The Disappearing Boy

by Sonia Tilson

“I know,” he said, happy that she saw it too. “That’s what I think too. It’s like it’s shouting at me and wants something from me.”

  “Put it back in the bag, Neil, please. It’s creeping me out.” She grabbed the bag and held it open so he could shove the painting back inside, then propped it against the couch on the other side of the dining room.

  “Before we have dessert,” she said, “I want to tell you something your grandma told me after school today.”

  He watched her take two steaming domes out of the microwave, turn them out into bowls and then spoon the hot, runny syrup over them. “What did she tell you?”

  “She said that her son disappeared at pretty much the same time her husband took off.”

  “Her what? Her son disappeared? But that would mean my mom has a brother,” Neil said, trying to figure it out in his head. “So on top of having a father that disappeared, a grandfather that took off, and a brand-new grandmother, now I have a disappearing uncle too? I don’t believe this. Can you believe it?”

  “I believe she has a son, Neil, and that she somehow lost him, and that she wishes they’d been able to talk about the problem, whatever it was. She still misses them both a lot, I think. She tries to hide it, but she’s a very sad and lonely lady.”

  “I think you’re right about that,” Neil said as they sat back down at the table. “She showed me a photo of her husband, Ken, and I figured she was still upset about him taking off. She told me I looked a bit like him, but I couldn’t see that from the photos. She didn’t show me pics of any son, though. I wonder why not. Is he dead, do you think?”

  “I don’t think so, but it’s definitely weird.” She plopped a scoop of ice cream onto his dessert. “Maybe she just wanted you to focus on your grandfather. Like, you know, one new relative at a time sort of thing.”

  “I guess so. You’re probably right.”

  The dessert was incredible: hot, fluffy, cakey stuff soaked in syrup. He’d never tasted anything like it.

  “So what about your mom?” asked Courtenay. “Won’t she be worrying about you?” She waved her spoon in the air and laughed. “Mine’s not going to be bothering herself about me tonight, that’s for sure.”

  Neil thought about how his mom had always watched over him. She always waited for him to come home, and worried over every little scrape and sniffle. Lately she’d been driving him crazy with all her questions and worrying. He remembered how pale she’d turned when he yelled at her in his bedroom.

  “She’ll be worrying for sure,” he said.

  Courtenay looked at him in surprise. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  He shrugged. “She doesn’t seem to care how worried I am. So why should I care about her?” He took another mouthful as a phone started ringing in the distance.

  “That’s Margaret’s phone next door,” Courtenay said. “You can hear everything through these walls.” She turned back to her pudding.

  A comfortable silence followed, broken only by the clacking of spoons, until the ringing started up again. Courtenay looked at Neil, her eyes wide. “I’ll bet that’s your mom phoning Margaret, looking for you,” she said. “Now Margaret will be worried sick too.” She jabbed her spoon towards him. “You really should call her, Neil. Tell her you’re okay, and not to worry. Tell her you’ll be home when you feel like it.”

  He turned his phone back on and found four text messages, all from his mom.

  Call me and I’ll come and get you wherever you are

  Come home Neil and I’ll tell you everything right away I promise

  Neil I’m so sorry. Please PLEASE call me!

  The last one was longer.

  I don’t know what to do Neil, but I’ll drive around until I find you. I’ll stay out all night if I have to.

  “She’s worried all right.” He held out the phone for Courtenay to read, and was surprised to see her face crumple and turn pink as she took in the messages.

  She raised tear-filled eyes to his. “Do you have any clue how lucky you are to be cared about like this? Nobody has ever felt like that about me. And if they did, they sure don’t anymore.” She sniffed. “Somebody must have once, though, I guess, or I wouldn’t know what I was missing, would I?” She blew her nose on her napkin. “Come on, Neil. Call your mom and put her out of her misery. Go on, call her!”

  He sighed, then poked at his cellphone and listened. “She’s not answering.”

  “Well, leave a message!”

  “I'm fine,” he texted, his fingers clumsy on the keyboard. “Sorry.”

  As Neil scraped up the last of the syrup, his cellphone rang.

  “Hello?” he asked. He expected to hear his mother’s angry voice, but to his surprise, it was Margaret.

  “Oh, Neil!” Her voice sounded old and shaky. “I’m so happy you answered! Where are you?”

  “I’m just next door with Courtenay, actually. Why? What’s up?”

  “Oh, thank God! Come quickly. The police are waiting to take us to the hospital.”

  “The hospital?” he asked, an uneasy feeling creeping up on him.

  “There’s been an accident,” said Margaret. “It’s your mother.”

  Chapter 6

  The waiting room in the intensive care unit was weirdly peaceful. In fact, it felt a bit like being in church. Neil had imagined a scene of bloodstained chaos: gurneys hurtling past, pushed by sprinting orderlies; doctors and nurses giving quick treatment to mangled bodies; doors swinging open to show surgeons standing at the ready. But here, apart from the murmur of the overhead TV, everything was silent.

  He poked his head into the hallway. The floor was a shining stretch of beige tiles. Posters on the mauve and pale-green walls showed confident-looking nurses and doctors smiling down at equally happy patients. We’re here for you, the posters declared in English and French.

  Feeling cold and sick to his stomach, he clasped his trembling hands together.

  Constable Gauvreau, who had driven them to the hospital, came stomping back into the waiting room. His large dark form and loud voice were shocking in the still, pale room. He handed Neil a Styrofoam cup. “Hot chocolate,” he said. “I’ve got a boy about your age and he can’t get enough of the stuff.”

  Neil clutched the hot drink gratefully. “Thanks,” he said. He looked up into the officer's kind, broad face and, to his embarrassment, realized that his eyes were filling with tears.

  “Hey there, don’t be upset,” said Constable Gauvreau. He sat down next to Neil and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “The staff here are terrific. Your mom’s in good hands.”

  Neil squinted up at the cop, wondering if he was just saying that to make him feel better. The warm smile he received reassured him a little bit.

  “Thanks” he said again, unable to come up with anything else.

  The constable stood and had a quick, quiet conversation with Neil’s grandmother. Then, with a final tip of his hat, he left. The sound of his steady footsteps receded down the hallway.

  Neil's grandmother gave him a tight smile and looked away. He slumped in his chair. This accident was all his fault. He’d deliberately turned off his cellphone so his mom couldn’t call him, which was why she’d gone rushing around looking for him. Her text messages showed how frantic she’d been. What if she was seriously hurt? What if…? There were pins and needles in his stomach and a pain in his chest. He swallowed and looked again at his grandmother, but her eyes were closed.

  With a squeak of rubber on vinyl, a pretty, dark-haired nurse hovered in the doorway. “Good news!” she said, smiling at them. “Ms. MacLeod’s condition has stabilized. We’ll be able to tell you more soon. I’m Julie, by the way. I’ll be looking after Ms. MacLeod.” She smiled again before hurrying off down the hall.

  “Oh, thank God!” said Margaret. She leaned her head back and looked up at the ceiling, her thin lips moving
slightly. Was she praying? Neil studied her pale, lined face. Could she have been thinking his mom might actually die? She couldn’t die. She was all he had. And she loved him. And he loved her. His chin started wobbling.

  Margaret opened her eyes and smiled at him. “This really is good news, Neil,” she said. “It sounds as if your mom’s going to pull through.”

  He sat up. “What do you mean? Were you afraid she wouldn’t?”

  She looked away at his question and pursed her lips. “Yes, I was,” she said after a pause. “She was seriously injured. One has to be prepared.”

  “Didn’t I have to be prepared? She is my mother after all,” he said. “Shouldn’t I have been told how serious it was?”

  “I don’t think so, Neil. Not until we knew what we were talking about. There was no need to frighten you unnecessarily.”

  Louder squeaks could be heard coming down the hallway before a short, square woman with hair like grated carrots and sharp green eyes marched in, a clipboard in her hands.

  “I take it you are, er”—with raised eyebrows and her mouth pulled down, she checked her notes—“Ms. MacLeod’s mother and son?”

  His grandmother nodded stiffly.

  “I’m Sister Vincent.” She glanced at her watch. “Now, here’s the situation.” Her eyes went back to the clipboard. “The patient has sustained a head injury, and is still unconscious. The MRI shows a small fracture of the skull but no displacement.”

  Neil gulped. Wasn’t a fractured skull pretty serious?

  “There is some swelling of the brain,” the Sister continued, “but it seems to be levelling off and hopefully will go down.” She tucked the clipboard under her arm and straightened her white coat, then turned to walk down the hall. “You may see the patient for five minutes, if there is no disturbance.”

  Why was she being so stern? Neil wondered. It wasn’t as if his mother had done this to herself, or on purpose.

  Over her shoulder, she added, “Now, if you’ll follow me.” They trailed obediently after her down the hall.

  Three patients lay in separate areas of the room on complicated metal beds, each with a bank of machinery at its head. On Neil's right an old man lay as if dead, his purple mouth hanging open in a putty-coloured face. Beyond him, a white mound gurgled and groaned. In the third bed, a thin form lay straight and still, almost flat, under the sheets, its profile sharp and yellowish below the bandages. Could that seriously be his mother?

  Machines clicked and buzzed as Neil and his grandmother approached the bed. A thin tube ran down to the forearm from a clear plastic bag dangling above. Neil turned his eyes from another bag, half-filled with yellow liquid, hanging below the bed, to stare at the bruised, closed eyes, so naked-looking without makeup; and at the head, bandaged in a sort of turban that hid all signs of hair. Another bandage crossed the nose and cheekbones. The thin lips were pale. It could have been anybody. In fact, looking at the dead-pale mouth, he thought for a moment that this wasn’t his mother after all—she always wore dark red lipstick—but his grandmother seemed sure.

  Taking one of Neil's mom’s hands in hers, Margaret motioned to him to go around the bed to take the other.

  “Mom’s here,” she said softly, leaning over. “And Neil. We’re right beside you, Sasha. You’re going to be fine.”

  Margaret glanced across the bed, waiting for him to say something. Neil stared down at the alien shape of his mother, felt her cold, unmoving hand in his, but couldn’t think of what to say.

  Finally, he leaned forward and stared down at her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry, Mom.”

  ***

  The next morning, while his grandmother sat patiently waiting for the specialist to come and give the latest report on his mother’s condition, Neil explored the halls of the ICU.

  He walked past a row of steel-mesh trolleys lining the wall, some holding clean, neatly folded bedding wrapped in clear blue plastic; others loaded with transparent yellow bags of dirty linen. He went by recycling bins, washrooms, and a recessed fire extinguisher, until he was faced by a steel door marked Restricted Access, Authorized Personnel Only.

  He took the elevator down to the ground floor and wandered along until he came across the hospital gift shop. He looked around, hoping to find something to give his mom when she woke up. He breathed in the scented air. Everything in here seemed aimed at women, he thought. Didn’t men get sick?

  He surveyed the shelves of toiletries and the sappy cards and Get Well Soon balloons, and gawked at the price of the refrigerated flower arrangements. He skimmed over the titles in a rack of magazines, but saw nothing that would interest her. Another rack of schmaltzy-looking paperbacks looked just as unsuitable.

  He picked up a Perkins-type kitten from amongst the stuffed animals, then put it back and turned to study a shelf of candles shaped like praying hands. On the shelf above, smiling china angels held out their palms in blessing over miniature curling stones bearing messages like, All Things are Possible with God and Prayer is the Answer. He moved on to read the framed Serenity Prayer which looked good to him, although he wasn’t quite sure his mom would appreciate it.

  He knew she wouldn’t like the scarves either, or the jewelry, even if he could afford them. Nothing in here would suit her.

  Across the hall, he saw a little coffee shop where worried-looking people sat at small tables, clutching mugs or easing plastic film off their muffins. Try Our New Green Apple Smoothie! said a big notice standing on the floor by the entrance. It was tempting, but he remembered his mom and left the cafeteria to follow the red line on the floor and the lists and arrows on the walls back to the ICU.

  His grandmother was not in the waiting room. Had something happened? There was no one around, and Neil suddenly felt frightened. He set off quickly for his mom’s room. At the door he slowed down, worried at what he might find. He took a deep breath and then stepped into the room.

  “Hello, sweetie!” His mom, just barely lifting her head, put out her hand to him and smiled. She looked very strange without her makeup and long hair, but her eyes had the same loving look.

  He bent forward to kiss her pale, unscented cheek, a lump in his throat. “I was so scared, Mom!” he said. “I feel so bad about causing your accident!”

  “Shush now,” she said, with a weak smile. “I caused it myself with my stupid panicking.” Her eyelids drooped and fluttered.

  “That’s enough now,” the ginger-headed Sister said, ushering him out. “Time to go.”

  Chapter 7

  “We can always go back to the townhouse to get anything you want while you stay with me,” Neil’s grandmother said, squinting through the clunking wipers of her old Honda as they drove back to her house. “I don’t think it will be too long until your mom’s well enough to leave the hospital.”

  He thought how weak and alien his mother had looked that afternoon. Without her makeup on and with her hair shaved off, she was hard to recognize. Remembering the photograph, he turned to his grandmother and opened his mouth to ask if his mom had ever had a brother, but shut it, seeing the tired look on her face as she stared at the road ahead.

  After dinner they stood in the little spare bedroom looking at the painting; Neil had fetched it from Courtenay’s and propped it up on the chest of drawers.

  “So, it’s come back home,” he said to Margaret. He saw how it seemed to take over this little room, the way it had dominated his bedroom in the new house. “Why was it in your house, anyway?” he asked.

  She looked away. “Your mother gave it to me.”

  That made sense. His mom never liked to even think about his father, let alone talk about him, so she certainly wouldn’t have wanted such a reminder in her own house. But when could she have given it to Margaret? And why would his grandmother have wanted it? Wouldn’t she have been mad at her daughter’s husband for disappearing like that, abandonin
g his wife and unborn baby? He shrugged, feeling very tired. Whatever the story, the painting was staying with him.

  ***

  Courtenay came to Margaret’s door after school the next day. She fumbled around in her backpack as she came in and then handed Neil a dark blue, hardback book. “Here, give this back to your grandma, would you? She lent it to me.”

  The book, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, looked awfully long. He flipped through the pages. It even smelled old, but he saw it had lots of interesting black and white illustrations.

  “Is it good?” he asked.

  “It’s amazing! You should try it.” She hesitated. “If you like reading, that is.”

  “It’s what I do, mostly, other than the art stuff.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “What have you read?”

  “Well, I just finished A Wrinkle in Time. And I’ve read the Narnia books, and all the Harry Potter books, of course, and some Isaac Asimov, and The Golden Compass and the rest of that series, and—”

  “Okay, okay! I’m convinced,” she said, grinning. “If you can read those, you can manage this one. Honestly, once I started it, I couldn’t put it down.” She took off her coat. “How’s your mom?”

  “She’s getting better, but she’s been having bad headaches, so they’re keeping her in for observation a couple of days longer.”

  “That’s too bad about the headaches, but it’s good she’s getting better. And how about you? Are you okay?”

  “I guess, but I’m worried about my mom, and I’m feeling kind of mixed up these days,” he said. Courtenay frowned sympathetically.

  In the kitchen, he held out the big round tin full of homemade peanut-butter cookies Margaret had left out for him.

  “The thing is,” he said, selecting a cookie, “it’s not knowing who my father is that makes me feel like a total nobody. If I don’t know who he is, I don’t know who I am. I’m like a tree with only one branch. Do you see what I mean?”