3:33 am

I woke with a start, heart hammering in my chest. Flat on my back, skin prickled with goose bumps, I shivered in my thin gown. At some point during the night I’d kicked off the blankets and lost my second pillow. Sighing, I stared at the ceiling, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The bedroom was quiet, save for the soft hum of the ever-running ceiling fan. I could just make out the whirling blades.

I really wanted the other pillow. It was softer than the one under my head, more broken in. I enjoyed holding it, clutching it against me, pretending it was Ryan. The pillow was probably on the floor right next to me. Only once had I discovered I’d flung it across the room.

I sighed again. Turning to pick up the pillow meant looking at the clock. I couldn’t NOT look at the little black box. The bright red digital numbers insisted I read them.

Fine, whatever, just do it. I counted down in my head – three, two, one – and turned onto my right side. I reached down, found my pillow pal and glanced at the clock.

Three thirty-three a.m. Damn.

I grabbed the pillow, pulled the blankets back up, all the way to my chin, and turned to the left, to Ryan’s side of the bed. The empty side.

I squeezed the pillow and shut my eyes. I didn’t understand it. I’d been waking up in the middle of the night for weeks. Not at one-fifteen or two forty-five or four-ten. It was always three thirty-three exactly. Always.

I was scared; I wasn’t going to deny it. I’d heard once that the true witching hour was between three and four a.m., not at midnight, as most people believed. I was starting to think our townhouse might be haunted, but by who or what?

Not by Ryan. He wasn’t dead, just overseas. Though I suppose, at any minute, I could get what the other military wives referred to as The Call. Maybe that’s why I kept waking up at That Time. I was going to get The Call and it would be at That Time and I was supposed to be prepared for The End.

I reached out to Ryan’s side. He was coming back – he promised. He missed Christmas last week, but he’d called and swore he’d be back soon. High on holiday spirit, Junior and I believed him.

Junior. I flipped back over to my right side, still clinging to the pillow, and stared out my open bedroom door down the dark hallway. Junior’s nightlight cast an eerie blue glow against his open door. In the stillness I could hear the other love of my life snoring softly.

I closed my eyes and remembered when Ryan and Junior barreled into my existence five years ago. It was New Year’s Eve, and I was working a double shift in the emergency room. I was just one of many who tended to Ryan, Junior, and Molly, Ryan’s wife and Junior’s mother, after the three were in a car accident. They had been at a family party and left just before midnight because baby Junior was getting fussy. Twenty minutes later, their compact car was hit by a drunk driver in a heavy-duty truck. The driver hit the passenger side where Molly sat. Junior’s car seat was behind Ryan’s driver seat. Miraculously, he and Ryan suffered only minor injuries. Molly tried to hang on but her injuries were too severe, and she died a few hours into the new year. I was the last person she saw.

“Take care of him,” she’d whispered to me. I’d entered her room to check her vital signs, not expecting her to be awake.

I sat beside her and took her hand. I wasn’t sure which him she was referring to, so I simply said, “Your husband and son are going to be okay. You can see them soon.”

She shook her head. A tear trickled down her bruised cheek. “No. I’m going home. Father is . . . calling me home.” She closed her eyes.

“Molly?” I glanced at her monitor. Her heart rate was slowing. I started to let go of her hand when she gripped me, eyes still closed.

“Promise me,” she said, soft but fierce. “Promise me you’ll take care of him. I’ll know.” She opened eyes, blue and intense, and stared at me. “I’ll know.”

Then she was gone.

Two months later, I accepted a dinner invitation from Ryan.

Six months later, we moved in together.

One year later, I married Ryan and officially adopted Junior.

A scratching sound from Junior’s room interrupted my trip down bittersweet memory lane. My eyes flew open. I released the pillow, sat up and listened. Junior’s snoring had ceased.

“Huh?” Junior’s sleepy voice cut through the darkness. “Okay.”

Senses on high alert, I tensed as the hall light flickered on and Junior appeared in his Batman pajamas. He stopped in my doorway, rubbing his eyes.

“Mama?”

“Come here, handsome boy,” I said, reaching for him. I pulled him into an embrace and stroked his newly-shorn hair. He’d wanted to look like Daddy. “What’s up?”

“Thirsty,” Junior replied, yawning.

“Okay, let me get you some water.” He sat down on the edge of the bed as I got up. “You talkin’ to yourself in there?”

“Nope.” Another yawn.

“Oh, I thought I heard you talking.”

“I was. Can I have soda?”

“No, you cannot have soda, especially in the middle of the night. How about milk if you don’t want water?”

“Okay but don’t make it warm. That’s gross.” He wrinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue.

“Alright, one small glass of cold milk, coming up.” I grabbed my robe and put it on. The house felt colder than usual.

“So, hey,” I tried again. “Who were you talking to? Mr. Bear? Batman?”

Junior just shook his head and rubbed his eyes again.

I let it go. He was too drowsy to question. I walked out of the bedroom and headed for the stairs.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?” I paused on the landing, grateful I had a grip on the stair rail after what came next.

“After you get me some water, could you go talk to the lady in my closet? She wants to tell you something.” Junior paused.

“She wants to tell you . . . she knows.”