Rebecca Writes - Rebecca Writes

Scroll down for the update or conclusion or whatever you call it.

At 6:17 AM I woke from a deep sleep. My first groggy thought was that the banging sound I heard was the cats knocking something over, but then the doorbell rang. Who could it be but the cops with bad news for me? I went to the front door without my glasses.

Through the door window, I saw, not the cops, but my youngest son. “He’s locked himself out,” I thought. Without turning the porch light on, I opened the door, and it wasn’t my son, but a young man who—even up close—looked like him.

“I work for the military,” he said.

I was confused. “Huh?”

“I work for the military,” he repeated. “They gave me the wrong drugs and I’m all drugged up. Can you help me?”

What would you have done? Tell me. Later, I’ll tell you what I did.

Update on Friday, January 8, 2010 at 8:40PM by

rebecca

Okay, I’m back, and here’s the end of the story.

You’ll remember, I hope, that I was groggy and disoriented. The whole thing seemed not so much frightening as really, really weird.

“Can you help me?” he’d asked

“I’m sorry,” I said and closed the door, watching as he turned and walked down the steps, down the driveway and then down the street. I told myself that he’d rung the doorbell to see if anyone was home. He’d been looking for a house to rob, I thought, but I’d answered the door so he’d seen that someone was here and that was that.

I went to the bathroom and back to my warm bed, but by this time, I was awake enough to start thinking it through. Who cases houses at 6AM? And what potential thief can’t think of a better cover story than “I work for the military and I’m all drugged up”? Maybe he really needed help. Yep, something had been wrong with him, but I didn’t know what. What if he’d been my son at someone else’s door? What would I want them to do? It’s winter and dark and I live right on the edge of the bush. What if he wandered, confused, away from the safety of the homes?

I decided to call 911, but as I went to the phone, I saw a cop car drive by slowly. I wasn’t, I guessed, the only one he’d approached and someone else had responded better than I did. Let’s hope they found him and sorted everything out.

Later, as I showered, I prayed that he got whatever help he needed. I also asked for forgiveness. I’d been confused in my sleepiness, but that’s not much of an excuse for being so unconcerned for his welfare.

Thinking back on things and discussing it with family and friends, I’ve narrowed the possible story lines to these: he was drugged and delusional; he was mentally ill and delusional; he was sleepwalking. Youngest son suggested this last possibility. His reasoning? It was a school night—and I’d judged the kid to be school-aged—and it was 6AM, so it was not really a party day or time. Plus, “I work for the military” sounds like he had a whole back story going on in his head. The more I go over it, the more likely this scenario seems.

In the do-over in my imagination, I still close the door, but I also call in the pros immediately and watch (and pray) for them to come. I suppose I’ll never get a do-over in real life. And, except that he wasn’t actually working for the military, I’ll probably never know the true story behind my early morning awakening, either.