Vanishing and Other Stories

by Deborah Willis

  FRANK LIVED WITH HIS MOM in the apartment next to ours. I don’t remember his mom’s name either, but she was pretty, and might have been a natural blonde. She had a job in a dentist’s office, and we passed her in the hallway when she was on her way to work and to drop Frank off at the babysitter’s. She couldn’t have been much older than me and Simmy, but she seemed it. When she saw us, she’d give us this wistful, loving look. People did that then. People like to see young couples, the ones who haven’t screwed up too much yet. The ones who have their whole lives ahead of them.

  Frank’s mom must have been really desperate that day. She must have really needed someone, because we couldn’t have been her first choice to babysit. It wasn’t that we were irresponsible—we made it to our shifts on time and we sometimes did our dishes. We just didn’t know anything about looking after a kid. But she had a doctor’s appointment, and for some reason the regular sitter couldn’t take Frank that day. I think it was a Tuesday, maybe a Wednesday. Whatever it was, Simmy and I both had the day off. When that happened, Simmy would sleep in for hours. I’d be up earlier, but I wouldn’t get out of bed. I wouldn’t even move, because I didn’t want to wake her. I’d just watch her sleep. Her mouth would be open and her arms flung over her head. I can still remember the warm smell—not unpleasant—that came from her armpits.

  She was sleeping like that when Frank’s mom knocked on the door. Simmy opened her eyes, closed them, and said, “What’s going on?”

  “Someone’s at the door.”

  At the exact same time, we got out of bed, saw the clothes we were wearing, and remembered the sparkling wine we’d drunk the night before. At least, it seemed that way to me. Simmy and I had known each other for so long that it seemed like we shared everything, including hangovers.

  We answered the door like that, wearing other people’s clothes and smelling like sleep.

  “Did I wake you up?” Frank’s mom didn’t look too good either. I don’t think she’d washed her hair, and she wasn’t wearing the usual lipstick or the green stuff on her eyes. She explained about the doctor’s appointment and the babysitter. “I’d ask someone else, it’s just that we’re from up near Lake Athabasca and we don’t know many people here.”

  I was about to say no, because there was no way I was going to spend my day off looking after her kid. I was about to give some excuse. But before I could come up with anything, Simmy said, “Sure. No problem.”

  For a second, Simmy became a stranger, someone I didn’t know or like but who was living in my apartment. Then I inhaled, and she was Simmy again.

  I looked at the kid, who was in his mom’s arms and seemed small for his age. He wore blue snow pants, a red parka, and boots with reflective stickers on them. He was gripping a handful of his mom’s hair in his fist. His hair and eyes were a deep brown, and that must have come from his dad’s side. I’d never seen his dad, and never wondered about him either—that’s an old story too.

  Frank’s mom said she’d be back around three and would that be okay? And again Simmy said, “Sure.”

  After his mom kissed Frank half a dozen times on the forehead, assured him that everything would be fine, and convinced herself of it too, she left. Then Frank stood in our doorway and looked at the carpet, which couldn’t have been any different than the carpet in his own apartment. He was solidly built, with hair that his mom must have carefully combed. He held a plastic bag full of toys and books. He looked embarrassed or shy, and when Simmy said, “Hey, Frank,” he jumped like he’d just been woken up. She tried again. “Hey, sweetie, how about some breakfast?”

  “I ate already.” He said this without looking at her. Then he put two of his fingers into his mouth and left them there. He rocked back and forth on his feet, and the stickers on his boots threw light up onto the walls.

  “How about I show you around?” Simmy held out her hand and he looked at it. If he’d been an animal, he would have sniffed it. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You should feel at home here. From now on, this is your place too.”

  Frank nodded. Then he took his fingers out of his mouth and held on to her hand. Simmy didn’t seem to mind that he was getting spit all over her. She led him around the apartment, and he dragged the plastic bag of toys behind him. The tour didn’t take long. She showed him the microwave that we’d covered in stickers and the garbage that we hadn’t emptied in a while and the couch we’d found on the street. While she did that, I made a pot of coffee and poured two bowls of Frosted Flakes I’d brought home from work because they were past their best-before date.

  I heard Simmy say, “You don’t look like a Frank. You look like a Justin. Or a Toby.”

  “My dad’s name was Frank.”

  “Those boots make him look like a superhero,” I said. I’d already forgiven Simmy for agreeing to babysit. For one thing, just the smell of coffee was easing my headache. For another, I figured it’d be easy money. “If he were my kid, I’d have named him Captain Danger.”

  Simmy came into the kitchen, leading Frank by the hand.

  “Captain Danger,” I said to him. “From now on, that’ll be your name.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  I poured milk into our bowls and handed one to Simmy. Then all three of us sat on the couch and watched the morning news. I don’t remember much about what the announcer was saying. At that age I felt outside politics, outside history.

  Frank sat very still between us, like he knew we were hungover and didn’t want to disturb us. He was probably used to keeping quiet for the sake of his mom. Once or twice he kicked his boots against the couch. After a while he spoke in a near whisper. “I’m too hot.”

  I noticed he was still wearing the parka and boots. “Take your coat off, kid. Stay awhile.”

  “The zipper’s stuck.”

  Simmy tried to help, then I tried, but the zipper was caught on something. We couldn’t even get it below his neck. We tried to pull the parka over his head, but the collar wasn’t big enough and the Velcro scratched his face.

  “If my mom was here, she’d be able to do it.” He wasn’t accusing us. It was a fact, and the way he stated it reminded me of the TV announcer.

  We decided that if Frank couldn’t get his coat off, then the solution was for us to put our coats on.

  “We’ll just go outside until we get too cold,” said Simmy, “then come inside until we get too hot. And we’ll keep doing that all day.”

  “What do you think, Captain?” I nudged him. “What do you think of that idea?”

  “I think it’s an okay idea,” said Frank, his expression steady and solemn, like the guy who delivered the news.

  WE DIDN’T CHANGE out of those strange clothes. Simmy just tucked in her blouse, buttoned up her sweater, and threw on her parka and mitts. I put on that suit jacket made for a bigger man and my own coat. Neither of us bothered to shower, comb our hair, or brush our teeth. We could get away with it. When you’re nineteen, going out hungover and wearing clothes that smell of chemicals and other people is okay and funny and even charming.

  Simmy and I forgot to bring the toys and books that Frank had brought in his plastic bag. But we did bring a travel mug of coffee that we passed back and forth, and the Polaroid camera, which Simmy swung over her shoulder.

  When we got outside, it snowed in the agreeable way it snows on TV. Thick, wet flakes stuck to our eyelashes and hair. Frank pointed out that we’d also forgotten his mittens—they were in the bag with the toys—so Simmy and I each held one of his hands to keep them warm. The cool air woke me up, and I said, “Who wants to go on a train ride?”

  “I have a train set at home,” said Frank.

  “Forget that. This is a real train. After this, you won’t care if you never see that train set again.”

  These were big promises, considering all I had to offer was the city’s Light Rail Transit system. Riding the LRT was something Simmy and I liked to do when she first moved to the city and everything was an adventure. The fare was a lit
tle over a dollar, and Simmy and I would ride the train as far as it would go and back. We’d sit side by side, lean into each other, and watch the other passengers. We felt sorry for them because they were old, and had destinations. Most were probably commuting to and from work, and they wore the kind of clothes that we only put on as a joke. They fell asleep with their mouths open, their slack faces disintegrating into their necks, and we were sure we’d never end up like them.

  My favourite part of the ride was after Sunnyside, when the train slowed to go over the bridge. I’d press my face to the dirty glass and look down at the river. Sometimes it would be high and fast and green, even brighter than Simmy’s eyes. And in the winter it froze to form ice so white that the sun seemed to leap off it.

  If Frank had already ridden the train, he didn’t say so. He held our hands as we waited for it to pull into the station, and we let him press the button to open the doors. We gambled that no one would be checking tickets, so we didn’t buy any. We just stepped onto the train as though we belonged there and sat on a bench that faced backwards, away from where we were headed. Frank sat very still between us. He said, “How fast does the train go?”

  “Ten thousand kilometres per hour.” I could tell Frank had been raised to be trusting and he would believe anything I told him.

  The woman across from us wore a purple hat with flecks of snow on it. Her grocery bags, filled with food from the Safeway where I worked, were hooked over her wrists. She looked at the three of us, probably trying to figure out if Simmy and I were young parents to be pitied, or conscientious older siblings to be admired. Simmy, who still had the small-town habit of talking to strangers, nodded to the woman and said hi.

  “Hello.” The woman focused on Frank, and she made her eyes wide and spoke in a singsong voice. “Hel-lo there.” Then she looked at Simmy. “Is he yours?”

  Before Simmy could jump in, I put my arm around Frank and said, “Yeah, he’s ours.” I wanted to see if I could get away with it. I pulled Frank toward me and he tilted stiffly into my side. “I’m Steve.” I nodded toward Simmy. “And this is Eileen.”

  “And what’s your name?” said the woman, leaning toward Frank.

  Frank looked at me, as though asking permission to speak, and I nodded to him. He stared at the woman’s purple hat. “I’m Captain Danger,” he said, in his steady, serious way.

  The woman lifted both of her eyebrows, but at different times: first one, then the other. “I see.”

  “Could you take a picture of us?” Simmy took the camera out of its case. “We’d ask someone else, but we don’t know many people here.”

  “We’re from Lake Athabasca,” I said.

  The woman put her bags down and took the camera. She held it steady, despite the curve in the track. There was no flash, but the winter light through the window was enough. The camera hummed and the photo slid out. I waved it around and we watched the picture appear out of the murk. Simmy said to Frank, “Look. That’s us.”

  “A happy family,” I said, and that wasn’t entirely a lie. I was happy then, and I think Simmy was too. And who can say what was going through the kid’s head. Fascinated by the Polaroid’s magic, he reached out and touched the white edge with his index finger.

  I don’t know what happened to that picture—maybe Simmy still has it. Maybe she finds it at the bottom of a drawer sometimes, and tries to remember the kid’s name, and what she loved about me then, and what exactly the girl in the strange clothes was thinking at that precise moment in time.

  WE RODE ALL THE WAY to Anderson and back. Then we switched trains at City Hall so we could pass above the river again, and we rode to Whitehorn. Then we travelled back downtown and switched again. It took us a couple of hours, enough time for me to make stuff up about how Light Rail Transit worked and for Simmy to give Frank a tour of the train car as though it were our second home. She pointed out the map to him, and the seats that lifted to make more room, and the phone you could use in an emergency. She showed him the button you press when you want the doors to open, which he could just reach. Frank told us about his train set. He said it had belonged to his dad, and that it wasn’t quite as fast as the LRT.

  “It goes seven thousand kilometres,” he said. “Sometimes eight.”

  He seemed to have stopped being scared of us. He answered to Captain Danger, and at one point he sat in Simmy’s lap and lightly held some of her hair. The woman in the purple hat had got off at Thirty-ninth Avenue, and Frank stood on her seat, pressed his face to the window, and looked out. He breathed on the glass and doodled in the condensation made by his breath. When he tired of that, he settled between me and Simmy, held her hand, and fell asleep.

  Over and over, the train slid to a stop and the automated voice informed us of our location. I felt cold air each time the door opened. People got on and people got off, leaving snow and mud on the plastic flooring. Then, with something that sounded like an intake of breath, the train started up again and the wheels scraped along the frozen track. My headache was gone but had left me tired and dreamy, and it was easy to make believe that this was my whole life, that the train belonged to us, and that it really was going ten thousand kilometres per hour. I could feel heat through Frank’s coat, and his calm breathing made me drowsy. I kept dipping into sleep, and I slept better than I had in months. I didn’t have to stay alert for sounds of Simmy climbing out of bed, because Frank was holding on to her. I only woke once or twice, when the track curved or the door shunted open.

  WHEN WE APPROACHED BRENTWOOD, I woke up feeling uneasy. But Simmy was still next to me. She’d fallen asleep at the other end of the seat, her head against the window. It took me a few seconds to realize that the space between us was cold. And then I remembered Frank. He was gone.

  My first instinct was to look out the window. The strip mall blurred past and made me dizzy. I turned my head and looked up and down the car. There was a guy reading a newspaper. There was a scarf that someone had left behind on a seat. I stood up and the movement of the train almost knocked me down again, but I went toward the man with the paper.

  “We lost our son,” I said, panic confusing my story. “Have you seen a little boy?”

  The man shook his head and said something to me, but I didn’t listen.

  “Frank!” My voice came out hoarse, thick with sleep. “Frank!” It was the first time all day that I’d called him by his real name.

  I checked under each seat, moving quickly. The train was going too fast, along a wild track. I lurched from one side of the aisle to the other, holding the metal poles for balance. Above the door, a colour-coded map bolted to the wall listed all the train’s stops. I looked at it and pictured Frank reaching for the button and stepping off the train. It could have been at any one of those stops. Then a pleasant, automated voice announced that we’d reached the end of the line.

  I shook Simmy hard to wake her. “Get up,” I said. “He’s gone.”

  “Who’s gone?” She squinted from the sudden light hitting her eyes. “Oh shit—Frank?”

  I dragged her by her arm off the train. “He must have gotten off at one of the stops. We just have to catch the eastbound and retrace our route.”

  “We should call someone. The police or something.”

  She always put her trust in other people, usually any man who seemed powerful and kind. But I wanted to deal with this myself. I wanted to show her that I wasn’t a kid.

  “I’m going to use that emergency phone,” she said.

  “Those are probably just for show.” I jumped down from the platform and crossed the tracks. Then I hoisted myself up onto the platform on the other side, dragging my belly along the concrete. I stood up and called to Simmy. “He probably hasn’t gone too far yet.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She was right—I didn’t know that. I didn’t know anything. But I wasn’t going to admit it. “Simmy,” I yelled. “Let’s go.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have used that tone. She wasn’t
the kind of girl who would come when called. We looked at each other from opposite sides of the track and it was like a scene on TV, except it was real. This was the first time we’d disagreed about anything, the first time we’d lost each other. Simmy turned from me and, with the agility of a cat, ran to the emergency phone. She picked up the red receiver from its plastic box, and then my train pulled in. It glided between us and blocked me from her like a door sliding shut. People got off the train and swept past me. I looked at the car, with its orange floor and bench seats. It was identical to the one I’d arrived on, except it was empty. I got on.

  I FOUND FRANK at Lions Park station, where we’d started out. I’d had a feeling he would have tried to get home, and I was right about that, at least. He was outside, crouched under one of the metal benches where people toss their garbage and stick their used gum. All I could see were his boots, with those reflective stickers. I ran to him, grabbed him by the leg, and dragged him along the cold pavement toward me. I was so angry that I couldn’t even yell. “Frank,” I whispered into his face. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “We missed our stop.” He’d been outside for a while—I could tell from the snow that rested in his hair, and from his red ears and cheeks. “I tried to wake you up.”

  I lifted him by the front of his coat. “You scared the shit out of me.”