blessing--and she withered down to it.
Janice sounded agonizingly happy. "Mom, hi! What a surprise! Five more minutes and we'd have been out the door. We're going to Fisherman's Wharf today!"
Oh, anice, my beloved daughter, how I wish I didn't have to do this to you.
"Honey, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come home. I have some very sad news. Janice, dear, I'm so sorry . . . there's been a very bad motorcycle accident." Saying it for the first time was like hearing it for the first time: shock and horror coupled with a sense of unreality, as if it were someone else speaking the words about her son.
"Our sweet Greg is dead."
"Oh no . . . no . . . nooooo. Oh, Mom . . . Oh God . . . no . .
."
She gripped the receiver in both hands, wanting to be there with Janice, to hold her, cradle her, help her through this. Instead they were separated by 2,000 miles and she could only listen to her daughter weep. "No, no, it can't be true!"
"Oh, Janice, darling, I wish I were there with you." Through those terrible minutes on the phone, Lee was vaguely aware of Sylvia's arm surrounding her shoulders and Christopher standing nearby.
"Janice, you'll have to . . . to get the first . . . first fl . .
She broke into tears and tried to stifle them so Janice wouldn't hear.
Sylvia turned her into a hug and Chris took the receiver.
"Janice, this is Christopher Lallek. I'm here with your mother and so is your aunt Sylvia. I'm so sorry . . . yes, we're all in shock."
Her voice was broken and distorted by weeping. She asked questions and he answered--the difficult ones a mother should not have to repeat.
Afterward he said, "Janice, put Kim on the phone." realizing Janice was too overwrought with shock to function well, he spoke to the other young woman about changing plane reservations, told her to call back and that he'd be out at the airport himself to pick up Janice whenever she came in. With these details handled, he returned the phone to Mrs. Reston and listened to a painful goodbye.
"J . . . Janice? . . . Yes . . . me too . . . Please hurry."
Hanging up, Lee felt depleted. Still, she said, "I may as well call Joey too and get it over with."
"Let me," Sylvia pleaded in a whisper. "Please, let me."
"No, Sylvia. This one I have to do, too. And the mortuary. Then I'll let you and Christopher do the rest."
As it turned out, the Whitman family couldn't be reached. It was a hot summer afternoon: They were probably out on the lake.
Lee said, "We'll keep trying them." She stared at the telephone, which seemed both friend and enemy. She'd been through this before, she knew what must be done but resisted making the move to pick up that instrument once more and order a caretaker of dead bodies to take care of her son's. Dear God . . . on his motorcycle. The image struck with horrendous force but she buried it behind a memory of Greg hale and smiling as he drove his cycle out of her driveway, lifting a hand in farewell, shouting, "Thanks for the good grub, Ma. You're a helluva cook!"
Other memories came, of the day Bill died, and their three-month-old baby, Grant. She shuddered and summoned a picture of her two remaining children, thinking, I'm lucky, I'm lucky, I've still got them. I'll be strong for them.
Keeping their images clearly before her, she dialed the mortuary.
She did fine until the question "Where is he?"
Suddenly reality dropped and crushed her. "Why . . . where?" she repeated, casting her eyes around as if searching for the answer in the paint on the walls. "I . . . I don't . . . oh, goodness .
.."
Immediately Christopher came and took the phone. He spoke in a clear, authoritative voice. "This is police officer Christopher Lallek of the Anoka Police Department, a friend of the deceased.
May I answer any questions?"
He listened and said, "Mercy Hospital morgue."
"At ten-thirty today."
"A motorcycle accident."
"Yes."
"Yes, I think so."
"910-8510."
"Faith Lutheran."
"Yes, if she doesn't have one we have