The Disappearing Boy

by Sonia Tilson

  She gave him a sideways look. “Actually, I don’t see what you mean, Neil. What about your mom? If you’re a branch, then she’s the trunk of your tree. How can that be nothing?”

  “Oh, you know,” he said, “Neil, nil, null and void. Even my name means nothing.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Gimme a break. Neil’s an okay name, isn’t it? It’s good. It’s, like, strong and straightforward. What’s wrong with that?” She pulled out her phone. After a quick search she held it out to him. “See, you’re talking total crap. Neil's an old Irish name, and it means champion. That’s like the opposite of nothing.”

  Neil opened his mouth but closed it again. She was kind of hard to argue with.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “why does it matter what your name was supposed to mean, like, a thousand years ago? You can’t seriously believe it has any effect on your personality or on your fate?”

  “Guess not,” he said with a shrug.

  While Courtenay went back to fiddling on her phone, Neil picked up the book and examined the first illustration: a boy in the clutches of a terrifying man, next to an old tombstone. This he had to read.

  She held her phone out. “Look. Mine means court attendant, or brave.” She laughed. “I think I’ll settle for brave. Court attendant would probably mean something like ‘gofer’ in a law office today.”

  She drained her glass of milk, wiping off the white moustache with the back of her hand. “Margaret’s so nice to leave homemade cookies like this. You’re so lucky to have her for your grandma.”

  “Do you have a grandmother?” he asked. She seemed kind of lonely, he thought. It sounded like her parents were out an awful lot.

  “My mom’s mom is dead, and my dad’s mom lives in Florida with her new boyfriend. She doesn’t want to see us anymore, not since my mom got drunk and was rude about them living in a trailer.”

  “Your mom gets drunk?” He could hardly imagine such a thing. Moms were supposed to stay home when they weren’t working, and look after everything.

  “Whatever.” She checked the weight of the carton before pouring herself another couple of inches of milk. “She has bad nerves and says it helps her relax.” She shrugged. “At least she’s better than my dad.”

  “What do you mean?” He was even more shocked. “Is he…?”

  “Nah, he’s all right. It’s just he has stupid friends. They both do, if you ask me.”

  “Do your parents, like, fight and stuff?”

  “Well, not in public. They’ve both got good jobs, well my mom does anyway, and they go to work every day, so I guess in the evenings and on weekends they feel like having a good time.”

  “But do they ever, you know,” he didn’t know how to put this, “hurt you?”

  “Oh no. They mostly ignore me. And I ignore them. I can’t wait to grow up and live on my own.”

  To change the subject, he picked up Great Expectations. “What’s this about anyway ?”

  “Oh, it’s about a boy who gets everything dead wrong and learns the hard way which end is up.”

  “What’s happening in this picture?” He showed her the illustration.

  “Why don’t you read it to find out?” she said, smirking. Then her face got serious. “But seriously, what’s all that about a ‘nothing’ background, Neil? I mean, lots of kids don’t know who their father is, or if they do, they might seriously prefer not to. See, I think we just are who we are. That’s all there is to it. You’re just you, and you’re okay. You’re smart, and,” she shrugged and pulled her crooked little grin, “not bad-looking. And I can see from the cover of your notebook over there that you can draw awesome horses!”

  Neil felt himself go red. He thought of himself as a nerd, and maybe a bit of a loner. But Courtenay thought he was “smart and not bad-looking.” He stood up straighter.

  “You don’t have to be like your father or your mother at all,” she went on. “Or you can just choose to take the best bits. Like, you’re good at art for instance. You got that from your parents.” She took another cookie.

  He thought about it. “What are the best bits for you then?” he asked.

  She swallowed. “Hah! That’s a tough one!” She took another bite. “Best bits? Well, I guess my dad can be pretty funny, and my mom is real smart.”

  “Well you’re funny and smart,” he said, “and at least you have the two of them. Not like me.”

  She brushed a few crumbs off her coat. “I tell you what, Neil,” she said, looking up, “personally, I don’t think you’re missing much, but since you want to find your dad so bad, you’d better just get on with it. Make like a detective and do what you can to find stuff out for yourself.” She grabbed her backpack, and before she left turned back to say, “Give me a shout if you want any help.”

  Chapter 8

  When Neil got home from school the next day, he found a note on the kitchen table from Margaret: Gone to see Sasha and do some shopping. Back around 6:30. He looked at his watch. It was nearly 4:00. He had the house to himself for over two hours. Plenty of time to do some detective work. Maybe Courtenay could come over and help him look for evidence. He got out his cellphone and texted her. She answered immediately: she’d be right over.

  While he waited for her, he looked through Margaret’s desk and cabinet for documents or photographs but found nothing useful. Through the window, he saw Courtenay turn onto the garden path.

  “We’re going to look for pictures,” he told her as she took off her coat. “I’ve already done the downstairs.”

  “Cool!” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Neil felt kind of guilty about trespassing as they went upstairs to Margaret’s bedroom, but it was the only way to find any clues. Careful not to disturb anything, they searched her closet and looked under her bed, and then checked out her chest of drawers. There, finally, under some sweaters in the bottom drawer, they found a photo album.

  They sat at the dinner table, the album spread before them, and flipped through several pages of old photos until they came to some of a girl with dark hair waving back from a point on her forehead who they agreed had to be Margaret.

  Several pages later, the photo of Ken with the horse appeared. “That’s my grandfather, Ken,” Neil told Courtenay, who studied it with interest. “And that’s his horse, Dude. I wonder why Ken went off like that,” he said. “And why my mom’s never even mentioned him.”

  “Sure is strange.” Courtenay turned the page. “Hey, look at this!”

  They saw a whole bunch of photos of what had to be his mom as a baby, mostly with Margaret and Ken, all three looking totally happy. On the next page was a studio portrait of baby Sasha, at about one year old.

  “Aw, she’s so cute!” Courtenay said.

  He examined the photo carefully. She was certainly cute enough, sitting up all big eyes and dark curls, wearing stripy overalls and holding a teddy bear. As they turned the pages, they saw that the curls were gone, and she was a crop-haired toddler in dungarees, then a leggy little kid in shorts and T-shirts. And then, it seemed, there were no more photos of Sasha. Frowning, they turned the pages, peering closely at the pictures.

  “Who is this other kid, anyway?” Courtenay said.

  “Not my mom, anyway,” Neil said, looking at the bullet-headed, knobbly-kneed, sulky-looking kid, “since it’s obviously a boy.” He looked up at Courtenay. “Hey! This has gotta be my missing uncle.”

  “Right! Of course.” said Courtenay.

  “He’s definitely one of the family,” Neil said. “He’s got the widow’s peak for one thing, and the tall skinny build, like my mom and Margaret.”

  They turned several more pages, seeing many more photos of that boy alone or with his parents, but none of Sasha.

  “What do you think’s going on here?” Neil said. “Where’s my mom in all this?”

  “Beats me,”
Courtenay said. “So weird.”

  Neil narrowed his eyes at a shot of the boy, now a teenager in a high school graduation gown and flat hat, scowling between a proud-looking Margaret and the ever-smiling Ken. “If this guy is my mom’s brother, I wonder why he always looks so down,” he said.

  A couple of pages later, they found a university graduation portrait of the same guy; his long hair made the likeness to his mom even more striking.

  “Maybe he and my mom were twins,” Neil said. “They look almost exactly alike.”

  “Totally,” she agreed.

  He looked at her, surprised. “You’ve met my mom?”

  “Yeah,” she said, reaching past him to turn the page. “Here at Margaret’s. A couple of times. She’s really nice.”

  Neil shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his grandmother. “Margaret might be home from the hospital soon,” he said. “I really don’t want her to know I was going through her stuff.”

  Courtenay ignored him. She was staring intently at the university graduation photo of the secret uncle.

  “This is kind of freaking me out, Neil,” she said. “This guy could, like, totally be your mom.”

  He saw her wide-open blue eyes with their thick black lashes, and her half-open pink mouth with the shiny silver ball on the lower lip. Then he looked again at the brooding, handsome face in the photo.

  “You’ve got to go,” he said suddenly, slamming the album shut. “Now! Before Margaret gets back. Hurry up. She’ll be here any minute.”

  “Wait a minute—you said she wouldn’t be home until 6:30.”

  “Go on,” he said, pointing at the door. “Grab your stuff and get out of here!”

  Courtenay stared at him with a mix of anger and confusion. Then she turned and grabbed her coat and backpack and went out, slamming the door.

  He didn’t know why he’d been so rude to her. Margaret wouldn’t really be back for a while. He’d just suddenly known that he had to be alone with this. Something was seriously wrong here, and he had to figure it out by himself. He had a scared, trembly feeling, and his mind was whirling: Sasha, uncle, brother, twin, secret.... That was it. There was a secret here, and he had to figure it out. But why was he so scared?

  He did some deep breathing, the way his mom had shown him, trying to think about his breath and nothing else.

  When he could think more clearly, he blew his nose and shook back his hair and opened the album again. There was still a chance that some picture he hadn’t seen yet would make sense of it all. With trembling fingers, he flipped back to the last photo they’d seen, the guy’s graduation picture, and then turned the page.

  A black and white studio portrait of two people lay in front of him: the mystery man and a girl, their heads together, smiling up at him. Underneath was written, Adam and Jessica.

  But that was his father’s name: Adam! Neil looked again at the date: two years before he was born. What could this possibly mean? As he struggled with these questions, his eyes turned to the girl’s face and opened wide.

  All thoughts of his father fell away as he stared. Knees shaking, he reached for a chair. The girl was new to him, and yet she was startlingly, shockingly familiar.

  He knew that face. He knew those eyes were a light, bright blue. He knew how that fair, curly hair would feel in his fingers, softly crunchy and springy. He knew how soft those lips were, and what it was like to be held, warm and safe, in those arms. He thought he could smell a flowery scent, and he knew that just under her blouse, in the hollow above her collarbone, was a small, brown mole.

  When he could breathe properly again, and the dizzy feeling went off, he looked once more at her picture and then up at the shadowy ceiling. Something in him, he realized, a long-buried part, had known this truth all along. No wonder he was overwhelmed sometimes by a sadness he couldn’t explain. As he looked at the soft, delicate face of his birth mother, tears welled up and ran down his cheeks.

  The startling swish of a passing car reminded Neil that Margaret would be back before long. He stared again at the photo of the girl. Since she was definitely his mother, then that guy, Adam, was probably his father. So who was Sasha? His aunt? He just couldn’t understand it. None of it made sense.

  He turned back to the picture of the man and saw again the uncanny resemblance to Sasha. He made himself sit still and concentrate. How likely was it that his mother had an identical twin brother that she had somehow forgotten to mention? Why were there no pictures of her in the album?

  His mouth was dry, and his heart was beating so loudly he could hear it. He studied the man’s features again, and this time he saw his mother in every detail: in the dark, downward-sloping eyes, in the wide mouth, strong nose and chin, and in the thick wavy hair springing from the so-familiar point in the forehead, even in the challenging expression.

  He closed his eyes, his head and heart pounding and a sick feeling in his stomach.

  Adam was Sasha, and Sasha was Adam—or at least, she had been at one time.

  So, here was the truth. The mystery was solved. Sasha was not his mother, Jessica was. And there was no father to find. No father at all, not anymore.

  What did this make him? he wondered, an orphan? No, not even that. Was there even a word for what he was? No wonder he felt like a nobody.

  A huge anger rose in him. He grabbed the big black kitchen scissors. Holding his breath and trying to steady his hands, he cut out the picture of Jessica. Then, picking up Adam’s picture with the tips of his fingers, he slowly tore it in half; then, working faster and faster, he ripped it into smaller and smaller pieces. He threw the fragments into the garbage. Using the potato masher, he rammed them into the mess of leftover porridge, lasagna, and oily salad scraps.

  He folded Jessica’s picture and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he flipped back to the beginning of the album and pulled out and cut up every single photo of the boy. He slammed the book shut, ran upstairs to his bedroom, and flung the painting down onto the bed.

  “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” He raised the pointed scissors over the painting’s blood-red heart. He lifted his hand even higher, but stopped with a dry sob. Lowering his arm, he dropped the weapon with a clatter and swept the painting onto the floor.

  He had to get out of there. Disappear completely. The picture of Ken and the horse flashed into his mind and he made his decision.

  He looked at his watch. Margaret would be back any minute. He stuffed his backpack with clothes and then checked his money. There was barely enough for a meal. In the entryway, he found his mother’s purse, which Margaret had taken home from the hospital. He pulled out all the cash from her wallet, along with her credit card. He knew her pin number off by heart: a combination of his birth year and hers.

  As the beams from Margaret’s car lit the mountain ash tree in the back parking lot, he grabbed his backpack and rain slicker, struggled into his boots, and ran out into the street, leaving the front door open behind him.

  Chapter 9

  After a long, cold walk, Neil arrived at the bus station. He looked around, not sure where to go or what to do next. It was seven-thirty and dark. He saw a bus roll into the lot, while people waited in line at a door for another bus idling outside.

  He spotted the words Customer Service Office, and made for the window beneath.

  “Can you tell me how to get to Saint John, New Brunswick?” he asked the blond girl at the counter.

  “Wow! That’s quite a trek you’re looking at there, handsome!” she said. She typed something into her keyboard. “It’ll take you at least twenty-two hours by bus, with four changes: at Montreal, Quebec City, Edmundston, and Woodstock.” She gave him a sharp look. “Do your parents know you’re doing this?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m going to visit my grandfather. He’s expecting me.”

  “I see.” She glanced at her comput
er screen while making some notes. “That bus waiting over there will be boarding for Montreal in a few minutes,” she said.

  “I’ll take it,” he said quickly. “Thanks.”

  At the ATM he guiltily used his mother’s credit card to take out the huge sum of three hundred dollars. He bought his ticket and joined the lineup for the Montreal bus.

  By the time he got on, all the seats were taken except for one, next to an old woman.

  “Going to Montreal?” the woman asked as he sat down.

  “Uh huh,” he said, not wanting to give away any secrets.

  She nodded and went back to her Sudoku.

  As Neil looked around, he saw that nearly everyone was on their phones, although a few were reading. He realized that in his rush, he had left Great Expectations behind, and his phone was nearly dead. Luckily he had his sketch pad and pencil set, but that was no good on a moving bus. Suddenly feeling very tired, Neil closed his eyes and tried to make his mind blank. He felt the vibration and jolt as the bus moved out onto the road, and before long they were rolling along the highway, leaving Ottawa behind.

  ***

  The next thing Neil knew, the bus had arrived at the Montreal station.

  The old woman waved goodbye as she and the other passengers left. Feeling very lonely, he waved back.

  The quiet, almost empty station where he would spend the next few hours smelled of gas and oil and stale food. At the miraculously still- open Subway, he bought a pepperoni sub, a bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a bottle of 7Up. He wolfed down the lot and looked at his watch. All of ten minutes had passed.

  Here was a chance, though, to do some drawing. He got his supplies out and began making sketches of the few people still around. First, he tried drawing a baby, fast asleep in its stroller, but its blobby face was impossible to capture. He did better on a sketch of a stout old woman, nodding sleepily and ringed by bulging bags that echoed her shape. He finally focused on a slim, dark-eyed girl in a hijab, lost in thought. He got so caught up in showing the flow of her clothes and the shadows of her face that the next thing he knew, it was time to get on the Quebec City bus.