“We can go home now,” he said.
“Joel. It’s always Joel. It will always be Joel,” I said sadly. For months Dad ran out on us for the memory of a dead person. “I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.” I didn’t really know which one I hated, so I left it open for interpretation. All I knew was that the people who lived were less valuable than the memory of the one who died.
We waited for Dad to pass by before we could turn around and go home. I looked at my pajamas and slippers and at my chauffeur hiding a purple station wagon under a tree while we stalked our own dad, who was running to see a tombstone. “This isn’t normal,” I said.
Dad finally got through the gates of the cemetery.
“We’ll never get beyond Joel,” I said as we turned around and headed home.
That week dragged on, and I didn’t practice my piano until Friday afternoon. Miss Mary Frances warned me everybody would groan whenever I practiced “Für Elise,” and she was right. When Dad came home, I called out over the annoying half-step pattern played by my right hand.
“I think Mom misses you,” I said, my left-hand arpeggios outlining a somber key.
“You do, honey?” he said, stopping under the arch.
“Yeah. She looks really tired and sad,” I said, trying to concentrate on the notes and my fingers, but knowing I had Dad’s attention.
“She’s working long hours, isn’t she?” Though he stood behind me now, I didn’t turn around.
“Yeah, but she seems lonely. I think she needs you to come over and visit.” I played the wrong key, looked down, and lost my place in the music.
“Dad, don’t you miss us?” I turned around and made room on my bench so Dad could sit down.
“I do, Bee.”
Then say something. Do something. Miss us as much as you miss him, I thought to myself.
“You want to play that duet?” Dad said, picking up Bach Duets for Beginners and opening to one we used to play together. We synchronized our notes but the music sounded as mechanical and precise as Dad’s collection of clocks. At the end of the piece, Dad went back downstairs. Solo work.
Later, I heard the back door slam and Matt yell down the stairs, “I’m ba-ack!”
“Where’s Mom?” Dad called out from the basement.
“Next door,” Matt answered and then asked, not so nicely, “Where did you think?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Matt,” Dad said.
I could see now why Matt thought he couldn’t fix anything between them. Matt threw open the refrigerator and dug out a piece of cold pizza.
“Everybody’s going to Joe’s later tonight after the game. I need you to drop me off.” Joe’s was a popular pizza place for high school kids. Matt was off restriction, but I was pretty sure his activities were still limited.
“Looks like you’ve got pizza here,” Dad said with a laugh. “Who’s going?”
“Just a bunch of the guys.”
“Who’s in this bunch of guys? And what’re they doing?”
“They’re cool.” Matt pulled out a bottle of soda. “I can pick my own friends.”
Dad drummed his fingers on the table. I could tell he was vacillating. He might have said yes, but the line about picking his friends swayed the verdict.
“What do you want, anyway?” Matt’s attitude was not helping his case. “I raised my grades and I haven’t gotten into any trouble.”
“Matt, you’ve got a ways to go,” Dad answered.
“You know,” Matt began, “maybe it’s not what you want. Maybe it’s who you want. Somebody else.”
Ouch. That stung. Now is when I thought Dad should tell Matt how special and unique and important he was, but Dad was quiet. Maybe I knew why. After the drive to the cemetery, we knew the truth.
“Matt, I don’t like your attitude. Maybe you need to go upstairs and cool off,” Dad said tiredly, almost void of emotion when he should have been angry.
“I am not going to my room,” Matt responded, matching Dad’s calm and control. “I want to hang out with people. And at least I do want to hang out with people,” Matt added in a mumble. As he popped the top, the soda fizzed over and he mouthed a swear word Dad didn’t see.
“At least you what?” Dad asked, as if he didn’t hear.
“I want to hang out with people,” Matt repeated louder. “Mom runs next door and you go to the basement.” And then he paused and I almost wanted Matt to add, “Or run to the cemetery,” but he didn’t. “Can’t blame a person for wanting to hang out with people,” he finished. Of course, there was me to hang out with, but somehow I didn’t count. Matt leaned back and took a swig from the bottle, and something about it bothered me. Maybe Dad recognized it, too, and that finalized his decision.
“Nobody’s running away and you’re not going anywhere either.”
“Nobody’s running away?” Matt scoffed.
“What’s really bothering you now, Matt?”
Here was the perfect opportunity. Somebody needed to say it. You run to the cemetery and run away from us. Maybe Somebody should be me, but I looked to Matt. Would he say it? I let Matt continue.
“How long are we supposed to live in lockdown around here?” Matt fired back.
“You’re not in lockdown. I just said to go upstairs. It’s not going to kill you.” I frowned my disapproval. I didn’t like that word, and neither did Matt, by the scowl on his face.
“You didn’t answer my question, Dad. How long are we supposed to live in lockdown?” They held a stare-down. I couldn’t tell who would break it. Tell him, Abby. Dad needs to hear. Tell him. My mouth was dry. “It’s always a funeral. I want to live before I die.” Matt turned away as if to leave, then spun back around and added, “I’m beginning to think that Joel has it better.”
“You’re out of line.” Dad’s voice was the calm before the storm.
“I’m out of line? Of course! I’m always the one out of line.” He turned from Dad to me. “But I’m not the only one who feels this way,” he continued. “Just ask Abby. She’s sick of it, too.”
Though I knew what he meant, I hated him for putting me in the middle. We had a problem, but I did not know the solution. You run to the cemetery and run away from us. I nodded my head in silent agreement, but Dad was staring at Matt, uninterested in my opinion.
“You can go upstairs now before anybody else gets hurt.”
“Before anybody else gets hurt?” Matt repeated. “Everybody’s hurt.” And instead of running up the stairs, he took them slowly and deliberately.
I was supposed to have said something, but Dad had completely ignored me. Where was my allegiance? I wanted to join Matt, but I couldn’t figure out where I belonged, paralyzed between Matt’s defiance and Dad’s decision.
“You should go up and talk to him.”
“I will,” Dad said. “Later.” And so I left. After all, he never asked me to stay.
The next morning, Mom and I came home to get the car. Except the car wasn’t there.
“Where’d you put the wagon?” Mom asked Dad as she ran in the back door. Dad was sitting at the table with the paper and coffee.
“Good morning, dear. The coffee smells great—mind if I join you for a cup?” Dad said from behind his Saturday paper.
“We’re late,” Mom answered, as if in explanation. I pulled my sweater closer about me. “Where’s the car?”
“What do you mean, ‘Where’s the car?’ You drove it yesterday afternoon.” I didn’t like the way Dad answered. I didn’t like the way they talked to each other.
“I put it back in the garage.”
“Then it’s in the garage,” Dad responded, much the same way Mom answered when I asked where my shoes were. “Wherever you put them.” But the tone wasn’t just frustration. Something was wrong. Mom looked around suspiciously.
“Have you seen Matt this morning?” she asked. It was about Matt again. I took the stairs in twos, slowing at the top, afraid of what I might find.
I opened Matt’s doo
r and saw myself reflected back in his mirror, then tiptoed inside. Clothes were strewn all over the floor like usual, but his bed was made. Nobody had slept in it last night. The dresser and desktops were bare. A pile of trophies, certificates, and pictures littered the carpet and filled the trash. I could imagine Matt frustrated, angry, sad, his long arms swiping everything off the surface, his mementos crashing to the floor. He did it alone and nobody heard his outburst, and somehow that made me feel all the sorrier for him. There on the top of the pile was my favorite picture of Joel in his Chicago Cubs jersey. Matt is smiling as he helps Joel hold his bat, but Joel looks like he’s trying to be tough.
When I returned to the kitchen, my face said it all and my parents flew into action.
“Just start calling his friends,” Dad said to Mom.
“This was in the trash,” I said, showing Dad the picture of Joel and Matt. “And this, too,” I added, holding out a clear bag with shredded green leaves.
“Get out the directory. The Whites, the Davises, the Petersons,” he said curtly, taking both items from my hands.
“Those aren’t his friends anymore,” Mom interrupted. Though I knew she wanted them to be. Dad should have known who Matt was hanging around with, but he didn’t.
“Well, then call the guys he is hanging out with,” Dad said, matching the edge of her voice as he set the bag and the picture on the table.
“I’m not your personal secretary. Here’s the phone. You can start with the Burtons.” Mom stared at the picture of her two sons and then at the bag of something she didn’t want to recognize. What a difference between the past and present.
Dad frowned and exhaled slowly, the receiver in his hand. He was used to answering other people’s problems, not phoning with the problem.
“Is this Sharon Burton?” Dad began. “This is John McAndrews. Sorry to bother you so early on a Saturday morning, but I was wondering if your son …” Dad stumbled for the name. I mouthed Mike. “Your son Mike was … or I should say, were your son and my son Matt …”
This was awkward. Painful. However Dad worded it, it was obvious he didn’t know where Matt was and was accusing somebody else’s son of getting into trouble. And he was still the minister, sort of. That didn’t go over well.
As Mom and Dad alternated down a list of names, no one had seen Matt and he had never gone to the party.
“What happened, John? What did you do last night that caused this? Did you have another fight?” Mom’s voice wasn’t angry, just heavy, as if weary from battle.
“It wasn’t that different from any other night. He wanted to go out but I said no.”
“That sounds pretty normal,” Mom said with a sigh.
“Maybe it was more than that, though,” Dad said slowly. “At first he was defiant, but then he gave up. Way too easily.”
Mom waited for more information. Maybe this is where I was supposed to tell them that we had taken the car one morning and followed Dad to the cemetery.
“I went to the basement and had some clocks to work on. His light was out when I came up. I never checked his room. I should have gone in and talked to him, but the door was shut.”
“We need to call the police,” Mom said.
“And we need to get out there and start looking,” Dad countered.
“And we need to get everyone we know out there looking. After all, we don’t even know how long he’s been gone. Maybe since last evening.” That realization gave way to miles of possibilities. “Just where do you think he could be, John?” she asked, turning to Dad, a sliver of fear lacing her voice. Dad scratched the back of his neck.
“Stop worrying about what it looks like and just call the police.” My stomach tightened. “They can find him.”
“It’s not a game of hide-and-seek, Renee. If he doesn’t want to be found …”
“If he doesn’t want to be found, it’s because he’s lost. Really lost,” Mom said. “Maybe he can’t come home because he’s hurt. And it’s time we did something about it instead of sitting around.” Sitting around was directed at Dad with an edge I’d never heard before.
“And I suppose this is going to be my fault? Or should I say my fault, too?”
“This is not about Joel and this is not about you. Everything is not about you,” Mom said. “This is about Matt. He’s gone and we need to find him before he’s hurt. Unless of course he’s already hurt.” And then her voice changed. “Oh John, I can’t stand that thought. What should we do?”
“He wants to be found, Renee. That’s why he ran. He wants our attention and he’s got it.”
“You’re acting like he’s only pulling a prank,” Mom snapped back, the cold chill back in her voice.
“Renee, I love him. You know I love him,” Dad repeated.
“I know you do,” she said. “But that’s not always enough,” she added softly.
I hadn’t done enough either. I didn’t speak up last night in his defense. If I felt alone, maybe Matt felt even more that way. I knew I had to find him. I needed a brother; maybe he was gone because I wasn’t a good enough sister.
When Sheriff Merchant arrived, he had a battery of questions. “What kind of a state was he in?” he asked, writing notes on his black notepad.
“State?” Mom asked. “I don’t know, I wasn’t at home.” She reddened. Did people know Mom and Dad were separated?
“What are you getting at, Bob?” Dad asked. It felt like the Ludema fire interrogation revisted.
Sheriff Merchant answered by firing off a list of questions, and Mom and Dad stumbled at the answers.
“Was he angry? Did something happen that made him want to leave? Do you have any idea when he left? Is there anyplace he might have gone? Who does he hang around with?”
The questions targeted Matt as an angry runaway. It was a guess, but if it was true, he could be all the way to New York.
The day inched along with no Matt and no car. Then later that afternoon the sheriff’s car pulled up to the house.
“We found the car. Have a seat.” Sheriff Merchant motioned my mom and dad to sit down. That was never good. There was something else and it was going to be bad.
“The car is in the river,” he began slowly, rubbing his forehead. Mom gasped. “It’s sustained a lot of damage. Looks like the driver lost control on 282 and plunged over the guardrail.”
“But what about Matt?” Dad asked as Mom gripped the table.
“The car is full of water, but the good news is that there’s no body,” Sheriff Merchant said.
“That’s good news?” Mom exclaimed.
“It’s possible the driver escaped.”
“Escaped? After a crash?” Mom asked. “Bob, why aren’t you out there looking?”
“We’ve got officers walking the riverbank. And …” The sheriff paused. “And we’re sending a team of divers.”
Mom took a deep and shaky breath and then stood. “I’ve got to be there.”
“I understand, but we have enough people working the site.”
“Where are they?” she asked, pulling on her coat as if she hadn’t heard a word he said.
“You can’t go, Renee,” he said more firmly. “I’m sorry to say this, but we’re dragging the river.”
Mom froze and then slowly sat back down. Dad took her hand.
“Right now the best thing you can do is to stay here. If Matt was the driver, and if he got out, and if he’s cold and injured, he’ll come home. Somebody needs to be here for him.” If. If. If.
“But we do have a few more questions.” These questions weren’t about a teenage runaway, and I could have answered them all.
“Did your son say or write anything? What was his state of mind?”
“I want to live before I die….” Was Dad going to tell them that?
“Has anything like this ever happened before?”
Once in the cornfield at high speed.
“Did you say anything that might have triggered this?”
“It’s not
going to kill you.“
“Did anything happen recently that might have disturbed him?”
It’s always going to be about Joel.
I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “We went to the cemetery. We took the car and we followed you.”
Mom turned to me and then Dad. “The cemetery? You were at the cemetery?” Her look made me question if I should have told. After all, they’d search the cemetery, but they’d never find him there.
The afternoon dragged on. The longer the wait, the less hope. And yet, maybe no news was good news. If they didn’t find his body, he had to be alive, didn’t he? I couldn’t picture how you dragged a river. I wondered how many people were walking the river’s edge, scanning for signs of life downstream. Some called it a waste of time and speculated he had run away, ashamed of what he had done to the car. If he was alive, he didn’t have any money or dry clothes. If he was alive. If he was alive. If he was alive. He had to be lonely. Scared.
I had to do something, but what? Hide-and-seek. Hide-and-seek. He was lost. Did he really want to be found? Hide-and-seek. It was not a game. I slipped away, knowing I would not be missed in the confusion, and ran all the way to the lamp by the side door of the church, where I retrieved Dad’s hide-a-key.
The church was cold and dark and eerily quiet. “Matt?” I said, tiptoeing through the social hall. “Matt?”
I ran up the steps to the sanctuary, where we had crawled beneath the worn oak pews while Dad worked on his sermons. Was our childhood playground once again Matt’s safe haven?
“Matt?” I called. “Come down!” I tiptoed to the balcony, where I could survey the entire church. The tops of the hanging lights were dusty. Sunlight streaked through the stained-glass windows and lit the perfect bands of magic sparkles hanging in the air. Straight ahead hung the three wooden crosses united by a circle, and behind the pulpit was the stained-glass window of Jesus and the children.
I left my balcony and searched the dark halls behind the sanctuary. I needed to find him before anybody else thought of this place.
“Matt? It’s me. Abby,” I called out in a stage whisper, hoping the janitor wasn’t nearby. Then I yelled just to see what it sounded like. I yelled the familiar name from our game of hide-and-go-seek. The name of the brother who would never be found.
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