Sharon glanced at her phone for the tenth time in a minute. She sighed when it failed to say anything new. Glancing around the room, she tried to interest herself in something—anything—that would get her mind off worrying.
C'mon, baby, call Mama, she prayed for the millionth time that week. Since hearing about the battle over Washington, she had emailed, texted, and left dozens of messages for her son, but there had been no word.
That was a week ago. On day three, she'd started calling the consulate, trying to find out if he'd been killed, or arrested, or located. By day five, she'd been too frantic to even go to work. Seven days with no word. That couldn't possibly be a good sign.
Maybe he's trying to protect you, she tried to reason with herself. If he's technically a fugitive, maybe he can't risk it. Or maybe in all the confusion, he just forgot. But that didn't sound like her boy. He'd always found a way to call home, even when he was out on "assignments" that he couldn't talk about, in places he wouldn't identify. Even if it was only to say, "Hi Mum, I'm all right, hugs and kisses, bye." The only way he wouldn't call is if he's—no!
Another sigh, and a tiny groan. Sharon had been through these exact same thoughts a thousand times. She could identify the obsession, and had tried and tried to break the cycle, but no amount of applied psychology could truly stop a mother from worrying about her son. Physician, heal thyself. The thought made her smile for a moment. Fifteen years working as a therapist and she still couldn't ease her own anxiety.
Pressing her hands against the table, she pushed herself to her feet. She padded to the kitchen and started the kettle for some tea. She paused while the water heated to enjoy the breeze from the open window. It was only April, but a pleasant day. Maybe a nice walk, or a jog, could give her brain a break. No doubt a few flowers were blooming in the garden already. Or she could head to the market and do the shopping. Maybe cooking a nice meal would help. Or Julia across the street might enjoy company. The two ladies had commiserated before about having sons far away—Julia's Martin was in the Foreign Service—and it would be nice to have someone to talk to. Of course going out would mean changing out of this dressing gown, which would mean doing the washing.
She jumped out of her skin when the phone finally rang.