Red thread

No Tommy.

He loves the leaves, and yesterday was a very good leaf day. It was gusty, twirly whirly wind that spawned mini leaf-filled tornadoes. He wanted to watch.

I was in the kitchen, cleaning breakfast dishes and attempting to scrub the crusty, burned-on spots from our glasstop range. I could easily see Tommy sitting on top of the Little Tykes car, watching the action. He was barefoot, but it was warm enough and he was sitting, so I thought nothing of it. Joel decided to join him outside. I could hear them talking and squealing. I continued cleaning.

It was nearing the time we had to fetch Sammy from kindergarten, so I went outside to get the boys. I picked up Joel, who was playing in the wood chips on the side of the house, but didn’t see Tommy. I thought he must have gone inside while my back was turned.

I looked in the living room, where Nick Jr. was futily entertaining spiders and dust bunnies—he wasn’t there. I went back outside and looked on both sides of the house and through the giant leaf pile in the corner of the yard, where the wind blew a tidy pile together. He wasn’t outside.

Back inside, I looked in the living room again. Sometimes he piles the couch pillows on top of himself. I looked in the bathroom. I began to call his name and tell him it wasn’t funny to hide.

When I hit the fourth step on my trip upstairs my legs suddenly felt very weak. I called him. I looked in all four bedrooms, the closets, the bathrooms. I ran down the stairs, around a corner, and downstairs to the basement, which was very dark. He never went downstairs without the lights on. He was too afraid. I knew I wouldn’t find him there, but I looked. No Tommy.

I yelled his name. By the time I was back outside again I am pretty sure I was shreiking his name. My legs didn’t want to run and for the first time in my life I was aware that I had to will them to move. A very sick feeling engulfed me, physically, from head to toe. Our house backs to a well-travelled greenbelt. I looked up and down the greenbelt and suddenly I remembered how he was barefoot. My barefoot, losttakenstolenvanishedmissing boy. I shreiked his name and thought about the police and my husband and Joel and the dog. The latter two had been trailing me, the dog barking and Joel saying “Tommy!” very firmly.

I ran around inside the house, into every room again and he was not there, anywhere. I thought of the garage and knew it was my last hope. I opened the door and yelled his name.

“Mommy!” I heard a cry. I ran around the minivan and saw the right side door slid open and Tommy, sitting in his car seat, buckled in, “I can’t get out!” he cried. He got into the garage by knocking the cover off the dog-door that goes from the backyard to the garage, totally bypassing the house. He crawled through it, opened the minivan, and put himself in his car seat. He must have been in there for 10 minutes or so—I have no idea because the passage of time no longer had any meaning.

I unbuckled him and held him and cried and cried and cried. I told him how I thought he was lost. Oh, God, how much of an understatement it was to say. I sat on the floor of the minivan, in the open door, with him in my lap. Joel and the dog had climbed inside. I don’t know how long the four of us were in the van. When we finally went in the house I realized we needed to leave to get Sam.

It has been about 24 hours since No Tommy. I needed to let it sink in and wait for the trembling to stop before writing. I tried last night and ended up posting a picture of flowers from our backyard. I am hard-pressed to think of a time when I was more terrified and I can’t. I honestly thought someone snatched him from our backyard, via the greenbelt.

Yesterday took on an odd hue after No Tommy.

I was distracted, guilt-ridden, and quiet. I thought of parents who have lost children, but never gotten them back. That terror I felt went on and on, goes on and on for them. How entirely grateful I am everything worked out.

So the day went on. Hubby called to remind me about Ryley’s Tiger Scout meeting and how his uniform shirt still needed several badges sewn on. I told him I would do it later in the afternoon, with plenty of time left over before the meeting. After the big kids were home from school, I started.

They wanted to jump in the leaves in the backyard, so I thought I would take the sewing basket outside. I started with the thickest, longest badge. The border of was red, so I used red thread. It would be easy to continue with the three red number patches I had to sew on, too, which signified his pack number. Up and down, forcing the needle through the waxy backing to the embroidery on top. A few times I caught the sleeve in the thread and had to snip and start again. I watched the needle and the kids as they cannonballed into the leaves. Aidan made leaf angels, Sam made something called leaf elephants while laying on his side in the pile. “See my leaf elephant, mom?” he asked. I had to put down my sewing and look. Yep, there was a leaf elephant, I could see it.

I especially kept my eyes on Tommy as I sewed. Red thread through, poke my finger, where’s Tommy, there, back down, knot, knot, knot, pull tight, and snip. Where’s Tommy? There.

I sewed the three numbers on the shirt, one by one. They were slightly crooked, but well-attached. It was getting dark and chilly and my fingers were hurting. I still had one more badge so I told the kids we were going in. They could watch a DVD until dinner.

When I was done I put the shirt on a hanger and hung it on a doorknob. I was tired. Hubby arrived home and noticed the shirt. His eyebrows shot up and he said the last two numbers were reversed. He felt bad about telling me, but as the den leader it would look bad if his kid had the wrong number on his shirt. Instead of 493*, it should have been 439.

I got out the seam ripper and the red thread and the dulled needle. I started over.

It is so much easier to rip seams than sew. How fast everything can unravel. Bright red thread, sewn even and tight, can be plucked apart with astonishingly little effort.