8

In humans, the HBB gene influences how hemoglobin is made. If someone inherits two of the “s” version of the gene, they develop sickle cell anemia. If someone inherits two of the “S” version, they have a higher susceptibility to malaria. If a new planet had to be colonized, should we send only humans with two of the “S” version, only humans with two of the “s” version, or some of each? Why?

Caroline has a new blue streak in her hair. She’s standing at the curb in front of the school with Rory, wearing baggy chinos, Puma Clydes, and a Patti Smith T-shirt—a reproduction of the iconic cover of Wave. Unsettling. The album’s first line drifts through my mind, “Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine.”

The sight of Patti Smith immediately sends me into a mental funk. Fred was the fifth in line to bear his Christian name, Frederick. In college, I was a huge Patti Smith fan, so when I first met him, her song “Frederick” instantly came to mind. It’s an intoxicating love song, dreamy and loud.

Pulling into the driveway of my dad’s house, I glance at Caroline in the rearview mirror. “Do you like Patti Smith?”

At first, she’s confused, then she realizes I’m referring to the shirt. “Oh this. Sure, she’s a friend of my dad or something.”

“Cool,” Rory says. “Six degrees.”

Caroline frowns. “What does that mean?”

“You haven’t seen the movie?”

“What movie?”

“We’re totally watching Six Degrees of Separation this afternoon,” Rory says.

Rory and Caroline drop their backpacks in the foyer and put a bag of popcorn in the microwave, filling the kitchen with its buttery smell. Then they head upstairs to the movie room. From the kitchen, I watch them race through the breezeway, jostling each other like puppies. I love seeing Rory so happy. I wish Fred were here to see it too.

I sit down at the table with a cup of decaf and return to the file, getting lost in the story once again. It’s dark when Rory goes outside with Caroline to wait for her driver.

“Hot dogs for dinner?” he suggests after she’s gone.

“Absolutely.”

After Fred died, I made a concerted effort to maintain stability in Rory’s life. Every night I came home from work by six and put dinner on the table at seven. I tried dishes I’d never made when the three of us were together—risotto with truffles, delicate white fish in foil with zucchini, even beef bourguignon. It was as though, in the absence of our third party, the anchoring member of our family, I had to up the culinary game.

One night, poking at a burnt pot roast, Rory said, “Mom, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but since when do you cook? Besides, sitting down to dinner without Dad is too depressing.”

“You have to eat.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have to make it a big ritual.”

Since then, Rory and I have only sat down together for a formal dinner a handful of times. We eat together, yes, but in a haphazard way, with takeout from Panda Express, messy tacos, or crackers and cheese in front of the TV. Am I a bad mother? Am I doing everything wrong? All signs point to yes, but it seems to work for us. Some days, just getting by feels like a major accomplishment.

I push the files to the side and set the hot dogs and condiments on the table, along with a bowl of sliced strawberries and a can of Reddi-wip.

Rory eyes the file box. “What are you reading?”

“Case file.”

He slathers one hot dog with sauerkraut, another with shredded cheese and ketchup. “I thought you were on leave?”

“It’s unofficial. A local policeman brought it by. Officer Kyle? Blond, young. You’ve probably seen him at the school.”

“What’s the case?”

“The boy Caroline was talking about, Gray Stafford.”

“I heard he’d just been at his grandparents’ house in Tahoe.” Rory devours his first hot dog in three bites.

“I’m only halfway through the file, but I don’t think that’s how it ends.”

He takes a swig of Fanta. “You really think he was kidnapped?”

“I don’t think he was with his grandparents.”

“Like, he got nabbed by a pedophile or something?”

“In noncustodial kidnappings of children, unfortunately, that’s the most likely scenario, but his age makes that less likely, and I don’t see any evidence pointing that way.”

Years before we became parents, Fred and I attended a mandatory religious weekend at Yosemite National Park, a hoop we had to jump through in order to get married in the tiny chapel in the valley. The pastor who led the seminar had copious instructions for how we needed to live our lives; most of his advice involved raising children. At the end of the weekend, we decided that when we became parents, we would simply be ourselves. And being ourselves meant we would always tell the truth.

On the day we brought Rory home from the hospital, swaddled in the giraffe-themed blanket, with that tiny blue cap on his fuzzy head, Fred reminded me of the pact we’d made years before. When Rory started asking questions, we agreed, we would answer truthfully. It was easy enough in the beginning, when he was a toddler, then a preschooler, then a kindergartner, asking questions for which we had answers.

But the older he got, of course, the more complicated his questions became. And the answers weren’t always happy or age appropriate, especially where my work was concerned. Although I omitted the classified details, when he asked me a question, I answered as honestly as possible. If he asked follow-up questions, which he usually did, I answered those too.

Now I’m the one with questions. “Do you see Gray around school?”

“Sometimes at lunch, but we’ve never talked.”

“Does he fit in all right?”

“Sure, he has friends. I heard he was super popular before the whole disappearing act.”

“And now?”

“Kids kind of give him space. They don’t make fun of him, nothing like that. It’s not like he sits alone at lunch eating his dandruff, but he’s quiet. He’s always in a group but never involved. Things just happen around him.” Rory shakes the Reddi-wip can, covering his strawberries in whipped cream. “I’m glad you took the case.”

I shake my head. “Didn’t take it, just glancing at the file.”

“Mom, if a kidnapper is on the loose, you have to do something.”

“We can’t be certain there’s a kidnapper.”

“If I disappeared, you’d want someone to get to the bottom of it.”

“You won’t disappear. Anyway, who’s going to deal with this?” I motion to the house around us, which feels colossal and impossible. “The furniture, the books, the dishes, the tools, everything.”

“The house can wait. This is all just stuff. Remember what Tyler Durden said about owning things?”

“What?”

He squirts Reddi-wip directly into his mouth from the can and talks through a mouthful of foam. “Mom, have you been living under a rock?”

“Enlighten me.”

“‘The things you own end up owning you.’ Anyway, you need to work.”

The way he says it, I know he’s not talking about money. He’s talking about me: who I used to be versus who I’ve become. This new, always-around version of Mom who is a shadow of the old, somewhat absent, laser-focused version of Mom.

“I’m not sure I’m ready.”

“You’re beyond ready.”

When Fred died, I thought I could get past the grief by throwing myself into my job. When Rory needed me most, I burrowed into the familiar comfort of sources, meetings, reports. Grief wasn’t in my skill set; the spy game was. I couldn’t solve the problem of Fred’s death, my son’s wrenching sadness, but I could solve cases, recruit sources, work the difficult angles, drawing strength from the tangled complexities where I felt most at home. Work offered a sense of control.

But then I fumbled. Distracted by a grief that, after all, refused to yield to my demands, I made the worst mistake of my career. A major case went sideways. I lost a friend. As abruptly as I had returned to work, I took a self-imposed leave of absence, my confidence truly shaken for the first time.

I know Rory is right. I need to work. I’ve been absent for too long. I’m getting skittish, allowing one day to morph into the next without accomplishing anything. I’ve lost my way. I have to snap out of it.