I forced my heavy legs toward the hallway, my hands braced against the wall for support. When I finally reached the door and opened it, the light from the porch illuminated a scene that nearly made me lose touch with reality. A small boy stood there, shivering in the cool night air. He was barefoot, his face smeared with dirt, but his features were the spitting image of the child I had buried. He wore a faded blue T-shirt with a rocket printed across the chest—the same T-shirt Evan had worn the last time I saw him at the hospital. The same unruly lock of hair, the same dimple, and those big brown eyes staring at me with a mixture of hope and fear.
“Who are you?” I whispered, my voice sounding like it came from the depths of the water. The boy frowned, a familiar expression of mild confusion. “It’s me, Mom. Why are you crying?” He walked into the house with an ease that sent shivers down my spine. He didn’t hesitate; he didn’t look around like a stranger. He went straight to the kitchen cupboard, grabbed the shelf where we kept the children’s dishes, and pulled out a blue plastic cup decorated with cartoon sharks. “Do we still have the blue juice?” he asked. I was paralyzed. I had seen the doctors shake their heads. I had kissed a cold forehead in a small coffin. I had stood by the grave while they lowered the earth into it. And yet, there he was, telling me that I often complained about his drool on the straw of this shark cup – a detail I had never confided to anyone.
