by N L Hinkens
Ray blew out a heavy breath and reached for his plate to take it to the kitchen. He would do whatever it took to help his son move on from this. For starters, he needed to make a concerted effort to spend some quality time with him in the coming weeks. They felt like strangers forced together. No doubt, he’d been so wrapped up in taking care of his wife for the past few months that Henry had been sidelined, perhaps even shipped off to relatives. He frowned to himself. Were his wife’s parents still alive? He tried to think of their names as he rinsed off his plate and silverware and stashed them in the dishwasher. With a bit of luck, he might have identified them as his in-laws in his contacts. If nothing else, his wife’s phone number had to be in there. And then it hit him. The police had found his wallet, but his phone had been smashed beyond repair.
Gritting his teeth in frustration, he glanced around the kitchen for a laptop. He must have a computer in the house somewhere. He made his way down the hall, peering into each of the bedrooms in turn. His heart leapt when he spotted a MacBook on the nightstand in the main bedroom. A momentary flash of panic hit when he opened it and realized he couldn’t remember his password. But the second he placed his fingers on the keyboard, they flew over the keys with a mind of their own. He pulled up his contacts and searched for the name, Jenkins. The only two listed were his own and his mother’s. No contact information for his brother, and no one with the same last name who could possibly be his wife. Maybe she hadn’t changed her name after they got married. He would have to dig up his marriage certificate—it had to be in one of the moving boxes, along with Henry’s birth certificate. He scrolled back up to the first name in his contacts and began working his way through the list, checking the notes section for any additional identifying information. To his disappointment, he didn’t recognize any of the names as those of his in-laws.
Disheartened, he closed the laptop and took stock of the moving boxes stacked in the room. Why had he not unpacked, yet? By all accounts, he’d been here for a couple of weeks already. With a resolute sigh, he got to his feet and approached the first box. Time to make a start on things while Henry wasn’t around. After hanging up his shirts and pants in the closet, he cleaned out a few drawers in the dresser and put away his underwear and T-shirts. He flattened the cardboard boxes and stacked them in the hallway, before moving on to the guest bedroom. Judging by the night light near the bed, this was Henry’s room. Ray ran a hand over his jaw, berating himself for not doing a better job of making the place more kid friendly. No wonder his son wanted to stay at Jessica’s—his toys weren’t even unpacked. Ray made a mental note to purchase some kid-friendly bedding as soon as possible—Henry’s favorite superhero, perhaps. For several minutes, he stood staring out of the window, trying to remember what superheroes Henry liked, but he came up blank. No matter. He’d ask him about it tomorrow and then order something on Amazon. A couple of days from now, Henry’s room would look a whole lot more appealing to a four-year-old boy. In the meantime, he could make a start on things by unpacking his son’s belongings.
Opening up the flaps on one of the cardboard boxes at the foot of the bed, he was surprised to find it was packed full of books. He checked the remaining boxes, but found nothing of Henry’s in any of them. They were mostly filled with work files. He straightened up and stretched out his back. Maybe he’d intended to make this room his office, but that still didn’t explain where Henry’s belongings were.
He reached for the Target bags on the floor and tossed them on the bed before rifling through the contents. It looked like he’d gone shopping for Henry recently. It struck him as odd that he hadn’t bothered to empty the bags and put the items away. Despite his fatigue, he got to work folding the clothes and putting them in the lowest drawer in the dresser. Evidently, the contents of Henry’s old room must still be in boxes somewhere. The most obvious place to look was the garage. He might have unloaded a bunch of boxes there and been too busy with work and getting Henry settled into school to get around to them.
After turning on the fluorescent strip light in the garage, he swept a glance around the musty space. The contents looked like they’d lain undisturbed for quite some time—no moving boxes in sight. His eyes traveled up and down the sagging shelving on the back wall, searching for anything that might have been a recent addition. Between the mice droppings and the thick layer of dust encrusted on every surface, he couldn’t envision leaving his belongings out here—and definitely not his son’s clothes and toys. The place was in desperate need of a thorough cleaning. He was about to head back inside when it occurred to him that his mother might have some things from his childhood stashed in the garage. Doctor Robinson had encouraged him to look through family photos and personal items in an effort to speed up his recovery. The photo album in the family room hadn’t helped—but it couldn’t do any harm to go through a few boxes of his mother’s stuff.
He pulled out the ladder jammed between a lawnmower and a metal file cabinet on the back wall and leaned it against the shelving, surprised to see fingerprints in the dust. Maybe Sonia had borrowed the ladder recently for something or other. He climbed up a rung and lifted down a cardboard box that had burst a seam. Gingerly, he removed the crumpled newspaper protecting the contents and reached for a photo frame lying upside down on top. He flipped it over, his heart seizing so violently in his chest he thought he would pass out. He grabbed onto a shelf to prevent himself from crumpling to the floor. Beads of sweat needled his forehead. An all-too-familiar sensation of panic took hold, as a current of fiery fear moved steadily through his veins. He recognized that face staring back at him; the hard set of the granite eyes above the thick-lipped grimace. That same expression he always wore right before he turned, sliding his belt from his pants with serpent-like cunning.
Sick to his stomach, Ray tossed the frame back in the box and shoved it back into place before hurriedly returning the ladder to the spot he’d found it in. His legs trembled beneath him. He couldn’t do this now, he was too weak, too confused. Broken images sparked in his brain, beckoning to memories he didn’t want to face—shouts of anger, spittle flying, a flurry of fists. Blood—so much blood. He stumbled from the garage back into the family room, collapsing into the closest chair. For a long time, he sat slumped in it, staring across the room at nothing in particular, sweaty palms resting on the doilies draped over the arms. What had he done? The thought terrified him, but he had to know.
When his legs felt strong enough to support him, he retrieved the photo album of his childhood from the cubby beneath the television. He leafed through it again, stopping every now and then to study a photo, trying to coax some long-lost memory out from the rock it had scuttled under. He scrutinized the photo of himself and Tom on the last page—the picture of normality.
But the look of desperation in Tom’s eyes told a different story.
15
The gears in Ray’s mind went into overdrive as he tried to process the questions flying through it. Why did those disturbing images of a fight keep flashing to mind? He couldn’t remember the abusive childhood he’d told Sonia about, but there was no mistaking the visceral reaction he’d had when he found that photo of his father and the hopeless look in Tom’s eyes. Had he attacked his father in some misguided bid to protect his little brother? Was that why he’d run away from home? Each time he tried to lock on to a memory, his thoughts disintegrated like fraying string.
His gaze slid to the newspaper clipping on the end table. Sonia had wondered why he’d saved the article, but he didn’t have an answer for that either. He didn’t know the missing Booneville girl, or her family—or anyone else in this town, for that matter.
He eventually fell into a troubled sleep in the lumpy armchair, assailed by nightmares which left him gasping for air. His heartbeat raced to the point of explosion in his chest each time the images poked their way through to the surface of his mind—a volley of fists and blood, and always the hazy face of a man. Sometimes, he thought he could make out his fathe
r’s cruel stare; at other times he found himself looking into Tom’s terrified eyes. Confusion gripped his brain like a vice. Who had he been fighting? And what had they been fighting about? Was it possible he’d actually killed his father? Maybe it had been a terrible accident. He might have been trying to protect Tom. But that wasn’t what was turning the blood in his veins to ice. Something bad had happened to instigate the fight—something very bad. He felt it in his bones.
After finally falling into a deep sleep in the early morning hours, Ray woke with a jolt shortly after 9:00 a.m. His head pounded mercilessly, and every joint ached from the awkward position he’d slept in, but he groaned and forced himself to his feet. He had promised to pick Henry up by ten, and he was determined not to show up late—he’d already asked too much of his neighbors.
Scrubbing his hands over his face to wake himself fully, he plodded down to the master bedroom and opened the closet to retrieve some clean clothes. His gaze fell on a shoebox overflowing with papers on the shelf above him. A quick glance inside revealed a sheaf of bank statements. Frowning, he set it aside to take up to the kitchen with him. Sonia had mentioned something about an unusual bank transfer he’d been trying to get to the bottom of.
His gaze drifted down to the black backpack shoved into the recesses of the closet. It didn’t look remotely like anything that would belong to an elderly woman. Curious, he grabbed a strap and yanked it out. Inside, he found a large flannel shirt, jeans, and a pair of boots, along with a GPS and a small bag of toiletries. An overnight bag of sorts, perhaps? It must belong to him. But what had he packed it for? He slipped his fingers into the front pouch and pulled out a trail map.
Frowning, he spread it out on the bed and studied it. For some reason, he’d highlighted a loop into the Blue Ridge Mountains. Turning the map sideways, he took note of the coordinates printed neatly in the margin. It looked like his handwriting. There was no campground marked on the map at those coordinates, but there was a stream nearby—perhaps it was a favorite fishing spot he’d been planning on taking Henry to before the accident. But why didn’t he have any camping supplies in his pack, other than a change of clothes, and nothing at all for Henry? It didn’t make sense.
He slumped down on the edge of the bed, letting the map slide from his hand, a sliver of a memory, slippery as an eel, dancing in and out of his consciousness. Every time he tried to pin it down, it receded into the shadows. Head throbbing, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Something about the coordinates was familiar to him, but he couldn’t retrieve it from the scum-covered depths his memories had become bogged down in. Releasing a tired breath, he sat up, tucked the shoebox under his arm, and made his way to the kitchen. A strong cup of coffee was in order before he picked up Henry. He brewed a full pot in the relic of a coffeemaker he found on the counter and sat down at the table with the shoebox.
Frowning, he studied the stack of bank statements paper clipped together by year. It appeared he had been going through them and highlighting things, taking notes about things he needed to take care of, and accounts that had to be closed. He’d highlighted a monthly transfer of $4500 going back almost five years. Sipping his coffee, he contemplated the possibilities. Sonia had mentioned something about his mother sending money to his brother. It was a hefty sum of money for a grown man to be taking from his elderly mother—$54,000 a year. Granted, Celia had been comfortably off, but hardly wealthy. The transfers amounted to roughly two-thirds of her combined income from her social security, a small pension, and a modest rental property.
Ray drained his coffee and rinsed the mug out in the sink. He wasn’t going to get to the bottom of things by staring at the statements. He would have to go into the bank and see if they could help him sort it out. Right now, he had a more pressing matter to attend to. For better or worse, it was time to pick up his son. Admittedly, he was overwhelmed at the thought of caring for a four-year-old by himself—and at a complete loss as to how to occupy him all day long. Hopefully, Henry would have his own ideas about what he liked to do for fun.
Ray pulled the screen door closed behind him and crossed the lawn to his neighbor’s back door. Evelyn spotted him through the kitchen window as he raised his fist to knock. He could have sworn he saw her purse her lips in disapproval before she gave a small nod of acknowledgment and dried her hands on a tea towel.
“You’re looking a little fresher this morning,” she quipped, opening the door and ushering him inside. “Did you sleep?”
“A little,” Ray said, not wanting to elaborate on the nightmares that had plagued him.
“Tea?” Evelyn asked, peering at him over her shoulder as she filled the kettle.
Ray shook his head. “No thanks, I just downed a huge mug of coffee. That should be enough to kickstart my system—hopefully, my memory too.”
“Are you feeling better?” Evelyn asked, a gleam of curiosity in her eye.
“Pretty good. I’ve still got a nagging headache.” He didn’t add that it got worse every time he tried to dig up a memory. He got the impression Evelyn wasn’t as concerned about his welfare as she was about releasing a four-year-old boy back into the care of a parent who’d forgotten he had a child to begin with. “How did Henry sleep last night?” Ray ventured.
“Like a baby,” Evelyn answered, setting the kettle on the stove to boil. She cleared her throat before folding her arms in front of her. ”He thinks the beds in Jessica’s room are very comfortable. Apparently, he didn’t have pillows in his old house.” She quirked an eyebrow upward, as if awaiting an explanation.
Ray gave a nervous laugh. ”I’m not sure where he got that idea from. Vivid imagination of a four-year-old, I suspect.”
“Indeed,” Evelyn said in a tart tone as she busied herself with her tea.
“Is Sonia here?” Ray asked, trying not to sound overly hopeful. It was apparent Evelyn had no intention of handing Henry over without giving him a grilling first. It was obvious, she still didn’t trust him.
“She’s in her office, trying to catch up on her work.”
Ray swallowed hard, sensing the indictment in Evelyn’s tone. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you both going out of your way to help me. Maybe you can let Henry know I’m here, and we’ll get out of your hair. I’m planning on doing something fun with him today.”
Evelyn threw him a sharp glance over the rim of her mug. “What kinds of things does he enjoy doing?”
Ray hesitated, feeling the heat creeping up his neck. He had no idea what Henry liked to do—he couldn’t remember. He opened his mouth to offer up some generic response, but he was spared when the door burst open and Jessica and Henry barged in.
“Can we have a snack, Grandma, please?” Jessica asked. ”We’re hungry.”
“What? After that big pancake breakfast?” Evelyn’s lips softened into a smile. “What would you like?”
“Goldfish, please,“ Jessica said.
Ray shifted in his seat, attempting to smile at his son. Henry had come to an abrupt stop at the sight of him, a crushed look in his eyes.
“It’s time for us to go home now, Henry,” Ray said, getting to his feet.
“Jess, why don’t you put some crackers in a baggie for Henry to take with him?” Evelyn suggested.
“Okay.” Jessica skipped across the kitchen and tugged open a drawer. She filled a Ziploc to overflowing and pressed it into Henry’s hands.
“Please be sure and thank Sonia on my behalf,” Ray added.
Evelyn gave a curt nod. ”Henry’s clothes are in the washer. I’ll send them over later. Don’t forget you need to look for the paperwork for his preschool.”
”Yes, of course. Thanks for the reminder,” Ray said. “I’ll dig that out later today. Henry and I are going to do something fun together first.” He smiled down at his son again as he reached for his hand but got only a blank stare in response. To his relief, Henry accompanied him out the back door without a fuss this time.
Back inside his house, a fo
rlorn-looking Henry stood in the middle of the kitchen, clutching his bag of Goldfish crackers, as though waiting for further instructions.
Ray leaned back against the counter. “What do you want to do today, Henry?”
He shrugged, a detached look in his eyes.
Ray racked his brain, wondering what would appeal to a four-year-old. “Do you want to go to the park?”
Henry studied him warily, like a stray dog who’d been offered a piece of meat by the dogcatcher.
“We could throw the ball around for a bit,” Ray suggested. No sooner had the words left his lips than he remembered he hadn’t seen a ball anywhere in the house or garage. “Or you could play on the swings and the slide,” he added hastily.
Ignoring him, Henry knelt down and began driving his truck back and forth over the floor, lost in his own world.
Ray scratched the stubble on his jaw. He’d never felt more at a loss than he did right now. Wasn’t he supposed to know how to get through to his own son? Maybe he needed to be more direct and talk to him about his mother—acknowledge the pain he was in. ”Henry, I know you miss your mom. And I get that you’re feeling sad. But I want you to know I’m always going to be here for you.”
Henry began making engine sounds, head bent low over his truck. Ray grimaced. There wasn’t any point in pushing it if Henry wasn’t ready to talk.
“Tell you what,” Ray said, adopting a more chipper tone. “Dad’s going to take a quick look for some paperwork for your school while you have a think about what you want to do today. Maybe you’d like to go get some ice cream or go to the movies. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and then we’ll decide.”
Ray hurried down the hall to Henry’s bedroom. He must have stashed a file of important documents somewhere in the house. He wouldn’t have left anything as essential as Henry’s birth certificate and immunization record behind, knowing he would need it for a new school. He took a quick look around the room for a file box, or anything that looked like it might contain paperwork, but came up short. A peek in the closet revealed nothing other than Celia’s extra coats and the few items of Henry’s clothing he’d retrieved from the Target bags. Frustrated, he backtracked down the hallway to his own room. Spotting his laptop bag stashed on the floor by the nightstand, he checked inside the pockets, but it contained nothing more than some drafts of miscellaneous articles he’d been working on. Maybe he’d intended to make another run back to his old house to fetch the rest of their things before the accident happened—that could have been why he’d packed an overnight bag.
