When I Find You

by R. A. Casey

So sweaty that I want to let go and wipe my hand and…

  No.

  I don’t want to let go.

  I can’t let go.

  Because if I let go, I know what’ll happen.

  I know it’ll be the last time.

  We’ve eaten our burger, and we’ve moved on. I can feel the crowd of people all around me. The rush to see the band—The Bandits, they are called. So many kids around us. All screaming and sweaty and shouty.

  And me there, Charlie’s sweaty hand in mine.

  I remember looking down at him. Remember seeing him looking ahead and seeing that smile on his face. The concern of earlier, gone now. Before we went to the burger stand. That weirdness. The way he’d looked at me with concern like he wanted to say something. Like he wanted to tell me something.

  He was happy again. My happy little boy again.

  So that’s why I didn’t ask.

  I know I should’ve asked, but I didn’t.

  I see him holding my hand and know how sweet it is. He’s only six, but I know soon he’ll see it as uncool to be holding my hand around other schoolkids. I need to be grateful for moments like this. Savour them while I still can. Because there will be a last time. And I won’t know when that last time is. Nobody ever knows when it’s the last time they’ll do anything at all in life. All the more reason to be grateful and kind to those around you.

  People pushing behind. A teacher speaking over a loudspeaker. “Can everyone stay in an orderly line, please? The band will only start when everyone is in attendance.”

  But it doesn’t even cut through. The excitement. The rush. All for this band—this imitation of BTS, or whatever they are called.

  I see Charlie look up at me. Excitement in his little brown eyes.

  “Can I go, Mum? Can I go to the front?”

  And as I’m here, as I’m witnessing this now, with what I know and how I know it all plays out, I want to tell him: no. I want to tell him I’m not letting go of his hand. I’m not letting him go anywhere.

  I want to tell him I’m holding his hand forever, and I’m not losing him.

  I’m not letting go.

  But I know how this goes.

  The same way, every single time, I know how it goes.

  I try to tell him no. I try to tell him I’m not letting go. I try to stand my ground.

  But then I nod.

  And I smile.

  Because I’m powerless.

  And then the next thing I know, Charlie’s hand slips out of mine, and he’s gone.

  My hand immediately cools, like he was never even holding it at all. The only trace of him is the sweat on my palm.

  He’s running.

  Running through the crowd.

  And then suddenly, in the rush, he’s out of my sight.

  But what harm can it do?

  He’s in this crowd.

  He’s down by the stage.

  The maize fields surrounding the stage, making me feel strange, uneasy…

  We’re all gathered around in the heat and the excitement and the buzz, all watching this band, all happy and laughing and loving life.

  What can possibly go wrong?

  What can possibly fall apart on a day like this?

  You should know, Sarah. You know better than anyone what can fall apart on a day like this.

  I hear that thought now. Not then, but now.

  And it haunts me.

  Makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

  No. You’re wrong. I couldn’t have known. I couldn’t have—

  You should know better, and you know it.

  I shake my head. And I look around for him. I fight the bind my body finds itself in. I fight the rails this dream always seems to progress along. All so hazy. Almost… artificial.

  I fight it, and I push against it, and I tell myself I can change things.

  I can change history.

  I can—

  You’re never going to change anything.

  I shake my head and suppress that thought when finally, I see the crowd has reduced.

  I’m back again.

  Back to that day.

  July 17th.

  Only it’s later now.

  The band has stopped playing.

  The kids are all wandering back to their parents, the crowd much thinner now.

  Burst red balloons on the grass.

  Sweet wrappers everywhere.

  I look around for him. For my Charlie. And at first, I feel just a mild panic. At first, a sense of slight unease, but nothing major. ’Cause he’ll come back. Of course, he will.

  He’s in the crowd. He knows where I am.

  And besides, there are loads of people around. People who would’ve seen him. Who’d know where he was.

  But as I stand there and wait for longer and longer, I realise I don’t see him. I realise he’s nowhere.

  And I start to entertain the fact he isn’t here at all.

  I scratch my itchy elbows and see grass stains on my knees and see people looking at me strangely.

  I feel a little sore. I feel a twinge of embarrassment.

  I feel in a haze.

  In a cloud.

  And then I see him.

  Alan. His friend. His best friend. Bit of a shit with him sometimes, but they get on in that love-hate way kids always do.

  I run up to Alan. See him with some other kids. Fully expect Charlie to be with these kids.

  And then I stop.

  Because I realise Charlie isn’t there.

  Alan looks up at me. His eyes widen. And for a moment, just for a moment, it looks like he’s hiding something.

  It looks like he’s been whispering something.

  Something about Charlie.

  “Alan?” I say. “Have—have you seen Charlie anywhere?”

  Alan looks at me like he wants to say “yes.”

  Like he knows something.

  And that’s a moment I revisit a lot.

  That’s a moment I return to, again and again.

  But it’s somewhat unclear.

  It feels somewhat grainy.

  Somewhat… out of reach.

  Because every time I think back to it, it always returns to what Alan said next.

  He looks me right in the eyes and shakes his head.

  “Sorry. I… I’ve got to go.”

  I want to reach out and shake the little shit and tell him he’s lying because I know he’s lying he has to be lying he must be lying he knows where my boy is my Charlie my—

  I gasp.

  Launch forward.

  I’m covered in sweat.

  Someone is touching my back. Stroking me.

  “It’s okay, Sarah,” Freddie says. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

  I lower my head. Realise I’ve had a nightmare. A dream. Nothing more.

  I sit there in the darkness. All these shapes surround me, unfamiliar shapes of the new bedroom.

  I clutch my legs.

  Wrap my arms around them, tightly, and hug them, hug them like they’re Charlie, like he’s here.

  Freddie keeps on moving his hand up and down my back. Saying things to me. Reassuring things.

  “It’s okay, Sarah. It’s just a nightmare. You’re right here. I’ve got you. You’re right here.”

  I want to tell him that’s exactly the problem.

  I’m right here.

  I’m right here, and Charlie isn’t.

  And it’s all my fault.

  But instead, I just clench my eyes shut, and listen to the attic creaking in the wind.

  Instead, I just think of nice things, like the sun and laughter and beaches and holidays and ice creams.

  Instead, I just take deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth.

  Instead, I cry.

  Chapter Four

  I bury my face in icy water and try to wash away the grime of three hours of sleep.

  When I look back up at the mirror, I’m still pale. My dark hair is greasy. I can see
the bags under my eyes, bags that never used to be there, and I know I’ll never hide them again. My skin, which used to have such a glow to it—something everyone always commented on—has faded. In all truth, it’s hard to believe standing here and staring at myself that I am only thirty years old. I used to look young for my age. Girlish. Now, I look weathered and old.

  I see the grey hairs dangling down my fringe. They are multiplying by the day. Stress, Freddie says. Manage my stress, and I’ll manage my grey problem better than any hair dye.

  Problem is, I am beyond hair dye at this stage. I’m beyond covering up my true self. No matter how much I try to hide behind makeup or hair dye, the truth always comes out in the end.

  And I can see it staring back at me right now, threatening to burst from my skin.

  “Sarah? Can you give me a hand with this?”

  I hear Freddie’s voice, and I sigh. Last night, the first in our new home, was rough. I’m not going to lie about it. Not going to pretend it was all rosy. It wasn’t. I barely slept a wink. The sleep I did get was tortured by the same dream I’d had for the last three years.

  The dream of holding Charlie’s hand.

  The dream of letting him go. Letting him run off into the crowd.

  The dream of him disappearing into that crowd of people.

  The dream of him never coming back.

  I stand by the mirror in a daze. Because I’m thinking of another part of that dream now. Or the memory, anyway. It’s right around the part where Alan walks over to me. Where he looks up at me. Where I ask him about Charlie, if he’s seen him today, if the pair of them chatted, whatever.

  The moment I feel that rage towards Alan, ’cause I feel like he’s lying. He has to be lying.

  It’s a memory of someone standing by the side of the stage.

  Someone looking right over at me.

  A figure.

  I see the memory in total clarity now. Feel the warmth of the sun. Taste the remnants of vanilla Mr Whippy ice cream on my tongue. Smell the sunscreen in the air.

  And that figure.

  By the stage.

  Why haven’t I thought of them before?

  Why haven’t I—

  “Sarah?”

  I jump. Spin around.

  Freddie is at the bathroom door. He’s leaning on it.

  “Yes?”

  He narrows his eyes. “I shouted you. Need you to give me a hand with the ladders. That okay?”

  I nod. “Sorry. I… I was washing my face. Didn’t hear.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He opens his mouth. As if he wants to push for more information. Then he closes it. Half-smiles. “It’s okay. Come on. Give me a hand with the ladder. The sooner I get this doorway glossed, the better.”

  I finish washing my face and hear creaking above. I look up there. See the slight darkened hole in the ceiling towards the attic. My stomach sinks. Freddie told me about that. The loft’s in a state, apparently. Real structural issues up there. Told me not to go up there because it’s really rickety. Fortunately, as well as decorating, he’s a dab hand at pretty much anything manual, so he’ll get it sorted. Said it might take a while, though.

  I look up there and see a speck of dust fall towards me, and I take a deep breath.

  Then I step away. I smile as I follow Freddie out of the bathroom. We’ve only been in the house a day, and already he’s putting his painting and decorating skills to the test. It is his trade, after all. Runs his own business, hires two people. And he’s got two weeks off work to really put our own stamp on this place. Enough money in the bank and a couple of reliable people working for him to afford the time.

  Before we moved in together, he’d tell me about his plans for this place. All the work he was going to do, all the decorating. And it made me feel happy, hearing about all these future plans. Hearing all these visions of our shared future. It made me happy how into me he was. How much he clearly cared about me. He was so proud of this home. So proud finally to be settling down after years of apparently failed relationships followed by a sole focus on the business. Proud to be putting his bachelor ways behind him.

  But I also feel guilty, too.

  Because as much as I love him—and I do love him, dearly—there’s a lot about me he doesn’t know.

  There are things about me he cannot know.

  Things I can barely acknowledge about myself.

  I hold the ladder in the lounge for him as he climbs it. I feel a bit irritated that he’s given me such a menial task, but he is a pretty traditional guy. Not in a knowing sense. Mostly out of naivety. I decided not to point it out to him today though, because I’m really knackered and not feeling up to helping too much.

  He dips his brush into the can and starts glossing the top of the doorframe. The smell of paint fumes is strong, makes me smile. Reminds me of moving into our little Broughton cottage, Gregg and I, and planning on starting our own little family.

  I remember standing in that cottage, those low ceilings, that dark interior, that dust hanging in the air and catching on my chest, and despite all its flaws, despite all the work that needed doing, I felt so happy about the future. So happy about what lay ahead.

  “So what’s the plan, Batman?” I say. Showing an interest. I fully realise I’ve been a bit insane since we moved in here. I don’t want to scare Freddie away. We’ve been together eighteen months now, and yet at times, I feel like we barely know each other.

  And in a weird kind of way that suits us both.

  Freddie smiles, clearly in his element. “Gloss the doorframes. Then give this wallpaper a good old covering. I’ve heard a lot about those painting skills of yours, so I’m expecting a real schooling there.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, you have, have you?”

  “I mean, if you can drag yourself away from your tutoring plans long enough to pay me some attention?”

  I smile. I haven’t even started up the online French tutoring again yet. Both teaching English kids French and French kids English. It’s in the planning stages. It’s been a handy little business for me over the years. Made a bit of cash, plenty in savings to get me by. Back in the day, I got my teaching qualifications and taught at a few schools. But teaching online definitely suits me more these days.

  “Pay you some attention?” I say. “I thought we were talking about giving the wall attention here.”

  “We can get to the wall,” Freddie says, looking at me in that adoring, desirous way he always does.

  The way that touches me right where it feels best.

  I look down. Smile on my face. “I’m sure the French students can wait a little while for their tutor …”

  I stop.

  Because on the newspaper beneath my feet, I see him staring up at me.

  Charlie.

  His brown eyes.

  His cheeky little smile.

  A headline.

  A headline from when he went missing.

  “Sarah?” Freddie says.

  I look down, and I am trapped.

  I am trapped in that fete.

  I am staring into the distance, beyond Alan, towards that figure by the stage.

  Towards that man.

  Clearer than I’ve ever seen him.

  I am there again.

  “Sarah? What’s…”

  I reach down without thinking, and I tear the paper.

  “Sarah!”

  I tear it up. Tear it to pieces. Dig my nails into it and rip it apart, like a feral dog tearing into a rabbit.

  Tear and tear and tear and keep tearing until it’s all gone until it’s nowhere until it’s gone gone gone—

  And before I know it, there is no trace of Charlie there.

  Before I know it, I’ve shredded it all to pieces.

  But I am on my knees.

  I am gasping.

  I am deep underneath the ocean without oxygen.

  Freddie is beside me. Big hands on my back
. The smell of paint not pleasant anymore. Strong. Too strong.

  He holds me with those hands, and he whispers words of reassurance into my ear.

  “It’s okay, Sarah.”

  “He—he was there.”

  “It’s okay. It’s over now. It can’t hurt you anymore. None of it can hurt you anymore.”

  I crouch on my knees, struggling to get my breath back, heart racing in my skull, and I want this nightmare to end.

  But all I see now is the figure by the stage.

  The new detail in the memory.

  And as much as I want to settle and ease into our new lives, I know what my latest obsession is.

  I know I am not going to be able to let this go.

  Chapter Five

  I sit at the dinner table and want to be present with Freddie.

  But I can’t stop my thoughts wandering to what happened earlier.

  I know it was an innocent mistake. The newspapers Freddie used to line the carpet, to stop the paint splashing onto the floor.

  And yet… what are the chances, really?

  A three-year-old story. Where did he get the papers from? Surely he saw the papers when he laid them down?

  And there’s the confusion. The way it’s unsettled me. Deeply. In ways I can’t even begin to explain.

  And yet every time I look up from my dinner of lentil bolognese—one of the nicest vegan dishes I’ve ever tasted, courtesy of Freddie himself, who’s all for a few meat-free days a week—I can see the guilt in his eyes, and it breaks me a little.

  “Sarah, I’m sorry,” he says.

  “It’s okay.” What else can I say, really? What else is there to say? Obviously, it’s not okay. It was careless; that’s what it was.

  But as upset as I am, I can’t torture him for it. Not when he so clearly regrets it.

  He puts his fork down. A little of the tomato sauce splashes onto the brand-new IKEA table we’re sitting at. “I can tell you’re upset.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to tell me you know it was a mistake. And that—and that you’re okay.”

  “I’ve told you I’m okay a thousand times.”

  “Well, say it like you mean it, won’t you?”

  I can tell from the tone in his voice that he’s in one of his self-pitying moods. It’s a shame. One of his flaws. He has a way of turning somebody else’s upset into his own. Making you feel guilty for making him feel bad about something he has done wrong.