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His chin dipped.
For a second, I wasn’t proud. I wasn’t gentle. I was a tired widow staring at another empty space where my husband used to be.
“Sorry, Mom. I gave it to someone.”
“Eli, that was from your dad.”
“I know.”
“Then why would you give it away?”
“There was a lady at the bus stop,” he said quickly. “She was pregnant, Mom. Really pregnant. She was crying, and her coat was soaked, and nobody was helping her.”
I stared at him.
“So you gave her your jacket too?”
“Eli, that was from your dad.”
He looked down at his wet shirt. “She was cold, too. And she had to worry about herself and the baby. If I got sick, you’d make me soup, and I’d be fine.”
I pressed my fingers to my mouth. How could I be mad?
“Eli…”
“I didn’t want to lose it,” he said. “I promise. But Dad always said you don’t wait to help.”
The words knocked the anger out of me.
Darren had said that all the time. When a neighbor’s car wouldn’t start. When someone dropped groceries. Even when we were late.
How could I be mad?
“You don’t wait to help someone in need, Carina.”
I pulled Eli into my arms.
“Your dad would be proud of you,” I whispered.
He held still. “Are you?”
That nearly broke me.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m proud of you too.”
“Your dad would be proud of you.”
I got him into dry clothes and made hot cocoa with too many marshmallows. He sat at the kitchen table, both hands around the mug.
“Do you think she’ll bring it back?” he asked. “I told her where we live.”
“I don’t know, hon. But maybe she’ll surprise us.”
“Maybe,” he said softly.
***
Later, after he went to bed, I touched the empty hook by the door. It had held Darren’s keys, his cap, his coat, and, after he died, Eli’s umbrella.
“I know you’d be proud of him,” I whispered. “But I still wanted that umbrella to come home.”
“Maybe she’ll surprise us.”
Three mornings later, I opened the door to grab the newspaper and dropped my coffee mug. It shattered on the porch.
Hot coffee splashed my ankle, but I barely felt it.
I only saw my lawn, covered in open umbrellas.
Forty-seven of them.
They stood in perfect rows from the mailbox to the maple tree. Under each umbrella sat a small white box with a number painted on the lid.
Numbered 1 to 47.
Hot coffee splashed my ankle.
“Mom?” Eli called behind me.
He stepped onto the porch, barefoot, hair sticking up.
“Watch!” I warned. “I dropped my mug. Don’t step on the glass.”
“What is this?” he asked.
“Why is Mrs. Sarah filming us, Mom?”
That snapped me awake.
Neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk, several with phones raised.
“Don’t step on the glass.”
“Sarah!” I called. “Put the phone down! You know I don’t like Eli being filmed.”
She lowered it halfway. “Carina, it’s beautiful! Didn’t you see Facebook?”
My stomach turned. “What’s on Facebook?”
A man from two houses down shouted, “Carina, Eli’s famous!”
My son moved behind me.