Simple Favors
Hi, moms!
It wasn't Emily on the phone. It was a robocall telling me I'd won a free trip to the Caribbean.
Where was I? Oh, right:
Last summer, sunning at the community pool while the boys splashed in the baby pool, Emily said, "I'm always asking you for favors, Stephanie. And I'm so grateful. But can I ask for just one more? Could you take care of Nicky so Sean and I can get away, for Sean's birthday weekend, to my family's cabin?" Emily always calls it "the cabin," but I imagine that her family vacation home on the shore of a lake in northern Michigan is a bit fancier than that. "I was amazed Sean agreed, and I want to nail this down before he changes his mind."
Of course I said yes. I knew what a problem it was for her to lure Sean away from his office.
"On one condition," I said.
"Anything," she said. "You name it."
"Can you put suntan oil on this hard-to-reach spot on my back?"
"Gladly." Emily laughed. As I felt her small, strong hand rubbing the oil into my skin, I remembered the fun of going to the beach with my friends in high school!
The weekend that Emily and Sean went away, Miles, Nicky, and I had a great time. The pool, the park, a movie, and burgers and veggies on the grill.
Emily and I have been friends for a year, since our boys met in pre-K. Here's a picture of her I took at Six Flags, though you can't see her all that well. It's a selfie of the four of us, boys and moms. I scanned the kids out. You know I have strong opinions about posting images of one's kids.
I don't know what she was wearing the day she disappeared. I didn't see her when she dropped Nicky off at school. She was a little late that day. Usually the buses arrive and unload all at once. The teachers have a lot going on, greeting the kids, herding them inside. I don't blame them for not noticing what Emily was wearing or whether she seemed like her cheerful normal self or anxious in any way.
Probably Emily looked like she always looks when she's going to the office: like a fashion executive (she gets designer clothes at a huge discount) heading to work in the city. She'd called me early that morning.
"Please, Stephanie, I need your help. Again. An emergency's come up at work, and I have to stay late. Alison has a class. Can you get Nicky at school? I'll come get him in the evening, nine at the latest."
I remember wondering: What counts as an "emergency" in the fashion business? The buttonholes are too small? Someone sewed a zipper in backward?
I said, "Of course. I'm totally happy to do you a favor."
A simple favor. The sort of simple favor we moms do for each other all the time. The boys would be thrilled. I'm pretty sure I remember asking Emily if she wanted Nicky to sleep over. And I'm pretty sure she said no thanks. She'd want to see him at the end of a tough day, even if he was asleep.
I picked up Nicky and Miles after school. They were in heaven. They love each other in that puppyish way little boys do. Better than brothers, who fight.
They played nicely in my son's room and on the swings where I could watch them from the window. I made them dinner. We had a healthy meal. As you know, I'm a vegetarian, but Nicky will only eat burgers, so that's what I cooked. I can't count how often I've blogged about how hard I try to balance the good nutritious stuff with what they'll actually eat. The boys discussed an incident at school: a boy got sent to the principal's office for not listening to the teacher even after he got a time-out.
It got late. Emily didn't call. Which seemed weird. I texted her, and she didn't text me back. Which seemed even weirder.
Okay, she said emergency. Maybe something happened at a factory in one of the countries where the clothes are made. Sewn by slaves is my impression, but that could never be mentioned. Maybe there's another scandal involving her boss, Dennis, who's had some well-publicized substance-abuse episodes. Emily has had to do some heavy damage control. Maybe she was at a meeting and couldn't get out. Maybe she was somewhere with no cell phone reception. Maybe she'd lost her charger.
If you knew Emily, you'd know how unlikely it is that she would lose her charger. Or that she wouldn't find a way to call in and check on Nicky.
We moms are so used to being in touch. You know how it feels when you need to reach someone. It's like you're possessed. You keep calling and texting and trying to keep yourself from calling and texting again because you just called and texted.
Each time, my calls went to voice mail. I heard Emily's "professional" voice—perky, crisp, all business. "Hi there, you've reached Emily Nelson. Please leave a brief message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Talk soon!"
"Emily, it's me! Stephanie! Call me!"
It got to be bedtime for the boys. Emily still hadn't called. This had never happened. I got those stomach butterflies of fear. Terror, really. But I didn't want to let the kids know, especially Nicky . . .
I can't write any more, moms. I'm just too upset.
Love,
Stephanie
