Dead to You

by Lisa McMann

  I sit up on the couch and unwind my legs from the sleeping bag. It’s nice to wake up warm. My stomach growls. “Yeah, sure,” I say, and shove my legs into my tattered jeans, walk over to the kitchen in my bare feet and stare out the window at the two vehicles along the road. Blake pushes the box toward me. I look at it. Look at him. We wait in uncomfortable silence for his waffles to pop up.

  “Look,” I say finally, feeling like our conversation from last night needs to be finished. “I don’t know why I went with them. I don’t really remember anything about any of it, or my life before, you know? She messed with my head. A lot.”

  Blake shifts on his feet and doesn’t acknowledge me. It’s quiet again.

  The toaster pops up and we both jump. He puts the waffles on a plate and pours syrup on them.

  I put mine in and press the lever. “So, I’m sorry,” I say. “If I just went with them, if that’s what happened . . . I’m really sorry.”

  Blake swallows hard. I can see his little baby Adam’s apple move in his neck. He goes to the table. “Yeah, I know,” he says quietly. “I mean, it totally wrecked everything here.”

  “What was it like?” I try to sound simply interested, but my legs are shaking from the anxiety—as much as Mama wants to know where I’ve been, I want to know what happened here, after. I control my face so he doesn’t see how badly I want it.

  “A disaster.” Blake takes a bite. He chews, and then shoves the plate away and stands. Scowls, like he’s trying to decide something, and then looks at the clock. “I gotta get to the bus stop.” He wipes his mouth on a napkin. “Dad?” he calls out. “Am I just supposed to ignore the reporters, or what?”

  I turn away, groaning inside. Wipe my hand over my face, trying to smooth the stress away. I just want to know. Is that so much?

  Dad doesn’t answer, so Blake walks down the hallway to the bathroom and bedroom. I hear them talking, and then Blake returns with his backpack. He nods when he passes me, like he’s the older brother and I’m the younger one. Like he knows I want information and he’s punishing me.

  I know I’m paranoid. I am. “Don’t talk to them,” I say. Another TV news truck pulls up.

  “Whatever,” Blake says. I hear the door to the mudroom opening, the sound of boots, the outer door creaking and slamming shut. From the little window over the sink I see reporters get out of their vehicles and rush toward the house, and Blake heading for the bus stop. He moves faster. Dad flies through the kitchen to the mudroom, hair still wet and buttoning his shirt. He gets into his coat and boots and I see him jogging through the Minnesota snow, talking to the reporters, protecting Blake. One of the reporters is trying to talk to some of the kids at the bus stop, but he moves back to our driveway when Dad comes out.

  Blake makes it to the four-way stop right out front, where the small group of what looks like middle and high school kids stand, waiting for the bus. He walks up to a couple of shorter guys and I watch them all goof around, stealing glances at the reporters. There are girls there too. One of the taller girls, with a red coat, her black hair shooting down her back, stares at Blake, and then looks sharply at our house, into the window, almost like she’s looking straight through me. But then she looks away when the bus pulls up. I take a bite of my waffle and wonder if I should know any of them. If I ever played with them. I feel so empty, so . . . nothing. I wonder if Blake will tell them about me.

  When I see Mama’s car coming around the corner, I rinse my plate in the sink and then go to take my shower. Thinking and thinking about how much more strained all of this is than I expected.

  It’s been such a long time. The big hunks of life aren’t going to come back just like that, no matter how much I want them to.

  CHAPTER 8

  After my shower, I slip past Mama on the phone and head to the basement wearing a pair of my dad’s sweatpants, safety-pinned to keep them up, and a flannel button-down shirt. Upstairs, the phone doesn’t stop ringing. Mama is blabbering excitedly about me, one call to the next. On one call I hear her talking kind of soft to Dr. Somebody, repeating, “Okay, so we’ll take it slow, let him talk when he’s ready,” which is a relief. But then on the next call, she schedules an appointment for me, which is not cool. I think it might be that shrink that Dr. Cook told us about.

  The basement is as big as the main floor. There’s a finished rec room, bathroom, and laundry area, but half of this level is unfinished. On the far wall is a slider door that opens onto the backyard, and tons of boxes are stacked all around in the unfinished part and also in the rec room.

  I dump all of my dirty laundry out of my backpack and into the washing machine—two shirts, two pairs of boxers, two T-shirts, two pairs of ripped jeans, and three pairs of holey socks. And then I throw in my grungy coat, gloves, hat, even my filthy, stinking tennis shoes, and just wander around the basement looking at things while the machine clunks and spins.

  There’s a pool table down here, and the balls are all over the place, like somebody didn’t know or didn’t care. I look at all the old toys that are semi–packed away but still accessible. In the corner of the rec room there’s a faded orange electric racetrack with two cars, red and blue. I pick up the blue one, turn it in my hand, and stare at it hard, thinking, and something clicks. This one was mine.

  I set it down on the track and push the button on the controller, but nothing happens. The batteries must be dead.

  I look through old, musty-smelling picture books. Where’s Waldo? and I Spy. They’re all about finding something, or someone, hidden. I wonder if my family ever played Where’s Ethan?

  There are tons of memories down here. Against the wall by the pool table, I find boxes with my name on them. I sit down on the floor and open one up. There are toys, pictures, memories of all sorts inside. A collection of rocks and some baseball cards. I pick up each item and inspect it carefully. Some of the pictures are familiar, and I know I’ve seen them before on the website. I stare at them, stare at little me. I take after Mama, I guess. Blake is fairer, like Dad, and Gracie is darker-skinned with wavy hair like Mama. And like me.

  While I’m packing up the boxes again, Mama comes downstairs. “Hey, Ethan,” she says. Her voice is so timid. “You doing okay? I’m sorry I’ve been on the phone so much.”

  I smile at her. “I’m just . . . yeah. Doing my laundry. Thanks,” I say, and then I realize how stupid it sounds to thank my mother for letting me use the washing machine. “So are we going to talk to the reporters?”

  “Dad is trying to handle them, but they really want to talk to you. What do you think?” Mama comes and sits next to me on the floor. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” I move over so we’re not too close. She doesn’t seem to notice.

  “It’s going to be weird for a while.”

  I picture myself on TV. “Why are they even here?” I know why, but I want to hear more.

  “Word got out faster than I expected. I should have known. You’re kind of a big deal in Belleville, you know. Massive search, everybody in the community looking for you for weeks.” She shifts and peers at me. “Local TV news is asking for an interview here in the house. I said I would talk to you and see how you felt about it. The news crews aren’t going anywhere, at least for the time being.”

  I take it in. “Wow,” I say. They really searched for me. I feel so guilty . . . so good, and so guilty. Then, “Yeah. The people should know about my return.” I’m so delighted to know they searched that I don’t know what I’m saying. The people should know about my return? Who am I, Jesus Christ?

  “I’ll call CPS and have them send someone to be here with you.”

  I consider it for a minute. “No. I’d rather not.”

  “Oh,” Mama says, surprised. “Are you sure?” Her eyes worry.

  “I don’t even know any of them. They would just make me nervous.”

  “Hmm,” she says, and then she nods. “Okay, I get that. No CPS.”

  I give her a grateful smile.


  “Do you want me to help you prepare for the questions?” She sounds hopeful.

  I’m getting to where I want to be, sort of. But it doesn’t feel right. “No,” I say. “I don’t want to mess it up. I want to sound authentic.” My stomach flutters at the thought of the interview. My mind races, thinking about what I’ll say, how I’ll say it. But then this weird calmness rushes over my skin. I take a deep breath and let it out. It feels right.

  I hope the major networks pick it up. I hope she is watching. Wherever she is.

  I’m dressed by eleven. I hear Dad talking, leading them all inside. They set up in the living room while I am in the bathroom, fingering my hair to look halfway decent but not too neat.

  I meet the makeup person in the kitchen and he puts some stuff on my cheeks and lips. It feels gross. And then I go to the living room and sit down on the couch, next to the TV newsperson. She says her name is Alexandra Richards. It sounds like a fake name to me, but I don’t mention that.

  Alexandra tells me not to look at the cameras, but to act natural and look mostly at her, like we are having a private conversation. She explains what kinds of questions she’s going to ask, and I nod, listening. They are all the things I expected—it’s just like anybody on TV. And I am ready, I think. So far so good.

  Mama comes and sits down next to me, wearing a nice dress, and then Dad comes, straightening his tie nervously. She and Dad will sit there with me and do a segment, too.

  But now it’s my time. I’m about to be famous, and I think I want that. I do. I get a chill and pinch my fingers together in my lap. Close my eyes when they turn the lights on me and recall everything I’ve rehearsed in my head. I want to tell the story, but I can’t get too detailed. I just can’t go there. I open my eyes and take a deep breath, and then we’re rolling. Mama puts her hand on my back for support, and I’m glad I have to focus on Alexandra so I don’t have to see my parents’ faces.

  Alexandra to the camera: If you haven’t heard the breaking news in Belleville today, you don’t know what you’re missing—or what’s been found. I’m here in the home of Paul and Maria De Wilde, whose son Ethan, as many of you will remember, was abducted nine years ago from the sidewalk right in front of their house. There was a tremendous search effort, but Ethan disappeared without a trace. Today, however, we have a new story. Ethan De Wilde is alive and well and sitting here with me in his own home once again. Ethan, I’m thrilled to be among the first to welcome you home.

  Me: Thanks.

  Alexandra: Is it good to be back with your family?

  Me: Yeah, it’s great. A little overwhelming. I just got here last night.

  Alexandra: Ethan, it’s our understanding here at KNTV News that you were abducted. Your little brother, Blake, who was only four at the time, told your parents that you got into a car with two strangers. Is that true? Is that what happened to you?

  Me: That’s what they tell me.

  Alexandra: What do you mean? Don’t you remember?

  Me: No, I actually don’t. I don’t remember much of anything about my life before the abduction.

  Alexandra: So you were brainwashed by your abductors? Where were you all this time?

  Me: I’m . . . not really sure. For a long time I was somewhere warmer than this. Not as much snow. She—I mean, I ended up in a youth home in Omaha a couple of years ago, and then when things got bad there, I ran away. I was in St. Louis for a while, living at the zoo and in parks and stuff. There was this one librarian guy. He let me hang out at the library and use the computer as long as I didn’t disrupt anybody. And I started searching for missing kids. I went through pages and pages of boys who were reported missing over the last twelve years—I wasn’t sure how long I’d been living with . . . living with the person who abducted me. And I found me.

  Alexandra: What do you mean, you started searching? If you don’t really remember your family, how would you know to search?

  Me: Once I ended up at the youth home, I started realizing, or remembering or whatever, that I came from somewhere else. It was just cloudy, you know? So I looked on this one website for missing children, to see if anybody reported me missing.

  Alexandra: So you’re saying that you somehow hung on to that one memory that you came from somewhere else, but you forgot everything else?

  Me: Yes . . . that’s about right.

  Alexandra: Ethan, you seem so poised, so together, so . . . so healthy after all you have been through. I have to ask the question all of Belleville is wondering: Were you harmed? Abused?

  Me: Wow, uh . . . ha-ha. You really went there, didn’t you. Um . . . jeez. I guess you could say not physically harmed by my abductor, not really. But I don’t want to discuss that.

  Alexandra: Not physically? What do you mean?

  Me: Not . . . not harmed.

  Alexandra: Who abducted you, Ethan? Who did this horrible thing to you?

  Me: I . . .

  CHAPTER 9

  . . . These are the questions I dread, but I thought I could answer them. I thought I could give her up.

  I picture her. Ellen. She called me David, until she abandoned me.

  She said she loved me. But she never came back.

  I look up at Mama. Her face has gone pale in spite of her makeup, and she grips my shoulder now, whispering, “Oh, Ethan . . .” And I feel so cold and twisted up inside. This mother sitting next to me is the one I should love, but I don’t. And the mother I do love is the one I should hate. But I can’t.

  I fall apart.

  CHAPTER 10

  Alexandra: Ethan?

  Me: I don’t know. I don’t know.

  I feel the mess inside me start to quiver. Mama grabs my hand now, her other arm still around my shoulders, protecting me, and Dad is on the edge of his seat.

  Alexandra looks at me for a long moment as I pull away from Mama and sink back into the couch, covering my face. Feeling the panic rise in my gut. Alexandra raises her hand to the camera team. “Cut. Shut it down,” she says to them, and they do it. To me, she asks, “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. Embarrassing sobs and inappropriate laughter force their way out like vomit I cannot stop.

  I get up and Mama leads me out of the living room, away from the questions, away from the cameras. But I feel exposed in this house.

  Mama whispers comfort and encouragement to me, but I tell her I really just need to be alone. She stares at me for a long minute, then nods and squeezes my shoulder and goes back out to do her piece for the news crew. I don’t want to listen. Instead, I sneak downstairs in the dark and burrow out a place for me among boxes marked ETHAN and books about lost things.

  CHAPTER 11

  Things are happening backward. I didn’t want it to be like this, out of control. Emotional. I feel like I really fucked this up.

  I lie curled up on my side on thin green carpet in my basement hideout and try to figure out how I can fix this mess. I’ll explain to Mama that I felt threatened by the reporter and that’s why I was crying. I’m just not ready to talk about Ellen yet. I mean, everybody in my life now—they’re all strangers. All of them. You don’t just blurt out stuff like that to strangers when you have no ally. I hear their voices and footsteps above my head and, not long after, the steady, soft rumble of the reporter and crew walking from one end of the house to the other. Doors closing.

  Mama doesn’t come after me and I’m glad. I wonder if she even saw me sneak down here, if she’s worried about where I am. I hear her footsteps overhead walking from one part of the house to another, as if she’s looking for me. But soon I hear her at the top of the stairs, calling down, “It’s time for me to pick up Gracie from kindergarten. Dad’s working in the den. He’d love to talk if you want to, just go on in—but we understand if you need some alone time. I left you some lunch up here . . . it’s your favorite sandwich.” She pauses. “Maybe later you and Gracie and I can go shopping, get you some clothes and toiletries and things of your own before Grandpa and Grandma
come over. I’m locking the doors, so don’t, you know . . . don’t go anywhere. Don’t let anybody in.” She laughs anxiously, like she knows how paranoid that sounds, but keeps going. “Just stay inside while I’m gone, okay?”

  She doesn’t wait for me to answer; she just goes. I like that. Maybe she’s not too pissed at me for ruining the taping after all.

  A while later I go upstairs and sit at the table, where there’s a sandwich wrapped in plastic on a plate. I unwrap the sandwich and stare at it, open it up carefully. Bologna and smashed potato chips between two pieces of buttered white bread. “This is my favorite?” I mutter, and then I take a bite. It’s not half bad. I get up and grab a soda from the fridge, and then I feel weird, like maybe there’s a rule about soda at lunchtime like at the group home, so I put it back and drink water instead.

  The phone rings three times while Mama is gone. I don’t answer it, but once I hear Dad talking from the den.

  Mama and Gracie come home just as I finish eating. “Thanks for the sandwich,” I say sheepishly as Mama gets the bread and bologna out again, this time for Gracie.

  “Of course! How are you feeling?” When Mama finishes making Gracie’s sandwich, Gracie presses it flat with her hand so that the chips crunch.

  “Fine.” I watch Gracie eating. She’s like a flamingo, all pink and poised. “Didn’t you already have lunch?” I ask, pointing to her lunch box, picking up the game again.

  “Mama,” she says coolly, looking straight at me. “Efan is trying to get into my private property.”

  “Now, Gracie. Be nice. He’s just curious,” Mama says, phone to her ear and distracted as she’s trying to listen to the voice mails.