I kissed Sam goodbye on a Saturday morning toward the end of June, and the call that changed my life came the following Friday afternoon. Actually, the call came in twice. I’d stepped away from my desk to do some gardening. I remember the tomatoes were growing like crazy that summer, the roses exploding on their bushes. Everything so abundant. Sometimes, when I’m stuck on an idea, I find it helps to walk away for a bit and do something else, something with your hands, something useful, and that knot in your mind will loosen and unwind into the bread dough or the soapsuds or the stacks of folded clothes.
Or the soft, rich loam of a vegetable bed.
It still fills me with terror, to look at that patch of earth and remember how I knelt there, staking the rampant new vines, humming to myself while a new pattern took shape in my head—a trailing creeper in a pristine shade of spring green, not too dark or too light, the color of promise, delicate shoots and leaves curling from the parent vine.
At a few minutes to three, I stood up, dusted my jeans, shucked off my gloves, and went into the house for a glass of water and my sketch pad.
I remember my phone lay on the kitchen counter, because I hadn’t carried it outdoors with me. You know how it is.
I meant to step out for a few minutes to pull some weeds, maybe water the tomatoes, breathe some fresh air, but one thing led to another, and it was a beautiful day, eighty degrees and not as humid as it gets later in the summer. A breeze came in from the Mystic River, tinged with brine. Tourists would be swarming the drawbridge for ice cream. Over at the aquarium, kids would be screaming with joy as the belugas hurtled past on the other side of the plexiglass. Anyway, my phone sat alone on the counter, so I picked it up to check for messages and startling news alerts, maybe a little light scrolling, and instead I saw that I’d missed two calls from Camp Winnipesaukee.
You know that feeling. Every parent knows that feeling.
Probably nothing, you think, probably just some missed paperwork or an impulsive, inappropriate exclamation. Maybe a fistfight, God forbid. Kids could get scrappy at that age.
But your body’s not so logical, is it? Your body’s evolved for catastrophe. Your body leaps straight to the worst scenario. Your stomach turns sick, your trembling hand picks up the phone. Your heart cracks against your breastbone.
You swipe the number to call back.
You say, in your voice of fake buoyance, Hi! This is Mallory Dunne. Sam’s mom? You were trying to reach me.
And you hear the tiny silence, the fraction of a sigh as the person on the other end gathers courage for the task before her.
Then the dreaded words:
Mrs. Dunne, I’m afraid I have some difficult news.
I think I must have driven the entire three hours to New Hampshire in a state of shock. Now, don’t panic, I told myself, over and over. This is not really happening. This is just a movie you’re watching, a script you’re acting out. Kind of like the metaverse! Whatever that was.
Not real, anyway.
Not your real son, the love of your life.
I remember how I rinsed out my coffee cup and put it in the dishwasher before I left.