My memories were not abstract.
They were physical.
The ache in my back.
The hospital bracelet around my wrist.
Tyler crying beside the bed.
My mother bringing blue balloons.
Mason weighed seven pounds, two ounces.
He had been born at 3:14 in the morning.
I remembered everything.
So why was another woman holding a photograph of two newborns with my son’s name written under one of them?
“Then explain the photograph,” I said.
“I’m trying.”
“No. You’re delaying.”
Tyler looked toward Mason.
“Some of this is complicated.”
Mason sat straighter.
“I know what complicated means.”
Tyler’s face crumpled for half a second.
“Mase—”
“Don’t call me that.”
The words were quiet.
They landed harder than shouting would
Tyler looked away.
Mason reached into his backpack.
He pulled out his drawing.
BEST PILOT EVER.
He unfolded it once.
Then twice.
The smiling picture of Tyler stood beneath the crooked letters, one hand resting proudly against a bright blue airplane.
Mason stared at it.
Then he turned it facedown on the table.
“I made that for you.”
Tyler covered his mouth.
“Mason, I am so sorry.”
“Did you know I was on the plane?”
“No.”
“Did you want me to hear you ask her to marry you?”
“No.”
“Did you want Mom to hear?”
“No.”
“Were you going to tell us?”
Tyler opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Mason nodded as if Tyler had answered.
Then he slid off his chair.
“I want to go outside now.”
I stood immediately.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
My heart squeezed.
He pointed through the narrow glass panel in the door.
One of Tyler’s flight attendants stood outside, pretending not to look in our direction.
“I can sit there.”
I crouched beside him.
“You sure?”
He nodded.
“Just for a minute.”
I kissed his forehead.
“Stay where I can see you.”
“I will.”
He walked outside carrying his backpack.
The flight attendant bent down and said something to him.
Mason nodded.
She handed him a small bottle of water.
Then he sat in a chair directly outside the glass.
