“I know. But I still feel bad.”
“Don’t. It doesn’t matter. And you’ve found the man you love. That’s what matters.”
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. No hard feelings here. It wasn’t meant to be with you and me. I’ll find my one someday.”
fifty-three
“Randall, wake up!” Mom shakes my shoulder and says my name again.
For a few seconds I can’t figure out where I am, but then I remember I’m in my childhood bedroom. I sit straight up when I register the look of shock on my mother’s face in the dim light from the hallway, along with her wild hair and apparently hastily donned robe, as one side hangs much lower than the other.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” I reach out for her.
“Your father’s dead.”
My hand freezes, inches from hers. “What?”
“He was in a car accident,” she says in a monotone voice.
I rotate my body so I’m sitting on the side of the bed, and I carefully pull her down beside me and wrap my arm around her.
“Okay, tell me what happened.”
“The doorbell rang and woke me up,” she says, “and it scared me, since it’s so early.”
I glance at the clock to see it’s a little past five, and with a pang I realize I heard the doorbell, but I thought it was a dream. I should have been more alert, considering my job for the night was to protect my family.
“Mom, why didn’t you wake me up?” It could have been Dad, but I can’t say that now.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking because I woke from a dead sleep. I’m sorry. I should have gotten you.”
“It’s okay.” I rub my hand up and down her arm. “Tell me what happened.”
“It was the police. They asked if I’m Walter Hamilton’s wife, and I said yes, because I still am. Then they said he was in an accident, and he didn’t make it. That’s all I know so far. They’re still downstairs. They say I need to go identify the body.”
My heart squeezes. “You are not going to identify the body. I’ll do that.” It’s the last thing I want to do, but I’m not about to let my mother go through that torture.
“Will you come downstairs and talk to them with me?” she asks in a small voice, much unlike her usual confident tone.
“You better believe I will. Let me throw some clothes on. Stay right there.”
I grab a pair of shorts and a shirt out of my duffel and head into my bathroom to put them on and brush my teeth. A minute later I’m back, and Mom hasn’t moved a muscle.
I gently take her arm and help her stand. She’s still in a state of shock, so I straighten her robe and smooth down her hair. Then I take her hand and guide her out of my room and downstairs to the foyer, where two uniformed police officers stand waiting for us. I introduce myself, usher them into the sitting room, and help Mom into her chair.
“Ma’am,” the female officer says to Mom, “would you like something to drink? Some water, maybe?” She shoots me a look that demands, “Get your mother a drink.”
“That’s a good idea, Mom,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I rush to the kitchen and pour her a glass of ice water. I also grab two cookies from the cookie jar, since I know she hasn’t eaten anything and could probably use a sugar boost. The officer nods in approval when I hand Mom the glass and set the cookies on the small table beside her.
“Officers,” I say, “what can you tell us about what happened?”
“We’re still gathering information,” the male officer says, “but it was a single-car accident on Lake Shore Drive. The car appears to have hit the median at a high rate of speed and then flipped over multiple times. We’re hoping to find some witnesses who can tell us more.” He clears his throat. “There was also a passenger.”
“A young woman?” Mom asks. It’s the first thing she’s said since we left my room.
