The Call

When the Phone Rings, Everything Changes

We’ve all had those phone calls. They come in the dead of night or just as you’re enjoying a scoop of ice cream on a bench with a friend. There’s bad news behind the ring. Death. Injury. Calamity. Homelessness. Jail. Pick your poison. The calls that break your heart. The messages that force you to drop everything and figure out how to help.

That’s how it was on a quiet afternoon in May. I was mid-scoop, mid-laugh, enjoying a break with a friend when I saw my son’s name pop up on my phone. I answered — and was met with sobbing. Uncontrollable crying. He couldn’t speak, but I had a strong suspicion about what had just happened. It wasn’t the first call like this.

Eventually, he handed the phone to a friend, who broke the news: he had just been fired. The job that had come with employee housing was gone. He would be homeless, again.

Flashback to September 2023. I’d cut my RV trip short and driven to Flagstaff, Arizona, after a similar job loss. That time, he was dealing with some medical issues. Losing the job meant not only losing his housing, but his health insurance. To make matters worse, he’d lost all forms of legal identification — driver’s license, Certificate of Citizenship, the passport, the works. He needed more help than I could provide, so he stayed in a homeless shelter that connected him to medical care and helped him get a replacement driver’s license. It was a hard choice, but it was the right one. He ended up staying there for nine months.

Last July, he landed a new job. And while he doesn’t have many marketable skills — and has zero interest in the trades or formal training — he’s been fortunate to find jobs that include housing. In fact, both jobs brought him to Grand Canyon National Park. One of the seven wonders of the world — not a bad place to reset your life. This time, he even sent me pictures of elk and sunsets. He seemed to appreciate the beauty around him, something that was missing the first time.

Over the past year, I helped him replace his Certificate of Citizenship and get a new Arizona driver’s license. Even though the federal government has data confirming his citizenship, we live in an anti-immigration era. And I feared that lacking proof could put him at risk. The new certificate cost $555 and required a trip to Phoenix for biometrics. That’s no small price. (I adopted my son — then a little girl — from an orphanage in Ukraine when he was almost seven. He’s now my trans son and will soon be 28.)

So when this latest call came, I knew I was in a better position to help. I had a stationary spot for at least part of the summer and could take him in — not an easy task in a 32-foot motorhome. The immediate challenge? He had to be out of employee housing by Friday afternoon, and I was on the job.

That’s when my friend — another RVer — made an incredibly generous offer. She’d drive to the Grand Canyon, spend the night, pick him up in the morning, and bring him back to my rig in Utah. It was a staggering offer. With my son covering fuel and food, it was one I couldn’t refuse.

He moved in on May 30. Since I’m smaller and needed to be up early for work, I gave him my bed. Two weeks later, exhausted and desperate for sleep, I tossed him onto the sofa. I love him dearly, but I’m not a martyr.

When I wrote The Woman on the Ferry, I had to come to terms with the unrealistic expectations I placed on him when he was younger. He lives with ADHD — predominantly inattentive type — and his developmental path just looks different than what I once imagined. I’m an organizing queen; he’s scattered and unfocused. That combo doesn’t exactly scream “successful job search.” So I’ve been helping him search and apply for jobs and prepare for interviews. Once again, he’s looking for year-round positions with benefits and employee housing. (For those on a similar hunt, CoolWorks is the gold standard.)

Meanwhile, I’ve been unwillingly dragged into campground drama, as a co-worker has been asked to leave. The long days, now under a hot sun and smoky skies, are taking their physical toll. Truth is, I’m a mess. The worst part? I’m too exhausted to hike. Too drained to write. And without those things, my soul feels lonely. Empty. Deadened.

But if you know me, you know I don’t throw in the towel. My son’s on the verge of landing a position in the upper Midwest. And I’ve got a few connections — and a few tricks up my sleeve — that just might help me reclaim the rest of my summer . . . maybe even my life.

So while my trail logs have disappeared for now, the story may just be starting.

Stay tuned.