Disappeared

by Lucienne Diver

  “Yes!” Emily answered instantly.

  Mom laughed. “Yes to which?”

  “Any of it. All of it. Jared, what do you think?” Emily looked at him so hopefully. He wasn’t in the mood for a game and all that interaction, but he could probably sit through a movie, as long as they could decide on one, and ice cream sounded pretty good, maybe a Coke float to combine sugar and caffeine.

  “Sure, ice cream and a movie would be good. As long as you don’t choose a chick flick. Then you’re on your own.”

  “Got it,” Mom said. “Something brimming with testosterone. Maybe explosions. But ice cream first.”

  Three

  Jared jumped so hard in his sleep, he almost fell out of bed. He lay there, disoriented, sweating, tangled in his sheets, his heart beating so hard it was knocking on his ribs. There was a hard crash and a muffled sound—a cry?—that seemed like it had come from the kitchen, if not farther. The garage? Wherever, it couldn’t have been the first crash, because something had already snapped Jared awake.

  He tried to listen over the pounding of his heart and rushing in his ears. Was their house being broken into? Had Dad come home or was it still just Gran in the house, babysitting even though they were too old for it? Gran was half deaf, and Emily could sleep through a nuclear explosion. If it was only them, then it was up to Jared to protect the house, protect them. But if Dad was home …

  He didn’t hear anything else. Did that mean there were no intruders or that the breaking part was done and they were now entering? Jared had an aluminum bat in his closet from his little league days, but it wouldn’t do anything against guns except maybe get him killed.

  He had to decide what to do—and fast, if he was going to get the jump on them.

  He had one foot on the floor, apparently already decided, when he heard the door from the garage into the house swing open and a muffled curse. It sounded like his father. Had he come back angry from his dinner with Mom? Drunk? Both? Whatever, there was no way Jared was going out there now. He pulled his foot back under the covers and strained to listen. He heard the water go on in the kitchen and stay on for a while. Shortly after it shut off, he heard footsteps coming down the hall.

  He could have opened his door and asked his father what all the noise was about, but some instinct made him close his eyes and pretend to be asleep instead. Maybe self-preservation. If Dad had come home angry and Jared questioned him … He didn’t know exactly what would happen, only that the thought made his heart beat so hard he was afraid it would give him away if his father opened his door. The Telltale Heart, like the story they’d read in language arts. Only that heartbeat had come from beyond the grave.

  The footsteps stopped right outside his door, and Jared did his best to calm his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Deep, long, slow breaths. He felt like they weren’t getting him any air, but he couldn’t help that. His knob turned. His door opened. He snapped his eyelids shut, made his breathing as regular as he could. Nothing to see here. Sleeping. Just sleeping. His father stood there for a minute. Jared could sense him watching, but he didn’t know why.

  The feeling of not getting enough air was heightening. Any moment now he was going to gasp like a fish out of water, desperate for oxygen. Then his Dad would wonder why he pretended. He wondered why he pretended, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. If he had to, he could mimic waking up to see his father standing there. And then what?

  But he didn’t do it. An instant before he would have blown the whole thing, his father backed out of the room and closed the door behind him. Jared pulled the blankets up over his face and exhaled hard, then gulped in air and more air. So hard he almost choked on it.

  He had to get a grip. What was it he thought he’d heard? If not a break-in, then what? His father letting off steam, slamming things around? Something toppling off one of the storage shelves in the garage? He’d have to check in the morning. There was no way he was getting out of bed now. Not with the weird vibe his Dad was giving off and his own crazy reaction.

  He froze as he heard the door to the garage open again. Maybe Dad was going out to clean up whatever had fallen? But then he heard the automatic door open and a minute later close. Had Dad taken the car back out? He wasn’t sure. Dad’s new Beamer was so quiet. Maybe he was just running something out to Mom, but why hadn’t he left the garage door open if he was coming right back?

  It didn’t make any sense, not Jared’s reaction and not the fact that he listened for his father’s return for an hour or more, which was how long it took his heart to settle down and the fight or flight response to drain out of him. He never heard Dad come back. Maybe he’d missed it. Maybe he’d fallen asleep and hadn’t realized it. He could walk down the hall and peek into his father’s room, see for himself. But he didn’t. His father was as light a sleeper as he was, and if Jared checked on him, he might wake up. He’d want to know why Jared was in his room. And Jared wouldn’t have an answer.

  He lay there forever more, waiting and listening, but it was hard to keep up the vigilance when there was nothing to hear and his brain kept spinning on nothing at all. Weird. That was the word that kept going around and around in his head. Everything—the night, his reaction, Dad checking on him. Not the others, who slept like rocks. Just him. Weird. And eerie.

  Finally, he pulled his phone off the charger and texted Aaliyah, You up? Sometimes she was. She had insomnia on a pretty regular basis. But there was no response.

  He turned on his TV, hoping a plotline or something would supplant the non-thoughts buzzing his brain like bees.

  Eventually, it must have happened, because he woke in the morning to silence. Either the cable box had automatically shut off after a time or someone had shut it off for him.

  Four

  Saturday Morning

  Emily

  Emily sat in the kitchen, trying to tune out Gran’s whistle-snore, which was the only sound in the otherwise silent house. She didn’t know what time Mom was coming for them, but she was going to make the most of the quiet to get her assignments done so she wouldn’t have to do anything at Mom’s but enjoy. They had a lot of lost time to make up for.

  Specifically, she had to get through the poetry assignment due Monday. She’d had weeks, but the unit had started right when Mom left, and she hadn’t exactly been inspired. She couldn’t wait for inspiration now. It was down to the wire. She couldn’t let her grades slip or give Mom and Dad one more thing to stress over. To fight over. She’d seen how Dad went after Jared for his grades, even though they weren’t exactly in the toilet. Didn’t matter. Anything less than an A was failure in his eyes.

  She blew her strawberry-blonde hair out of her face, got up, grabbed a scrunchie out of the basket on the counter where odds and ends collected, and pulled her hair back mercilessly. She didn’t recognize the scrunchie—one of Mom’s, probably, though she tended more toward neutrals than the jewel tones, and this one was bright red. Maybe Aaliyah’s? Anyway, it was hers for now. Hair contained, she returned to the kitchen table, and flipped open her notebook, tapping her pen against her teeth as she stared at the blank page. She consulted her worksheet again for the millionth time. She really couldn’t wait until her creative writing class moved on to short stories. For now, she was stuck with poetry. Haiku, Quatrain, Sonnet, Refrain, Limerick … She had to pick five out of the ten options listed and create her own.

  Almost without her thinking about it her pen started to move across the page.

  Screw you; there’s your haiku.

  Damn, too many syllables to start. And Ms. Castillo would not be amused.

  She crossed out the line and stuck her pen in her mouth, nibbling on the already well-chewed end. Probably a good thing Mom hadn’t gotten her fancy pens. She liked to think she wouldn’t gnaw them as she did her regular pens, pencils and fingernails, but she was probably fooling herself.

  Inspiration struck again suddenly, and she jumped to get everything down before the flow st
opped. Or someone woke up and interrupted her.

  A poem is like a slash to the wrist.

  Bleed out on the page,

  Smear it with your effusions.

  Do it on command.

  Because they say.

  Because they are owed.

  Tick tock, assignment due.

  Surely you have blood to spare.

  You’ll be judged on the patterns of your pain.

  Pools and whirls,

  Eddies and absences.

  Quick before it clots.

  But it’s the surface pain

  That leaks out upon the page.

  The deepest cuts leave no artist to appreciate.

  The pen paused once or twice, nearly made it to her teeth before moving again across the page. Like the poem had always been inside of her and had leapt at the chance to escape.

  She read it over. Probably it needed work. Effusions? That didn’t seem a very poetical word. On the other hand, it wasn’t a poetical poem. Not in the beautiful, Robert Frost kind of way. Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. No, this was an in-your-face poem. A shock poem. Too revealing? Maybe. Probably.

  She turned her notebook to a new, blank page. She’d hold onto the poem. Turn it in only if nothing else presented itself. Maybe work on those last lines.

  But she seemed to have burnt herself out. She started and stopped a half dozen more poems before finally squeaking out a haiku, and not even a very good one. Passable at best. “Get it down, then get it right,” that was what Ms. Castillo was always telling them. Don’t get hung up on perfect. You can’t revise what isn’t there.

  Sure. But that only went so far. A rotten apple was never going to make an award-winning pie, no matter how well you worked it.

  She was ready to throw her pen across the room when Jared lumbered into the kitchen, something like a zombie, headed straight for the refrigerator.

  “Hi,” she said, since she was sure he hadn’t seen her.

  Jared nearly jumped out of his skin. His head swung around, and he focused on her with wide eyes. “You scared me,” he accused.

  “All I said was ‘hi.’”

  “Still.”

  “Whatever, sorry.”

  But he looked spooked, and instead of continuing on to the refrigerator, he changed course and headed for her. Jared pulled out the chair across from her, unusually careful not to scrape it noisily along the floor, and sat, staring her down so intently she couldn’t look away. What on Earth was his deal?

  “Did you hear anything last night?” he asked.

  She wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. He was too intense. “You’re kidding, right? You know me—once I’m out, a herd of elephants couldn’t wake me. Why, did you hear something?”

  Jared looked off toward the hallway, as though to make sure no one was coming. Weird. Weirder even than usual for him.

  “I don’t know,” he said miserably.

  “You must have heard something, if you asked. Was it like a car alarm or a crash or …?”

  “I said I don’t know,” Jared snapped. Then his lips twisted, like he regretted it, though he didn’t apologize. “It’s just … something woke me up. I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

  “Probably Dad coming home. You could ask him, if it bothers you.”

  “Ask who what?” Dad asked, coming into the kitchen.

  Jared jerked as though he’d been struck. Or caught at something. He twisted in his seat to stare at Dad, who looked terrible. Like he’d had the same trouble Jared had sleeping. More even. The bags under his eyes looked like they were packed for vacation and not just an overnight. His sandy hair was all rucked up on one side, and he had crease lines on his face. He flexed and fisted his right hand, like it had fallen asleep and he was trying to wake it, only it didn’t look pale and bloodless as she thought it should in that case. Was it her imagination or were the knuckles dark, maybe even a little bruised? She looked closer. The knuckles were definitely swollen, one even cracked open. If things had gotten heated last night with him and Mom, he might have punched a wall … again. That was probably what Jared had heard. She glanced at her brother, ready to signal him about Dad’s hand, but he wasn’t looking at her.

  Yeah, Jared wasn’t going to ask Dad about the noise. She didn’t blame him.

  “Nothing,” she said. “School stuff.”

  Dad lost interest. He started puttering in the kitchen, putting on coffee, making a whole pot, even though he was now the only one who drank it. Gran wasn’t supposed to have anything but decaf, if that.

  “What time is Mom coming?” Emily asked. She caught sight of her latest poetry attempt, and turned her notebook over on the table to make sure no one got curious. She didn’t think Jared could read upside down, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Dad didn’t answer. When she looked up to see what the problem was, she found him frozen in the middle of the kitchen, like someone had hit his pause button.

  But then he snapped out of it and headed for the refrigerator, not sparing Emily a glance. “I’m not so sure she is. We got into another fight last night. She … said she needed time.”

  “Time for what?” Jared asked. He sounded suspicious enough for the both of them.

  Emily realized she was holding her breath waiting on the answer.

  “I don’t know,” Dad said, raking a hand through his hair and rucking up the other side as well. “I’m not a mind-reader. Time to figure out what she wants, I guess. I told her this wouldn’t work—two households, towns apart. You both have school, commitments, meets, and practices. She can’t tear you out of your routines. Maybe she’ll change her mind once she cools down.”

  Emily went cold. Heart-stoppingly, mind-numbingly cold. She had a horrible thought building to the point where it was going to burst out of her.

  “You chased her off,” she said. Like the poem, the words just poured out.

  Dad turned slowly as he closed the refrigerator door, and Emily was afraid about how he’d react, but his voice was calm, quiet, as he said, “Why would I do that?”

  Emily had no answer.

  “So you think Mom will call?” she pushed. Jared coughed suddenly, as though warning her to stop.

  “Or text or something,” her father said, not at all concerned. “Look, you have your schedules cleared for the day. Why don’t we do something together, just the three of us? When was the last time we did that?”

  Emily had no idea. Maybe never. She and Jared exchanged a look.

  “We could go to a movie, maybe that new superhero film. Go out for pizza.”

  “It’s a little early for pizza,” Jared said.

  “Now, maybe, but not after the movie. The early show probably starts around ten or eleven.”

  She couldn’t believe her father was acting like all this was nothing. Like he hadn’t just brought their world to a screaming halt. Mom was gone, and he was talking about pizza?

  And then a really terrible thought occurred to her. Worse than her last. It had been a wall Dad had hit last night, hadn’t it?

  “I’m going to call Mom,” she announced. At that moment, she didn’t care what Dad thought or what he’d do.

  She grabbed her cell phone out of her pocket and told it to dial Mom, pushing the button for speakerphone so they could all hear.

  There wasn’t a single ring before it went straight to voicemail, and Mom’s cheerful greeting sliced through the silence, the same one she’d had forever. “Hello, you’re reached Diane. You know what to do. Talk with you soon!” With, not to, because one way was a dialogue and the other a speech, so said her mother.

  The pain nearly knocked her out of her seat. She looked at her father and brother, one staring at the phone, face locked down like a vault, the other, also staring at the phone, looking … she couldn’t think of a word for it but vulnerable. Her tough, sometimes intimidating brother looked like she felt.

  She couldn’t take it anymore. She jabbed the button to take it off spe
aker and ran with the phone to her room, pressing it to her face as she ran. “Mom, it’s Emily.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Dad says you’re not coming, but—”

  She slammed her door behind her, shutting the rest of them out.

  Jared stared after his sister in shock. She was always the peacemaker. The people-pleaser. For her to challenge their father … Nothing about any of this was right. And now Dad was looking at him, waiting. For what, he had no idea.

  It seemed like the moment of truth. He could ask Dad about the noise. Part of him desperately wanted to so Dad could explain it away. He didn’t even know what he was worried about, and that was part of the problem. Dad would ask. And he’d get worked up about whatever answer Jared might give. Jared could tell by his lowered brow that Dad was worked up already, either by Mom’s disappearing act or Emily’s behavior. Dad had been so calm so far … with Emily. Would the same extend to him?

  “What about you?” Dad said, studying him.

  “What about me?” he asked, baffled.

  “Pizza and a movie? Or we can go out and shoot some hoops. There must be something you want to do today.”

  Spend it with Mom.

  “Sleep,” he said, getting up from the table.

  He hadn’t eaten breakfast, but he didn’t have the stomach for it. He couldn’t believe his father. Acting like it was nothing, like parents were interchangeable. Like he and Emily could be bribed by the miracle of time with their father. Or maybe it was the pizza and movie that were supposed to be the draw. Whatever. They weren’t kids to be won over with treats.

  He felt sick. Empty. He’d been so stupid, refusing to talk to Mom after she moved out, holding it against her like it was her fault. Punishing her. His gut twisted. Maybe if he hadn’t, she’d have known how much she was needed. Loved. She wouldn’t have let the fight with Dad chase her off.