Another example, just a small thing, but-the game of sock. Tug-of-war, I should say, but Sam and Benny called it “sock,” as in “Want to play sock? Sonoma! Get the sock!” I tried to remind myself that tennis was the best game-Tennis, Laurie! You’re good at it, remember? Tennis is the best!-but it was hard. And face it: I got so much more joy out of sock than I ever got out of tennis.

Anyway, I didn’t leave. The days drifted by in a pleasant haze, long periods of comfortable idleness punctuated by bursts of extreme excitement-They’re home!-and profound contentment. I worried, and sometimes I had bad dreams, but time passed and it became increasingly clearer that the dog side of me was winning.

On Thursday, the principal at Benny’s school left a message on the machine that he’d been in a fight. She was sending a note home with him. She wanted to talk to Sam about it as soon as possible.

Benny in a fight? Impossible. What kind of fight? Was he hurt? No, or she’d have said, or there would’ve been something in her voice besides calm professionalism. I paced instead of napping the rest of the afternoon.

Mr. Horton came over twice to let me out, the second time in late afternoon, five or six, something like that. An amazing number of people talk out loud to dogs-you can’t believe the things they’ll say-but Mr. Horton wasn’t one of them. Where’s Sam? Where’s Benny? Why are they so late? I asked him with my best supplicant face, but all I got was the usual, “Come on, dog,” and, “Get busy.”

It was getting dark when the car pulled up. Of course the engine didn’t sound any different, and of course the doors slamming were just doors slamming-but I knew before I heard Sam and Benny’s slow, draggy footsteps that something was wrong. My sixth sense. And as soon as I smelled them, I knew what it was. Me. The scent of Hope Springs was all over them.

Sam let Benny have a glass of milk in the kitchen. I thought they’d talk, but they didn’t. How was I? Worse-I must be. Or exactly the same; that would be just as bad. So this mutual dejection that hung in the air like smoke from a grease fire was only because they’d seen me. That was all. No change. Just another soul-eroding visit to Laurie.

Benny dawdled over his milk, but didn’t argue when Sam told him to go up and get ready for bed, it was late. I usually went with Benny at those times, because of the intimacy. My little boy was never more my little boy than when he was getting into his wonderful-smelling pjs or peeing in the toilet (and on the floor) or standing at the sink on tiptoe to brush his teeth. But now I stayed with Sam, followed him when he went into the den. I wanted to see his reaction to the principal’s message.

He played it twice. His face was turned away, but everything else about him answered my question. This was the first he’d heard.

His feet on the stairs sounded like doom to me; I could imagine what they sounded like to Benny. I wanted to trip Sam, block him at the door, do something to protect Benny-but the instinct to confront him was just as strong. Sam and I went into our son’s room side by side.

He was sitting on his bed, working a puzzle. He didn’t look up, even when Sam sat next to him. “Ben.”

No answer. Intense scrutiny of puzzle.

“Is there something you have to tell me?”

Head shake.

“Benny.”

Silence.

“Is there something you have to show me?”

Long pause, then Benny got out of bed, found his book bag on the floor, rummaged through it for about an hour, withdrew a sealed envelope. Handed it to Sam wordlessly and got back in bed.

Sam looked at the envelope for a while before opening it. Not to prolong the suspense, just to put things off a few seconds longer. I sympathized.

Leaning in, I tried to read over his shoulder, but the type was too small. The letter wasn’t very long, one or two paragraphs, signed in ink. Sam sighed when he folded it and put it back in the envelope. “Okay. Tell me about this.”

Wordless and sullen, Benny clacked wooden puzzle pieces together hard.

“We’ve never talked about fighting before, not much, you and me. Were you angry at this boy, this-Doug? It’s okay to get mad at people, you know that. It’s what you do about-”

“He’s a poop head. He’s a dummy. He’s-” Benny looked up from the puzzle, right into Sam’s eyes. “He’s an asshole.”

“Hey, now-”

“He is.”

“Why?”

Benny wouldn’t answer.

“What did he do? Did he hit you first? That’s-”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I hit him.”

“Okay. Why? Did he say something?”

“He said-he said-” Tears welled and spilled over. “He s-said…”

“What did he say?” Very gently, Sam folded Benny in his arms. I sidled close, leaning my flank against both of them.

“He said Mommy…”

“What?”

“Is a…”

“What?’

“Vegetable.”

I made a choking sound, the closest to a sob I could come. They didn’t hear me; Benny was crying and Sam was crooning consolation. They were a tangle of arms and pressed-together faces, and all I could do was shove my snout into the places I could find skin.

“All right, listen. That kid was wrong.” He lifted Benny’s chin so he could look at him. “And you were right-he’s an asshole.”

“I know.” Benny wiped his slimy face on the sheet. “I told you.”

“But we don’t use that word, right? Well, except us, you and me. On rare occasions. We can say it to each other, but nobody else. How about that?”

“Okay.” A smile broke through. How cool to have a secret dirty word with Dad. I wasn’t sure I approved.

“And we don’t hit people when they say stupid things. Because they’re allowed to, it’s not against the law. People can be as stupid as they want, and we just ignore them. We can say, ‘You’re wrong,’ or maybe, ‘You’re an idiot,’ but that’s it. We don’t hit ’em, we just ignore ’em. Right?”

“Okay.” But then Benny’s face crumpled again. “Is she?” he asked in a small voice, head down, playing with a button on Sam’s shirt. “Is Mommy a…”

“No, Ben, no. She’s not.”

“But she just lies there.”

“She’s asleep.”

“But what if she never gets up?”

“She will.”

“But what if she doesn’t? What if she stays like that forever? I wish she would come home! Why can’t she wake up? Why!”

“I think she will.” He took Benny’s shoulders before the tears could start again. “I really think she will, but it might take some more time.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. But we’re her family, you and me-”

“And Aunt Delia.”

“And Aunt Delia, and all we can do is keep thinking about her, and praying for her, and going to see her, and telling her we love her. Because she can’t help it-you know she’d come back if she could, right? You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“She’s trying, but it’s very hard. She wants to be with us as much as we want her to be. We just have to keep waiting. And hoping, and not losing faith. And meanwhile, we’ve got each other.”

“I know.”

“You know.” Sam hugged him for a long time. “We’ll be okay,” he whispered over and over, until Benny’s body finally began to sag from sleepiness. “You and me, pal. We’ll be okay.”

So I knew what I had to do. And not tomorrow: tonight. No more stalling. I felt as if I’d woken up from an em barrassingly long nap. Why had I waited so long? Laziness, denial, cowardice-some retriever I’d been. But no more. Tonight I would begin the journey back. To myself. If I didn’t make it-and all the obstacles between me and Hope Springs had never looked so daunting-at least I’d have taken the chance. At least I’d have tried to put my family back together.

I stayed with Benny after he fell asleep, stretched out alongside him, my head on his shoulder. The sound of his heart and the rhythm of his breathing came right inside me, merged with my heart and breath. It was difficult to leave him, the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I didn’t want to wake him, so I didn’t kiss him good-bye. I put my warm nose in the hollow of his throat and breathed him in.