaking his head like, You got me.
But he didn’t.
And she couldn’t take it back.