“I’m proud of him,” Elizabeth said, looking out the window at our son.
I nodded. “We’ve raised a pretty good young man. And young woman. When did we get to be so old?”
“Speak for yourself, Methuselah. I’m five years your junior.”
“Why do you think I married you?” I said.
Elizabeth laughed.
“You put together a nice birthday for Mary Beth. One she’ll always remember,” I said.
“I told you, it’s all about making memories.”
“Why do you think I put on the Santa suit at midnight on Christmas Eve for all those years?” I said.
“Because I told you I wouldn’t give you any Christmas sugar if you didn’t.”
I laughed. “Yeah, there was that.”
She pulled away and gave me a look. “Something else motivated you?”
“Just the Christmas sugar,” I said, and we kissed.
My phone rang and I reached for it. The caller ID was unknown, but the area code was local. I answered it.
“Mr. Bianco?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Eric Rochambeau,” he said. Serra’s principal.
The name surprised me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rochambeau?”
“There’s been a car accident. I’m sorry. I’m wondering . . . I’m sorry, but the details are sketchy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is Beau home with you?”
I felt my knees go weak but managed to stand, and I looked to the backyard, to where Beau sat texting.
“He’s here,” I said. “We celebrated his sister’s sixteenth birthday tonight. What’s happened? Why did you ask if Beau was home?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just assumed . . . Chris Carpenter was in a car with three other seniors. I just expected one to be Beau.”
“No,” I said. Then, “What happened?”
“A drunk driver on the 101 freeway swerved into their lane. Peter Oxford jerked the steering wheel to avoid the impact, but he hit the guardrail and flipped the car.”
“Oh no. No,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. “Chris? What happened to Chris?”
“What is it? What’s happened?” Elizabeth asked. “Vince, what’s happened?”
“Oxford was hospitalized in critical condition with head and back injuries,” Rochambeau said. “The two seniors seated in the back seat walked away with bruises and cuts.”
“Chris,” I said again. “What happened to Chris?”
“I’m sorry,” Rochambeau said. “Chris didn’t make it. I don’t know the details.”
His words blurred, something about Chris sitting in the passenger seat because he was too big to sit in the back, about initial reports that he had hit the ceiling and snapped his neck. The car did not have airbags.
I listened, but I stared into the backyard, at Beau. He had moved to the back door. I gave the phone to Elizabeth. “Vince,” she said again. “Vince.”
I went to the door just as Beau stepped through. “I can’t get ahold of anyone,” he said, and I hugged him. I hugged my son with every ounce of my being, with every bit of love in my soul, and I cried, knowing that it still would not be enough.
“Dad?”
Behind me Elizabeth sobbed. “Oh, dear God,” she said, sinking into the chair. “Oh, dear God.”
“Dad,” Beau said, starting to resist my hug. “What happened?”
I looked at my son and I wished, more than at any other time in my life, that I didn’t have to tell him what had happened, that I could somehow remove the pain I would inflict, and somehow inflict it on myself.
Beau looked frozen in place.
“There was a car accident,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Beau. Chris is gone. That was Mr. Rochambeau on the phone . . .”
Beau gasped. His eyes widened with fear and panic. He looked like he couldn’t breathe.
Elizabeth, instinct kicking in, rushed to her son. “He’s hyperventilating. Get a bag.”
I went into the kitchen and pulled open drawers.
“Vince!”
I found the brown lunch bags, grabbed one, and handed it to Elizabeth. She had her hand on Beau’s back. Our son was bent at the waist, gasping. “Beau, short breaths. Take short breaths.”
Elizabeth put the bag to Beau’s mouth and he took great gasps; the bag looked like it might explode with each exhale.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” I said.