by M. Leighton
Lucius rose as well, walking with me to the door.
“Please do come back and visit, Ridley. I’d like to keep in touch, especially if you hear from Bo.”
I was perturbed. Lucius had irritated me. He was supposed to be the one giving me answers, telling me that Bo was alright and how to find him, not the other way around.
I nodded and smiled, a gesture I knew was tightly polite. I wasn’t feeling particularly warm at the moment.
********
My conversation with Lucius plagued me for several days. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was right, if Bo was some kind of prophecy-fulfillment that had been colossally duped. The only thing I knew for sure was that I needed to see Bo, needed to talk to him, and the only way I knew to do that was to catch him visiting me. So, one night I went to bed, determined to stay awake long enough to nab Bo as he came into my room.
As I lay there, listening vigilantly, I began to fantasize about seeing Bo again
—touching him, talking to him. I thought of his silky dark hair, his nearly-black walnut eyes, his perfectly-carved lips. It gave me cold chills just to think of feeling those lips on mine and hearing his voice again.
I hadn’t had any contact with him since the night he’d come to my room after his supposed death, an incident that I was more convinced than ever was not a dream. But I remembered every detail about him as if I’d seen him only hours before. They were permanently etched into my mind, onto my heart.
From the night he’d visited me after his “death”, I’d awakened at some point every night since with his indescribably soothing tangy scent swirling in the air around me. But there was never any sign of Bo, though. Each time, I’d cut on the lights and walk the room, looking for him, reaching out with all my senses. The neighbors probably thought I had insomnia. But never, not once, did I find any trace of Bo, no evidence that he’d been there except for the smell in my nostrils and the ache in my heart.
Tonight, however, I was determined to stay awake, all night if need be, until he visited. I wanted to catch him red-handed. Even more than I wanted answers, I wanted, no needed, confirmation that he was alive. I needed to touch him, to feel his cool skin beneath my fingertips. I needed to know that he was out there…
somewhere.
It was during my fight against sleep that it occurred to me that I could always visit Denise Bowman, Bo’s mother. It was possible that I might be able to glean something from her reactions and the way she spoke about Bo, like whether or not she was still grieving and if she knew he was alive or not. Even if she didn’t, she might hold valuable answers, whether she was aware of it or not.
The next morning, I woke to the persistent buzz of my alarm. I growled at the ceiling. I’d fallen asleep.
I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow, smothering a scream of aggravation. My irritation was impossible to maintain, however, when Bo’s mouth-watering scent wafted up from the material and teased my nose. It was strong, as if he’d lain there at some point, resting his head on the pillow beside mine. I wondered if he’d laid down beside me while I slept. The thought was as thrilling as it was frustrating.
It did serve to improve my mood, though. My body seemed to know what my mind only suspected. Bo had held me during the night, and the knowledge of that, the elation of it was enough to keep me going for a little while longer, until I could see him again.
After I showered and dressed, I realized that I had no idea how to get in touch with Denise Bowman. What little I knew of her was that she worked third shift at the hospital, which meant that, even though I hated to intrude so early in the morning, my best chance of catching her would be after she got off work. Like right about now.
I rushed through the rest of my morning ritual and hit the door at a run. I drove at breakneck speed to Bo’s house, determined to intercept Denise before she crawled into bed for the day.
The driveway at Bo’s small white cottage curved around and stopped right in front of the back door. So when I pulled to the top of the drive, I could see the rear bumper of Denise’s blue Volvo peeking out from behind the house.
Pulling to a stop just short of the wagon, I shut off the engine and sat inside my cooling car watching the kitchen window for signs of life. I could see that a light was on, but I didn’t know if that meant she was still up or she had just forgotten to turn it off. But then I saw a shadow pass in front of the glass, so I got out and walked to the front door.
As I raised my hand to knock, I thought I heard hushed voices and something scooting, like maybe a chair or some other small piece of furniture being moved.
Whoever was inside quickly quieted, however, so I just shrugged it off and rapped my knuckles lightly on the metal part of the screen door.
It only took a few seconds for Denise to answer. When she pulled open the heavy wooden door, she smiled in greeting.
It wasn’t quite the smile that I was expecting. It seemed a bit tight, like maybe she was irritated. I wondered if she wasn’t very happy to see me.
“Hi, Ridley,” she said, opening the screen door and motioning me inside.
I was relieved that she remembered me. But before I let that encourage me too much, I reminded myself that her memories of me weren’t important. It was Bo they were after, Bo they were trying to erase. If Lucius’s theory was true, that is.
“Hi, Mrs. Bowman.” I stopped just inside the living room and turned to face her.
“What brings you out so early?”
“I hope I’m not bothering you. I wanted to catch you before you went to sleep.”
Leaving the front door open, Denise only moved a short distance into the room, hovering near the exit as if she was hoping this wasn’t going to be a very long visit. I tried not to let her body language dissuade me.
“Well, you did. What can I do for you?”
Right down to business, I thought.
Luckily, I’d rehearsed a bit of what I was going to say, although it seemed that most of my planning was for naught since she was intent on rushing me.
“How are you doing?” I watched her face carefully, gauging her reaction.
“I’m fine. How are you?”
That answer didn’t tell me much. It could’ve meant that she was putting on a brave face. It could’ve meant that she knew Bo was alive. It could’ve meant that she was taking enough drugs to kill a horse in order to cope with her grief. But it also could have meant that she wasn’t grieving at all.
“I’m doing better, I guess.”
She looked at me blankly, nodding her head as if she didn’t know what to say.
“Actually,” I began. “I wondered if you had any baby pictures of Bo that I could use for school. With all the…disappearances and stuff, we’re doing a Halloween masquerade to raise funds for a memorial and I thought it would be nice to have some baby pictures of everyone to put into the slideshow at the end of the dance.”
I watched Denise’s brow wrinkle in confusion. Her expression said that she was searching for some meaning in what I’d said, but she was finding none.
“Bo?”
“Yes.”
“Bo,” she repeated, this time as if she was trying to recall something about the name, as if she was trying to remember where she’d heard it. Her own son’s name. Supposedly.
With a sinking feeling, I realized that it was highly likely that Lucius was correct in his suspicions. It appeared that Denise Bowman was not Bo’s mother.
“Your son, Bo,” I added helpfully.
“Bo,” she said again. Then, as if light was dawning, she must’ve latched onto a memory, whether real or fake I couldn’t know. “Right. Bo. Oh, um, let me see. Maybe there’s something in his room.”
She walked past me toward Bo’s room. Quietly, I followed. Denise stepped through the doorway and just stood staring at Bo’s bed as if she’d never seen it before.
Confused, she looked around, taking in the dresser and the chest then glancing back at me.
“Do you
think there would be something in here?”
I felt my eyes widen in uncertainty and disbelief. She was asking me?
“Maybe. I’m happy to help you look,” I offered uncomfortably.
“That would be great.”
Reluctantly, Denise walked to the dresser and slid open the top drawer. She rifled through the contents like she was picking through the clothes of a stranger, which is what I suspected that Bo was to her—a stranger.
With a sigh, I turned to rummage quickly through the night stand and then made a show of going through the chest while she fumbled through the rest of the dresser drawers.
Even though I was pretty sure I already had my answer, I wanted something more.
“What about a baby book or a photo album from when he was little?” Those were the kinds of things that almost every mother had.
I saw Denise’s back stiffen.
“I can look,” she replied vaguely.
After we finished canvassing Bo’s room, I followed Denise back out to the living room, to a shelving unit that held the television. At the bottom were two cabinet doors, which she opened. Inside were several photo albums. She pulled out the first one she came to and turned to hand it to me.
“You can look through this one. I’ll look through the rest.”
Taking the album from her, I turned to the couch and perched on the edge of a cushion. I ran my hand over the brown leather cover of the book then traced the gilded letters that read Family Photos with my fingertip . Beneath that, someone had used black permanent marker to pen numbers, obviously the year .
The cover creaked as I opened it, a sure sign that the album was not viewed very frequently. I flipped page after shiny plastic page looking for any indication that Bo had been a part of the Bowman family before three years ago, but I found none. All the vacations and Christmases, the birthdays and picnics, were all devoid of Bo, of anyone other than Denise and her husband.
Though I was bothered more than I cared to admit, my heart broke a little for Bo. I wondered if he knew, if he’d somehow found out about the farce. But then I wondered how I could ever tell him if he hadn’t. It would break his heart. Bo genuinely loved his father, or at least he thought he did. It would hurt him to know that none of it was real. It would be like losing him all over again. Whether they were or not, to Bo the memories felt real, real enough to die for.
I closed the book and rested it in my lap, glancing over to watch Denise search for a lie, for something that wasn’t there, something that never had been.
Finally she looked up, tears in her eyes, and she said, “I’m so sorry, Ridley. I can’t even remember what he looks like.”
Standing, I carried the album back to the cabinet and put it back where it belonged. Gently, I took the other one from Denise’s fingers and put it away as well.
“It’s alright. I’ll find something else. I think you need some rest. I bet you’ve had a long night.”
Though she looked distraught, there was a confused blankness in her eyes that made me feel incredibly sorry for her. Someone had used—unthinkably, cruelly used and abused—her mind and her emotions in ways that no one deserved. It was a violation, an assault of the worst kind. She’d been tricked to love a son that wasn’t hers and, for a while, she’d grieved the loss him, all on top of the loss of her husband. Now, she was lost, confused, and hurting, and she didn’t even know why.
I said my goodbyes to Denise and left so she could go to bed, all the while my anger was mounting. Someone out there, some monster, was wreaking havoc on people’s lives and whoever it was had to be stopped, had to be punished.
I was behind the wheel, my Civic’s engine purring quietly in the morning fog, when an idea occurred to me. Quickly, I got out and ran back to the front door and knocked.
Once more, I thought I heard hushed voices and movement inside. Gingerly, I opened the screen door and leaned in closer, hoping to hear more clearly. More than anything, I could hear Denise’s voice as she spoke softly to someone. The voices quieted for a moment before someone other than Denise spoke in a tone loud enough for me to discern.
The voice was deeper than Denise’s, but still unmistakably feminine. It was hoarse and husky, bringing to mind images of Sharon Stone or some other sultry older woman.
I knocked again and waited, but there were no sounds to indicate that Denise might be coming to the door. The polite thing would’ve been to leave, to let Denise go to bed or tend to her secret visitor, but I wasn’t feeling particularly polite so I knocked again, this time snapping my knuckles harshly on the wood.
After another full minute or two, Denise finally answered the door. A lightly sweet, floral smell—rosy almost—drifted out through the open door.
My smile was bright with apology. “I’m sorry to bother you again, but—”
“Pardon?”
“I know you were getting ready for bed, but I wanted to…” I felt my smile fade as I trailed off. A spooky thread of apprehension slithered down my spine as I looked into Denise’s puzzled periwinkle eyes. It only took a couple of seconds for me to realize that she had no idea who I was.
Clearing my throat, I stumbled on. “I’m sorry to bother you. I think I have the wrong address.”
I smiled again, a quick twitch of my lips, before I turned and nearly ran off her porch.
Once inside my car again, I sat looking at the house, wondering whether or not I should have tried to get inside, to see who was in there with her. Obviously, it was a vampire. Someone had managed to completely erase me from her mind in a matter of minutes. They weren’t just trying to erase Bo; they were trying to erase all evidence that Bo ever existed, including those who knew and loved him—people like me.
If they (whoever “they” were) thought Bo was dead, they’d need to go back and clean up their mess, cover their tracks. I drew a small amount of comfort from that—the idea that if they thought Bo was truly dead, they might stop hunting him and trying to kill him. Right on the heels of that encouraging thought, however, was one a bit more troubling. What if I was a loose end that needed to be tied up as well?
Throwing the gear shift into reverse, I sped down the driveway and made my way to school. Hopefully it was true what they say: there’s safety in numbers.
********
That night, I lay in bed, once again thinking of Bo and all that I’d learned. I seemed always to think of Bo, to crave him, to need him like I needed food and water, like I needed any essentially sustaining things. It was getting harder and harder to drag myself through the days knowing that I probably wouldn’t see him, and it was getting harder and harder at night to believe that it really was him that I was smelling in my room. As time marched on, his presence was becoming more surreal, like my mind and my heart were colluding to play a cruel trick on me. I clung to the story that Lucius told, if nothing else than as a possible explanation and confirmation that Bo was, in fact, alive. Tighter and tighter I held onto that as I felt him slipping through my fingers. I couldn’t—I just knew that I couldn’t—survive losing him again, even if I’d never really gotten him back in the first place. Hope was the only thing that had kept me living this long.
Besides, it was looking like Lucius was right. Evidently Denise was not Bo’s real mother, which made Lucius’s theory even more plausible. But how to set Bo free? What could I do to make things right in his life, to give our love a fighting chance?
I covered my face with my pillow. Sometimes I wondered how Bo could stay away, how, if he loved me as much as I loved him, he could go hours and hours without seeing me, talking to me, touching me. I would’ve given anything just to be close to him for five minutes, to feel his nearness, that familiar tug. I needed something to hold on to, something to get me through until...I don’t know when.
Suddenly, I was aggravated, aggravated by the whole situation—by Bo and his determination to protect me, his concern for my safety, his willpower to stay away from me. Angrily, I threw my pillow aside and stared furiously at
the ceiling.
“Bo, if you can hear me,” I said, speaking aloud, wishing there was some way Bo might be near enough to hear me. I couldn’t tell anymore. I couldn’t feel much in life but for the agonizing hole in my heart that was ever widening. “I need to know you’re here, that you’re anywhere. Please. If you love me, I need to know that you’re still out there.”
I listened and I waited. I breathed in large gulps of air, testing every particle for the scent that haunted my every waking moment and most of my sleeping ones.
But there was nothing, nothing but the smell of the night air that hung outside my window.
Disappointment coursed through me. It was so poignant that I could almost taste it, bitter and thick.
Maybe I was kidding myself. Maybe I’d taken denial to a whole new, unhealthy level. Maybe I was delusional.
Unable to hold back the tears that seemed always to lurk on the horizon, a sob eeked out right before the first drop fell. I wondered if I’d ever have a dry pillow again. It seemed to be wet more often than not of late. I wondered, too, if I’d ever be whole, ever feel complete again. I doubted a positive outcome for either.
“Bo, please,” I whispered.
At times, I could remember with perfect clarity what his arms felt like around me, what his lips felt like against mine and it tore at my guts. If I could bear to give up my memories of Bo, I would pray for amnesia, anything to quiet the way my heart constantly throbbed for him. “If you hurt like I did, you wouldn’t do this to me, you couldn’t do this to me.”
My heart was breaking for the millionth time, something I didn’t think was possible when the pieces were already so small they were like sand or dust. But it could happen. It happened to me all the time anymore. It’s like my heart no longer knew any other mode than devastation and misery. My deluded hope was the only reason I got out of bed in the mornings, the hope that today might finally be the day that I got to see Bo.
