I don’t remember setting down the blue camp shirt.
One moment I was sitting on Owen’s bed with the fabric pressed against my face, breathing in the last traces of him — sunscreen and something sweet I could never quite name, the particular scent of my child that I had been cataloguing desperately since the day my husband called me in a voice I didn’t recognize — and the next moment my phone was ringing and I was staring at the screen like it was speaking a language I had forgotten how to read.
Mrs. Dilmore.
Owen’s math teacher. The woman my son talked about at dinner the way other thirteen-year-olds talked about their favorite athletes, with that particular lit-up enthusiasm he brought to the things that genuinely mattered to him. He loved math because Mrs. Dilmore made it feel like a puzzle with a satisfying answer waiting at the end, and he had a theory, which he shared with me more than once at the kitchen table, that most things in life were like that if you paid close enough attention.
I had not been paying close enough attention to anything since the lake.
I answered.
“Meryl.” Mrs. Dilmore’s voice was careful in the way voices get when the person speaking has been rehearsing how to say something difficult. “I’m so sorry to call like this. I found something in my desk drawer today — and I think you need to come to the school.”
The room seemed to contract around me. Owen’s sneakers were on the floor where he had left them. His baseball cards were fanned across the desk. Everything exactly as it was, because I could not bring myself to move a single thing, and because moving anything felt like agreeing to something I wasn’t ready to agree to.
