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.
I stepped in front of him completely. “Everybody put your phones down. Now! He’s a child.”
A few people looked embarrassed. A few lowered their phones slowly.
“What’s on Facebook?”
I walked onto the wet grass, robe dragging at my ankles. Eli stayed close beside me.
The first umbrella was dark blue. The box beneath it had a tag tied to the lid.
“For Eli.”
“Stay back, bud,” I told him.
“Mom, it has my name on it.”
“I know. But we don’t know who put it here. So I’m going to open it first.”
He nodded.
I knelt and lifted the lid.
Then I screamed.
The first umbrella was dark blue.
Inside was a tight bundle wrapped in blue fabric.
For one awful second, it looked strange and wrong.
Then I saw the wooden handle, the silver button, and Eli’s name in my husband’s handwriting.
Eli dropped beside me. “That’s Dad’s,” he whispered.
“It is.”
“How did it get here?”
He looked at the boxes, then at the neighbors. His face went pale.
“Mom, we need to call someone. Maybe the police. This is scary.”
“How did it get here?”
“I know. We’re not touching anything else until I know who did this.”
“Wait! There’s a note,” Eli said.
***
I looked down. There was a folded piece of paper tucked under the umbrella strap.
“Read it,” he whispered.
My hands shook as I opened it.
“Eli,
I promised I would return this. I didn’t know it would come home with a crowd.
Thank you for covering me when I felt invisible.
Jenelle.”
“There’s a note,”
“That’s the lady,” Eli said. “She said her name was Jenelle.”
***
Before I could answer, a silver car pulled up. A pregnant woman stepped out slowly, one hand under her belly.
“That’s her, Mom.”
I walked toward her with Darren’s umbrella pressed to my chest.
“Are you Jenelle?”
She nodded. “Carina, I’m so sorry.”
My stomach tightened. “How do you know my name?”
“That’s her, Mom.”
