The nurse went back down the hall and pretty soon the hospital social worker showed up and talked to him. She wasn’t much help, asking him the same series of questions he couldn’t answer. She finally contacted a neighbor, a couple his parents barely knew. Jon spent that night and the next night with them. He left notes on the front and back doors so his father would know where he was.

His mother survived for a day and a half and then she was gone. The last time he saw her—the night his father finally showed up—she had IV lines in both ankles. There was a blood-pressure cuff on one arm, and a clamp on her finger to measure her pulse, a catheter, an arterial line in one wrist, and tubing taped over her face. He knew the exact moment the rise and fall of her chest ceased, but he watched her anyway, thinking he could still see movement. Finally, his father told him it was time to go.

Lionel drove them home and spent the next two hours on the phone, notifying friends and relatives, the insurance company, and Jon wasn’t sure who else. While his father was occupied, Jon went into his mother’s room. Lionel’s side of the bed was untouched and still neatly made, while on his mother’s side the sheets were rumpled, with pillows still stacked against the headboard. There were the same wadded tissues on the floor.

The plate with the grilled cheese sandwich was on the table. It was cold and the bread had dried out, but he sat on the edge of the bed and ate it anyway while his body warmth brought up his mother’s scent from the sheets. Because of his braces, he couldn’t bite down on a sandwich without getting bread sludge stuck in the wires, so he broke off bites one at a time and chewed them, thinking of her.

At ten that night, his father found him, sitting there in the dark. Lionel turned the light on and sat down beside him, putting an arm around Jon’s shoulder.

“You weren’t at fault, Jon. I don’t want you to think anyone blames you for not getting help to her soon enough . . .”