Your mother’s been in an accident, they said. Later, I couldn’t remember which cop had first broken the news, Detective Lieutenant Hammersmith or Chief Bode of the Dunnsmouth Police. Hammersmith was the squat black man with the glasses who said he’d come down from the Uxton State Police Detective Unit. Whenever he talked, or tried to lead the discussion, Bode, a white, chubby, red-faced man, would try to cut him off. Their questions overlapped and kept me confused. When was the last time I saw my mother? Had she talked to me during the day? And the topper: Did she know how to swim? I had only one question of my own. “Is she dead?” Hammersmith and Bode exchanged a look. Hammersmith grimaced. “The Coast Guard is running a search pattern with helicopters, and local fishermen are helping out,” he said. “The important thing is not to lose faith.” Bode said, “Missing is not dead.” I sat on the couch, folded over like I’d been gut-punched. They tried to tell me what had happened, but I was having trouble processing the information, and I had to ask them to repeat it.
