Peter and I discussed having children and opted not to. I was thirty when we met, and he was thirty-seven. Neither of us was too old to have them, especially in this day and age. But Peter had never felt the need and I was ambivalent, for good reason. I’d already endured the loss of my parents and my fiancé, all of whom had the supreme misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I thought about my parents’ car accident and the shooting, and I wondered, how on earth can you keep a child safe? And the answer that came to me was, you can’t.
So I buried my biological clock and agreed with Peter that we didn’t need to have children, that I would be fine without them. And I have been. My life is fulfilling. I work with many children, and helping them gives me a kind of maternal satisfaction. My relationship has never suffered sleepless nights or the waning sexual desire of the sudden shift of focus that couples experience and men tend to resent. In my life, I try not to waste time with regret or wondering what if. But there have been rare moments over the last ten years when I’ve pondered the other path I could have taken.
Now, as I look upon Jonah Davenport, I know, with all my heart, that I made the right decision.
“They love you, Jonah,” I tell the photograph. “They love you and they miss you and they don’t want to let you go. They’re holding on to you. But they’re holding on to something else, too. Each of them. What is it? What are these things they cling to?”
The photograph can’t tell me what I need to know. But my intuition tells me that if I can get the Davenports and Ruth Glass to open up, they will find the map that will safely guide them through their grief.
My cell phone chirps from the coffee table, and I set the file down and pick up the phone. A text from Peter. Going to be an early one. No cognac or cigars. Thank goodness. I’m exhausted from you keeping me up all night last night. I’m about to fall asleep in my mashed potatoes. FaceTime in 30? You can sing me a lullaby.
I smile and text him back. I’ll see you then.
I set the phone down, get up, and head into the kitchen, suddenly hungry. I pull a premade kale salad from the fridge and eat it standing up at my kitchen counter, watching the clock on the microwave, waiting for my husband’s call.
PART THREE: THE DAY BEFORE
THIRTY-TWO
JONAH
I’m up, I’m up, I’m up! Mommy hasn’t even come in to get me awake, but I’m already up ’cause I can’t sleep ’cause I’m too excited to sleep. Today is the big Easter egg hunt. They call it a spring egg hunt at school, which I don’t think sounds as good, and everybody knows it’s an Easter egg hunt, but Daddy says they call it a spring hunt because they don’t want to make anybody upset. I don’t know why anyone would be upset about saying Easter, ’cause Easter’s a really fun holiday and on Easter morning I get a big basket with chocolate bunnies and jelly beans and Peeps. But Auntie Ruth says the Jews get mad about Easter. I don’t know what Jews are, but I don’t argue with Auntie Ruth, and anyway, I don’t want anybody to get mad, so if they want to call it spring egg hunt, that’s okay by me.
I’m not as excited as I am on Christmas morning, but almost. Christmas morning is better ’cause Santa brings lots of presents. Eden says Santa is a figent of my imagination. I don’t know what that means. I don’t think I have a figent, at least not last time I checked, but I do know that Santa always gives me what I want, like the LEGO Star Wars Millennium Falcon that I put together in only one day and Mommy said I was a genius for doing it so fast. Anyways, it’s not like Christmas morning, but it’s pretty darn good, too. In some ways, hunting for eggs is better than hunting for bugs, ’cause you can’t eat the bugs—’cept Daddy says that some people do eat bugs, but not me, no way. I’d have to kill ’em first, and I’d never kill my insect friends.
Anyways, today I get to hunt for yummy eggs, and tomorrow I get to hunt for bugs, which is the best of both worlds.
I climb out of bed and go to my dresser. Mommy usually pulls my clothes out for me, but I’m going to do it myself this morning. I pull out my pants and a shirt and a clean pair of unders. Mommy and Daddy have a rule about clean unders every day, so I take off my jammies and put them on top of my dresser for later, then take off my unders and put them in the hamper, then put on the fresh ones. Then I pull on my pants and put on my shirt and I run for the door. Then I remember that I forgot to get socks, so I run back to the dresser and grab some socks from the top drawer and stuff them into my pocket for putting on downstairs.
Eden’s door is still mostly closed, like it is every morning. She’s not up yet. Mommy always says she has to drag Eden out of bed, but she doesn’t really do it, ’cause that might hurt Eden. This one time, I heard Mommy yelling that she was going to pour a glass of cold water over Eden’s head if she didn’t get up right that minute. But her yelling wasn’t mad yelling, it was kind of laughing yelling, and I knew she wouldn’t do it ’cause Mommy’s too nice to pour water over anybody’s head.
Mommy and Daddy’s door is still mostly closed, too, but I know Daddy is already up and at ’em ’cause I can smell that coffee smell from the kitchen. I go to Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom and I look inside and see that Mommy is still in bed, her head on the pillows and her arm kind of slung over her eyes, but I can tell she’s almost awake ’cause she’s not making that snoring noise, and when I push open the door, she takes her arm off her eyes and looks over at me and smiles real big.
“Good morning, my angel boy,” she says. “You’re up early.”
“I am,” I say back. “It’s the spring egg hunt day at school.”
“Is it really?” she says in that kind of surprised kidding voice she sometimes has. “I didn’t know that.”
“You did, you did!” I holler at her. I climb up onto the bed, and she scoots over and gives me a big hug. I really love Mommy’s hugs because her arms are strong and she does it like she means it, not like Auntie Ruth, who kind of pats you on the back and then pushes you away, like it’s a chore or something. Don’t get me wrong, I love my auntie. I just don’t like her hugs too much. But Mommy’s are the best, probably ’cause she’s my mom and I’m her best guy.
“I guess maybe I remember something about an egg hunt at school,” she says. “Look at you, already dressed. Wow, you’re getting to be such a big boy. You won’t need me for too much longer, will you?”
“I’ll need you forever,” I tell her, because she’s my mom, and even when I’m all big and grown-up, she’ll still be my mom.
She hugs me again, and my nose smooshes against her neck and her hair tickles me and I smell flowers.
“Why don’t you go downstairs and ask your dad to put some bread in the toaster for you? I’ll get dressed and wake up Eden, and I’ll be down lickety-split.”
I nod at her, then remember how naughty Eden can be about getting up. “We can’t be late for school, Mommy. Not today. Any other day, but not today.”
She makes a serious face. “We won’t be late.”
“Promise?” I ask, just to make sure.
Mommy crosses her heart. “We will not be late. That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me.”
“Okay, then,” I say, and Mommy smiles.
“Love you, my guy.”