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.”
