Jake’s age
or twenty years older,
and he was
making sure Jake could breathe,
calling 911,
telling him help was on the way.
All the things I should have been doing
when all I could do was cry.
When the ambulance arrived,
the man touched my arm,
whispered,
“They’ll let you go with him
if you can settle down.”
And because he looked at me
like he knew I could do it,
I could do it.
I buried my crying
and climbed in next to my brother,
and by the time I looked back,
the man was already gone.
When I came up the hill, I had a plan.
The scare part was meant for Jake,
but it was only supposed to last half a second.
Instead, I was the one who was scared
when I saw his body
falling from the roof,
crumpling, crumbling to the ground,
crying out like no animal I ever heard before.
I think I have been scared about my brother ever since.
Because the accident
wasn’t an accident
at all.
When I think about those words
I thought I’d land it better
I see
it wasn’t like the rabbit.
He wasn’t trying to make the hurting end.
He was trying to make it start again.
After they read it,
everyone is quiet for a minute,
and then the tall one asks,
“Are you sure, Luke?
Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“I’m sure,” I say.
“And you said
you know why he did it.
Can you tell us?”
She asks this in a way
I think she might already know the answer,
but I tell her my answer
to see if they match.
“Because the tin was empty,”
I say.
“And after, it was full again.
He needed it to be full again.”
“Was the tin gone when he disappeared?”
the tall one asks.
I nod.
Then we all look to the corner
where Mom is
listening,
crying.
“I didn’t know,” she says
so quietly I almost miss it.
“People get really good at hiding these things,”
says the tall one,
and I wonder if maybe
somebody hid something
from her once.
“You think he robbed the pharmacy?” Mom asks.
The short one folds his arms.
“We think it’s worth looking into.”
Mom nods. “If he did it, he’s alive.
Or he was then, anyway.
If he did it, there’s still hope.”
Then her eyes go bright
and wild.
“Is there security-camera footage?
Can I see it?
Can I see him?”
They shake their heads.
“Cameras were down all week.
Probably because of the remodeling.”
The short one gets up to leave,
but the tall one leans toward me.
“Is there anything else you want to tell us?
About that day?
Or after?”
“Only that,” I say,
already breathing easier,
like the story was something
hard
and small
that had been blocking my throat.
The officers leave,
and Mom takes me to the kitchen
for a glass of milk,
and I think about how
it’s easier to tell the hard things
on paper,
not in person.
And then I think about
all that blank paper
that covered this table
the morning Jake went missing.
The mess that really
wasn’t mine.
And I wonder,
Is it important?
But the cops are gone,
and my mom has stopped crying,
and anyway
how could blank pages be trying to tell us
anything at all?
The thing
hard and small
in my throat
is back,
so maybe it wasn’t the secret
after all.
But
I have learned to breathe
and swallow
and live
with it inside me.
Part of me has wanted
to stay home from school
every day since Jake disappeared
and especially
after they searched
and I told my story.
But Mom won’t let me.
Not until I’m
hot as Venus,
cold as Neptune,
aching everywhere,
coughing up chunks,
too sick to enjoy a sick day, even a little.
Then she lets me stay home and promises to check on me at lunch.
I try watching TV, but
all that light plus
all that sound
makes my head hurt.
So I’m lying there,
lights off,
blankets on
(current temperature: Venus),
wondering again
if I should have told the cops
anything after all,
when I hear it:
metal on metal,
key in lock,
soft footsteps crossing the kitchen.
I close my eyes and slow my breathing,
pretend to be asleep so Mom won’t bug me.
But the footsteps pass my door,
keep going down the hall,
and then they stop,
and another door opens.
A creaky one
that we never open anymore.
Jake’s room.
And there’s only one person in the world
besides me and my mom
who would know where the spare key is,
who would walk straight to that bedroom
where Jake belongs.
I’m not sure if it’s a dream
or the fever
or something,
so I tell myself to
wake up,
look for the droid or the Wookiee
that means
this isn’t real.
But it’s still just me,
sick and sweating under all these covers,
which means
the other footsteps, breaths, heartbeats
belong to him.
I slide the covers back and tiptoe to the door,
not wanting to scare him,
just in case.
Turn the knob so slowly there isn’t even a click
and sneak down the hall to Jake’s doorway.
And there he is,
digging through a desk drawer.
He dyed his hair black,
lost some weight,
has different clothes
that look
frayed and worn
like the rest of him.
But it’s Jake.
It has to be.
It has to be.
“Jake,” I whisper, and he snaps up, spins to face me.
We stare at each other, me and this man who is
not
NOT
NOT Jake.
At first I want to scream,
run,
call the police,
and then I notice what’s in his hands:
Jake’s Wildcats sweatshirt.
The one I gave him last Christmas
that has the ketchup stain
right in the middle.
The one that’s not worth anything
to anybody but us.
And then I see a list in his other hand,
and I know who wrote that list,
because only Jake makes the lines so dark and thick.
I think of how this person
passed by the TV downstairs,
and the laptop and the iPad,
and I know that he’s not stealing from us.
He’s stealing for Jake.
And then I recognize him.
I even remember his name.
“Hey,” I say, “you’re—”
But he cuts me off.
“Not anymore. Are you going to call the police?”
I think of the tall police officer’s face,
hear her words.
Let me know if you hear anything.
Anything at all.
BUT
she is not here,
and he is, and
I’m sure he is the one
who helped me once
the time I was most afraid,
when nobody else was there.
What if he’s trying to do what is right,
and the cops are too?
What if we all are?
“Would it help Jake if I called the police?”
He shakes his head. “I promise, it wouldn’t.”
I am afraid,
but the same amount of afraid
as when the police were here.
The same amount of trust too.
So
finally
“Okay,” I say.
“I will not tell the police
if you tell me something:
Is he okay?”
The man stops.
Thinks.
“He will be.”
And even though he broke into our house
to take Jake’s things,
I know he is telling the truth.
I can tell he is trying to help.
I remember a speech Coach B gave
when they dedicated the gym to him.
If you want somebody to do what’s right,
let them see you believing that they can.
I remember Bishop Gregersen telling us a story
of an escaped prisoner
and a priest
and candlesticks.
And then I know what I need to do.
The man is already at the door,
reminding me I never saw him,
but
I say,
“WAIT.”
He turns,
eyes narrowed like a cat,
but he waits while I run to my room
and back again
with something in each hand.
I look him straight in the face
so he’ll know this isn’t some kid game,
but also
so he’ll see I believe he can do what’s right,
and I hold out
The Book of Luke and Jake
with that same dark, thick handwriting
and
my duct-tape wallet
with all my money
($239)
still inside.
“You forgot these,” I say.
“The most important part.”
He looks at me real close,
then slides the notebook into the black garbage bag
with the rest of Jake’s stuff
and the wallet
into his own pocket.
I’m glad he doesn’t ask me if I’m sure,
because it’s hard for me to be sure
of anything
anymore.
I keep my promise to the man.
I will not tell the police.
But there’s someone else I have to tell
because brothers deserve to know.
It’s my third trip to the grocery store since he disappeared. Everything is split neatly now into “before” and “after,” like a great chasm in the earth, a divide we can never cross but only gape at.
It was Luke who spurred me to come to Price Saver today, not just because the kitchen is bare and he’s finally feeling well enough to eat again. We’re also here because of the square on the calendar I should have noticed weeks ago.
“I want pad thai and chocolate cake for my birthday,” he told me. “And we need other food. I made a list. Your wallet is in your bathroom. Your outfit is fine, and your hair is fine.” I’m about to tell him I’m not sure where my shoes or my keys are when he hands me both.
There’s no excuse, then. So we go to the store, and I pray we won’t see anyone we know. It will be hard enough to smile at all the well-meaning people who somehow know us.
Not somehow. We all know exactly how.
We nearly make it through without a single sad smile or forced conversation. But as we wind through the produce, Mrs. Braithwaite rounds the corner, pushing a cart of fresh vegetables and nutritional supplements.
I can’t talk about Jake right now. I just can’t. So I search my mind—and my shopping cart—for any other topic.
My answer comes in the cake-mix box, lying right on top like my own Betty Crocker cue card.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I still have your platter. The cake was delicious, and I washed it and was ready to return it the very next day, but…”
She brushes the words away. “Keep it as long as you like. I’m not worried about the platter, honey. I’m worried about you.”
My mouth goes dry even as my eyes well up. I try to bring the conversation back to safe territory, to subjects that won’t make me break down in Price Saver.
“Why coconut cake?”
She smiles and lays a soft hand on my sleeve. “Because he told me it was your favorite, but that you always make chocolate instead for your kids.”
The tears come, swift and sudden, as I stare down at the chocolate cake mix and frosting in my cart. “Jake told you that?”
She nods. “That boy loves his mother,” she says, and I’m grateful for the present tense. She thinks a moment. “I’ve changed my mind. Bring that platter back, and I’ll make you another. How does that sound?”
“I’d like that,” I say, desperate for this small thing that will connect me to my son.
She gives me a smile and ambles away. Soon Luke comes back to the cart with limes and red peppers, which I asked for, and caramel apple dip, which I definitely did not.
“I saw Daphne,” he says. “I invited her to my party.”
I stop, stunned. Luke has grown so much quieter since Jake disappeared. Now he’s invited someone to our house tonight? To what I’m afraid will feel nothing like a party, in spite of our best efforts?
But one look at his face and I can’t say no. His connection with Daphne was always particularly meaningful, and I can tell he’s missed her.
“Okay,” I say, gripping the cart
handle as I try to adjust to this curveball. “What kind of party is this? Are you inviting your friends?”
He shakes his head. “Everything is weird with my friends.”
I should have known, should have noticed. But I was too caught up in my own grief. I try to slip into a playful tone. “Well, if you’d rather invite Jake’s friends, do you think we should invite Kolt and Seth too?”
Luke thinks this over. “Kolt, but not Seth. Seth is Daphne’s boyfriend now. And he underperformed in the state tournament.” As he talks, his thumbs dart across the screen of his phone. He looks up a second later.
“Kolt’s coming. We need more food.”
“You have his number?” I ask. “Have you always had his number, or just since the text?”
There’s no need to tell him which text.
“I already had it,” Luke says. “I’ve been texting Kolt ever since I got my phone.” I marvel at the way Jake is still helping his brother connect to the world, even in his absence. He’s always been so good at that: drawing Luke in with sports statistics, drawing him out with pickup games, passing that notebook back and forth.
And now Luke is one of the people Jake trusted with his four-word text, and I am not. As good as my son is in connecting others, the omission cuts me fresh every time I think of it. It’s not your fault. He must have known that the person he didn’t send that text to would get as clear a message as the ones he did.
It’s my fault.
Except that sometimes I wonder if I can see my son more clearly in his absence. Jake is not cruel. Is there another meaning? Something to decipher not only in the words themselves but in the people he sent them to? Luke, Daphne, Kolt, and the fourth number. No doubt the police know who it is, so why don’t I ever remember to ask?
I send Luke off to get a little more of everything. It helps and hurts, knowing exactly how much more we’ll need for Kolt because it’s exactly the amount we would have needed for Jake. And like a hundred other things today alone, this sets off a chain reaction that finds its way to the same set of questions, like water running a constant course until it’s carved a canyon.
Is he safe?
Is he eating?
Is he sleeping?
Is he scared?
Is he hurt?
Is he ever coming home?