It has been so long since Samuel Baker died. She can feel the space he used to take up widen with every day, and she is concerned that, eventually, his absence will make her disappear as well. The house is silent most days, not even Jerry making enough noise to echo through their shared tomb. It’s the silence that really kills her. There had once been so much noise in her life. When Samuel was home, he had the kind of laugh that opened windows and let in fresh air. And then there was the war. Julianne cannot remember such pervasive quiet in any time before now. Sometimes, she will snap her fingers beside her ears just to test the quiet, and the sound of it reverberates in her head like a small bomb. Some nights, she finds herself driving to the Presidio, thinking she will tell them that she is a nurse. That war is hell and they need strong women to patch up the strong men. And then maybe, just maybe, her helicopter will be shot down as well.

Jerry has taken to sleeping in her bed. She tells him time and time again that big boys sleep in their own beds, but he is not interested in being a big boy. Big boys can’t cuddle up to their mothers when they’re feeling sad, and their mothers can’t get some small satisfaction out of it themselves. When he asks her questions about his father, she tells him the best things. She does not tell him that he chose to go to war. That he chose to take that chance with their family. Resentment and grief are so inextricably linked that way, but she can’t bring herself to exhibit it with her son.

Her neighbor has taken her son for the night, and the house is now dark as well as silent. It is just dusk, and she can still hear some children, maybe even her own child, outside, running through the grass and yelling. She is sitting on her bedroom floor, a fan of snapshots around her and a half empty bottle of gin in her lap. Reaching out, she picks up one creased photograph. In it, she is sat with her legs draped over his in the back of a car, they look calm and happy like they hadn’t just returned from war. Even in the black and white photograph, she could make out his tan and his freckles.

“Oh, Sam…”

“Julianne, what’s wrong?”

The sound of his voice startles her so visibly that he has to put his hands on her waist to steady her. His mouth is drawn tight into a concerned little line, his brow furrowed. His youth softens his features. His hair and clothing are tidy. It is Sam, but it is not. Reaching out, she puts her fingers to his face, and her chest constricts. He is alive and he is so handsome in his grey suit. Around them, the light changes from blue to pink and the music swells. Her hands are smooth now, the work of war has not yet aged them. If she looks down, she knows she will be wearing a spangled black dress and her long hair will be parted on the side in soft waves.

In one slow motion, she slips her arms around his neck and pulls him close to her, not wanting to let him go as they begin to sway to the music. There will be time for them, she reminds herself. They’re making plans. If she stays through the summer, they will go to the beach and kiss under the bright California sun. She will fall in love with the way the sunlight breaks across his face, carving out the spaces under his cheekbones and his nose. But the time they have is slippery and flows like water. Soon, they will go to colleges thousands of miles apart and he will learn to stand up to his father. She would like to stay in this space where he is alive and happy. Where they can hold onto each other the way that teenagers grip things so tightly.

“Sam, I--” When Julianne looks up again, Sam is gone. In the place where he once stood is a yawning, consuming nothingness. A solid and confused blackness.

In the deep blue Sunday morning, Julianne Draper settles into her own body and wakes slowly, her vision resisting the impulse to focus as she tries to remember each Samuel.