Oliver had the ultrasound the afternoon before the dinner. A Saturday appointment, the only one they had. He lay on the paper-covered table while a woman rolled cold jelly over his belly with a wand. He watched the gray shapes on the screen and asked if he could see his lunch in there.

The technician laughed. But she was quiet for a long time after that, moving the wand over the same spot again and again.

“The doctor will call you with results,” she said when she was done. “Probably Monday or Tuesday.”

So we were waiting.

And Patricia knew all of this. Every bit of it. She’d sat in the waiting room. She’d squeezed my hand at the red light.

She knew.

David leaned forward across the table.

“He’s frightened enough, Mom,” he said. “Why would you make him feel worse?”

Patricia looked away. She picked up her napkin and folded it in half, then in half again.

Aunt Linda, David’s older sister, cleared her throat. “Okay, let’s just—maybe we should open presents?”

Nobody moved.

Then Oliver pushed back his chair.

The legs scraped across Patricia’s wooden floor.

“Mommy,” he said. “My tummy hurts again.”

I was out of my seat before I even thought about it. I knelt down next to his chair.

His face had gone pale. Not just a little pale. Gray-white, like paper. There were tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip.

“Is it like last time?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Worse,” he said.

David came around the table and knelt down on Oliver’s other side.

Oliver grabbed his arm. He held on hard, with both hands, like he was afraid of falling.

“Daddy,” he said, “I feel funny.”

“Funny how, buddy?”

“Just funny. Like spinny.”

And that’s when my phone rang.

I almost ignored it.

It was buzzing in my back pocket, and my son was holding on to his father like he was drowning, and twenty people were staring at us, and I didn’t care who was calling.

But something made me pull it out.

I looked at the screen.

Dr. Mendez – Pediatrics.

My stomach tightened into a knot.

It was Sunday evening. Almost seven o’clock. Why would she be calling on a Sunday evening?

Doctors don’t call on Sunday evenings to tell you everything’s fine.

I answered with one hand still resting on Oliver’s shoulder.

“Hello?”

“Sarah, it’s Dr. Mendez. Are you with Oliver right now?”

I looked down at my son. He was clutching his father’s arm. His eyes were half closed.

“Yes,” I said. “He’s in pain. He just said his stomach hurts worse than before.”

There was a very short pause on the line.

“His scan showed something concerning,” she said. Her voice was calm, but fast. “I want you to take him straight to the emergency department at Children’s. Don’t wait until morning. I’m calling ahead so they’ll be expecting you.”

“What did it show?”

“I’d rather the team there explain it once they’ve examined him. Please go now, Sarah.”