“Mom, we can’t keep this.”
I looked at Jenelle. “You don’t get to write the ending alone this time.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “The depot has an old rack we could clean up. Nothing fancy, but sturdy.”
“The school has lost-and-found umbrellas,” Eli said. “And people could leave ponchos. Maybe bus cards too.”
***
“What would you call it?” I asked.
Eli looked at the number painted on Box #47.
“The Route 47 Rain Rack.”
Mr. Collins smiled. “That has a ring to it.”
“The Route 47 Rain Rack.”
Eli touched Darren’s umbrella gently. “Can the tag say, ‘Started with Darren’s umbrella’?”
My throat closed.
“Yes,” I said. “But this umbrella comes home with us.”
Eli nodded. “I know. Dad’s stays with us.”
Jenelle looked at me carefully. “May I write a follow-up? With your permission this time?”
“I have rules.”
She pulled out her notebook. “Tell me.”
“No last names. No address. No close-ups of Eli’s face. No making Darren’s death the headline. And don’t call my son a hero like he doesn’t still leave cereal bowls in the sink.”
“Dad’s stays with us.”
Jenelle wrote every rule down. “I promise.”
A week later, the transit office approved the rack beside the bus shelter. Mr. Collins painted it blue. The school stocked it with umbrellas, ponchos, gloves, and prepaid bus passes.
The brass tag on the front read:
“The Route 47 Rain Rack
Started with Darren’s umbrella.”
Eli clipped a brand-new blue umbrella onto the rack. Then he tucked Darren’s old one under his arm.
“You sure?” I asked.
He touched the new umbrella. “This one’s for sharing.”
“I promise.”
Then he looked down at the one his father had given him.
“And this one’s for remembering.”
I put my arm around his shoulders.
For two years, I thought Darren’s last gift had to be protected from the world.
I was wrong.
