No Way Back

"Out or in, Gabe," I called from my post at the kitchen sink, finishing up the lunch dishes.

I smiled faintly at the echo of my mother’s voice from my own childhood, chiding me with a similar admonition. My mother had somehow always known where I was from any point in the house. I still had eyes only in their customary place in the front of my head, so I was thankful the kitchen layout gave me a line of sight to the living room.

Gabe was just tall enough to reach the handle. He stood astride the threshold to the front yard, grubby little hand swinging the screen door in an arc of indecision. Then a fluffy golden streak shot by his legs.

"You let Kip out!" I scolded, drying my hands and heading to the entryway.

Kip was the same age as Gabe’s memory. They were puppies from the same litter—wrestling in the morning, making messes in the afternoon, snuggling at night. They also shared a mischievous side. Kip took advantage of any opportunity to go where he was not allowed—including the front yard. I doubt he would have tried so hard to sneak outside if we didn’t keep shooing him back in.

Gabe pouted and scooted after the terrier, letting the screen door bang behind him.

I was reaching for the door handle when I heard it. A screech. A thump, a yelp.

A wail.

Running, I snatched Gabe before he reached the street. I pressed him to my chest, turning his horrified face away from the bloody tangle of fur and bone in the street. It was a struggle to keep him in my arms as he kicked and contorted, his hands stretched toward Kip.

A young woman stepped from the car, mouth agape, cellphone still in her shaking hand. An apology welled in her eyes.

Save your sorries for whoever you were texting, I thought as I carried Gabe inside and shut our front door.

We sank into the armchair. Gabe clutched at my shirt as he hid his face in my neck. “Can you fix him?” His muffled voice was desperately hopeful. “Take him to the doctor?”

I hesitated. My sweet Gabe. All he knew was the before. The words that pressed against my lips would topple him over the threshold of an after, and the door would close shut behind him. All I could offer was one – two – three more precious seconds of silence, sheltered in the before.

But the words could not be stopped. "Kip's gone, honey." I stroked his curls. “No one can fix him.”

The force of this shocked Gabe out of my embrace. He stared at me, his tear-reddened eyes wide as he took in this foreign vista.

“I’m so sorry, my darling. We all loved Kip very much, but he’s not coming back.”

My son’s face twisted in his struggle against this onrushing thought. And then it crushed him. I could see the change in his eyes. Kip was gone, and in his place was the after.

Gabe looked at the screen door in anguish. I tried to gather him into my arms, but he pushed me away. His sobbing pleas arrowed mercilessly into my helpless heart.

"We have to go back, Mommy! Make time go back!"

One minute, I inwardly wailed. That's all we ask. Just one minute in reverse. What wouldn't I give for that power. But I was powerless, wordless, trapped like my son on the other side. All that went backward was my line of sight.

"Mommy! Make time go back!"