The Coyote
By Loretta Morris
The ping from my phone, announcing an incoming text message, instantly woke me from a deep sleep. I focused on the glowing numbers of the alarm clock, 4:00 a.m. on the dot. This can’t be good. Good news is never delivered in the wee hours and never on the dot. In an effort to stave off the inevitable, the bearer of bad news will think, I’ll wait until whatever o’clock to call, which gives him more time to shore up his courage and rehearse the words he will use to deliver his unwelcomed report. I felt around on the nightstand for my glasses and put them on, poking myself in the eye in the process. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself for the worst.
I just wanted you to know I’m safe. We
can’t go to Brussels for obvious reasons.
Going to Amsterdam instead. Talk
to you later. Love you.
Oh, thank God. I had texted my son earlier in the week warning that Brussels probably wasn’t the best place to go these days, ever since Abdeslam Salah had been arrested there for the terrorist attacks in Paris. I was glad someone in his company was thinking ahead. I answered his text, realizing with an audible “Duh” that it wasn’t the wee hours in Europe. Mothers worry so much. I answered:
Good idea. Glad you’re safe. Love you too.
Post pictures from Amsterdam,
and drifted back to sleep, relieved.
*****
Somewhere in the grayness of a tiny wooded area in the suburbs of Chicago, the coyote stirred. Morning. He inhaled deeply, stretched, and surveyed his unfamiliar surroundings. He had wandered here after losing his bearings during the storm last night but despite the rain, he could hear the others calling to him, and he knew he wasn’t far from home. He felt safe enough. There were no obvious signs of danger, no predators. There never were.
*****
The alarm clock went off at 5:33 a.m. I hit the snooze once, twice, three times as usual, timed perfectly so I’d finally open my eyes for good at 5:59, leaving one minute to shake away the cobwebs before the World News Roundup on WBBM at 6:00. Good news is never delivered on the dot.
As the story of the bombings in Brussels was reported, it became clear why Michael had texted me. Terrorists had attacked the airport and the subway. I was sleepily unaware of it at 4:00, but at 6:00 the story was unfolding in the United States. I lay paralyzed in my bed, listening to the horrific reports and the estimated death toll. My God, he was supposed to be there. He probably would have been safe, but so close. Closer than last time. And the time before that.
My son Michael lives in Florence, Italy, and works for a travel company whose target customers are American college students studying there. He leads a fun and interesting life, spending each Monday through Thursday at college campuses in Florence, and hanging out at bars and coffee shops at night, selling weekend excursions to locations throughout Europe. Friday through Sunday is spent traveling, mostly on buses, with his groups. Since starting this dream job the previous August he has made trips to Prague, Munich, Berlin, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Madrid, Interlaken, Zurich, Brussels, Pisa, Amalfi, and of course, Paris.
He was able to come home for an extended visit from mid November to the first of January, coinciding with college breaks. There was no business for him during this time, and I was delighted to have him home for the holidays. He arrived home on Wednesday, November 11, 2015, at O’Hare Airport on a Turkish Air flight, which had originated in Istanbul. I was relieved when the board displayed “LANDED,” and thirty minutes later I was hugging my travel-weary boy like I had never hugged him before.
Two days later, as I was driving home from work, I heard about the terrorist attacks in Paris. Michael had been in the precise location of one of the gunmen exactly one week earlier. A close call, by any mother’s standard.
*****
The coyote wasted no time in finding his breakfast. A not-quite-quick-enough rabbit served as his first, and possibly only meal of the day. He slunk out of the sheltering trees onto a vast expanse of closely cropped green grass, and a few confusing pits filled with sand. What is this strange place? He trotted toward an oddly placed pond to wash down his breakfast. Suddenly, the sound “FORE!” came from somewhere close by, and a round, white object landed near him with a soft thump. He was startled, but unharmed. He sniffed the object, then stopped. He cocked his head toward another sound, a faint barking coming from….over there… and trotted towards it to investigate.
*****
I always like to keep track of where in the world Michael is on the weekends. Mother hen looking after her chick, I guess. One particular weekend in March was different for Michael, because he had some precious time off. No traveling for work, but he and three of his colleagues decided to take a trip of their own, to Istanbul. When he texted me this information, I immediately got on the U.S. State Department website and found that a travel warning had just been issued for US citizens throughout all of Turkey. I called him back with the warning.
“Mom, stop worrying so much. Everything will be OK. Istanbul is hundreds of miles from Syria”
“The US government issued a warning. They did that for a reason.”
“You can’t spend your life afraid, Mom. I’ll be careful.”
He posted beautiful photos of the Blue Mosque, and places I had not known of before. Breathtaking places like the Topkapi Palace and the Galta Tower. I was proud of his adventurous spirit and envious of these experiences I would probably never have.
That evening, a text:
Don’t freak out. The bombing was over 300
miles away in the capital. I’m sorry if you were scared.
I’m safe and on a plane back to Italy now.
“What?” I yelled at my iphone, and immediately looked up the story. There had been a terrorist bombing in Ankara, Turkey, the capital city. Thirty-seven dead. As if that wasn’t bad enough, exactly one week later on March 19, a bomb went off in the main shopping district in Istanbul, killing five. Among the dead were two American tourists. And once again, exactly one week before the attack, my son had been in the very spot where the carnage had taken place. Twice now.
*****
“Mom! Mommy! Hurry! He’s trying to get Pepper!” The terrified boy picked up a stone from the flower bed and hurled it at the coyote. “Get away!” The stone, not big enough to do any real harm, hit the coyote on the back leg just as he was about to close his jaws around the yapping Pomeranian’s throat. He stopped his pursuit of the little dog as another stone came whizzing by his ear. Then a woman, screaming and swinging a heaving looking object, smelling of food…meat… charged him. He turned back towards the opening in the chain link fence and slipped through, narrowly avoiding his attacker.
*****
Looking back on that morning, The Brussels Morning, I realized as I went through my routine – showering, getting dressed, breakfast – that in an effort to process all that had happened, I had been talking to myself almost non-stop. Mumbling about Paris and Istanbul, and now Brussels. A rambling monologue about the state of the world, a fervent prayer of thanks for Michael’s safety, a rehearsed lecture for the next time I spoke to him. The tears were building up, waiting for an opportunity to escape, but I remained strong, knowing how lucky he was. This was not a time for crying.
*****
Trotting across the unnaturally short grass again, the coyote became aware of a constant sound of movement and speed. Shiny objects, huge and rolling on a hard surface, blocked his way to the next forest. A short boundary to be traversed to get away from this strange environment he had wandered into. As the machines raced by he caught glimpses of a familiar landmark. Home. He ran, confident he would reach his destination in a few short seconds and be reunited with the others. I’ve missed you.
*****
I listened to the news on my drive to work that morning. Forget my usual music stations, I wanted information. Facts. Data. Traffic was on the light side but moving quickly as it always did during rush hour. In the distance, about a block ahead of me, I saw a coyote dart into the street from a golf course. “No!” I shouted, “No!” He made it across one, then two lanes. “Hurry!” Three lanes. “Go!” Then the fourth, the last lane, right in plain view of me, he was hit. His body rose into the air in a high arc and landed in a heap on the side of the road, just a few feet from the entrance to the forest preserve. So close to home. Dead.
I don’t remember the rest of the drive in, or arriving at work, or getting the keys to open my classroom. The next thing I remember was sitting at my desk and sobbing uncontrollably, my bewildered coworkers at a loss as to how to console me. I was sure I’d never see my son again. I was sure that he would be blindsided by a terrorist attack and lay dead on the side of a road somewhere, alone. I was sure I would be burying him. I was sure.
*****
The doorbell rang, and through the screen my daughter Jill yelled, “Mom, I’m here!”
“Come in,” I hollered back, too absorbed in my Sunday crossword puzzle to get up.
“You come here!” she answered, “I have something for you.”
“Oh brother,” I mumbled, realizing that the present she brought me must be a huge garden statue or some other object that was too heavy for her to carry.
I was right.
“Happy Mother’s Day!” she shouted, motioning towards her car.
And there he was. Michael.
“Hi Mom!”
Then, after the hugs and tears and more hugs and more tears, they told me the story of how he had been home for a few days, secretly staying with Jill in her Chicago apartment, waiting for the big Mother’s Day surprise.
I brought you something,” Michael said, and fished out a small bag from his overstuffed backpack. In it, carefully folded in delicate tissue, a silk scarf from the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, soft and colorful and fringed.
“It was worth it, Mom,” he said, noticing I was tearing up again, “You have to stop worrying so much.”
Never.