Small as an Elephant - Jennifer Richard Jacobson [6]
He had, skipping over a bad word or two, and she had smiled.
Jack woke feeling as if someone had glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth. According to his phone, it was nine p.m., only a couple of hours later. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d been lying there, playing stupid games: If he could remember all the names of the sixteen Hawthorn-owned elephants, his mother would come back. Or if he could remember the names of the rescued elephants at the Tennessee sanctuary, his mother would come back. Or if he could remember which elephants at the Tennessee sanctuary were Hawthorn elephants, his mother would come back. But he’d dozed off, and now the salami and cheese had left him dying of thirst. He grabbed the two cups he’d gotten from the convenience store and headed down the road to find the tap. A full moon, rather than his flashlight, lit the way.
Aiden’s mother was at the faucet; he recognized her red hair, pulled back in a ponytail. For a moment he thought of turning back, waiting until she left, but he was afraid he’d already been seen and didn’t want to appear more conspicuous. He stood nearby, and he waited until she had filled her pot with rushing water before saying hi.
“You’re the boy from the beach today,” she said. “Jack, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“Aiden was thrilled to find you. I wouldn’t let him bring a friend. Told him he’d meet kids on the road, but he didn’t believe me.”
Jack smiled and filled one of his cups. He gulped down the water, knowing his grandmother would accuse him of being rude, but he had to have water immediately. Maybe it wasn’t just the salami; maybe it was the hot dogs and the sun and the salty sea, too, but Jack had never in his whole life felt so thirsty.
“Who are you camping with?” she asked. There was the question.
“My mother,” he said, wiping his mouth with the hand that held the second cup. “I’m getting water for her, too,” he said, lifting the two cups (like a little kid would, he thought later) and bending to fill them both.
“We’re going to Echo Lake tomorrow. Would you and your mother like to join us? I know Aiden would certainly be happier.”
Jack was glad he had two cups to fill; it gave him more time to think. He and his mom would have a ton of things to do tomorrow, all the stuff that had been on their list — that is, assuming she came back tonight, or first thing tomorrow morning. Which she probably would.
But what if she didn’t? Nothing would be worse than sitting around, waiting for her. Besides, it would serve her right to wonder where he was.
“My mother’s not feeling well, but I’d like to come. I’ll ask her if it’s OK,” he said.
“Great!” she said. “Would you like me to walk back with you?”
“No — thanks, though. I think I’m just going to stand here and empty the well,” he said. “Or the reservoir, or whatever.”
“OK, then,” she said. “Good night.”
An ache in his chest, an ache he didn’t even know he had, started to lift. Maybe a good-night from a mother — from anyone’s mother — was all he needed.
The next morning, Jack woke to the wheezy cooing of a mourning dove and felt happy — for about two seconds. Then he remembered. He listened, hoping to hear his mother moving around the site, whistling “Sunny Days” from Sesame Street, like she always did, but he knew better. She wouldn’t have waited for Jack to wake on his own. She’d have circled the tent, pretending to be a coyote or something. Then she’d have pounced on him, taking the whole tent down with her. She’d crawl into the collapsed tent and hug him, finally telling him where she’d been. He would push her away, but it wouldn’t work. “Don’t be mad at me, Jack,” she’d say. “I could never leave you.”
“Like an elephant,” he whispered now. Even when in danger, a mother elephant would not leave her calf.
He looked at his phone to check the time and noticed that not only did he still not have reception, but the battery was about to die. The charger was in the car — the car his mother had taken. He turned his phone off.
The tent smelled sour. No