I find a door and go through it. At the front there is a large stage with no one on it but there are people filling all of the seats who are cheering and waving and have big signs above their heads. I look at the people screaming and cheering and waving signs and I notice it is all the people from my class. I see Tyson and all of his friends who always make fun of me and Tyson yells at me and calls me stupid and tells me to go on the stage so he can tell me I am stupid in front of everyone and I don’t want to go but I know I have to.
I have to.
I walk towards the stage to the steps and start to walk up. I feel jittery and I am breathing hard and I do not want to go on the stage but I know I have to because Tyson told me I have to and if I do not he will push me into a corner and pull my pants down and call me a hyena just like he has done to me so many times before.
I make it on stage and look out to everyone looking at me but they all look a bit blurry and it is hard to tell if they are really there or not. I look at all of the people watching me and pointing and laughing and I see Tyson sitting in the middle of the aisle with his arms crossed. He is snickering.
I know what snickering is because my daddy was writing an article for a newspaper and he wrote about snickering and then he told me that it is when someone is laughing but only kind of laughing and they are trying to hide it a bit. So I think Tyson is snickering because he is only half laughing and I wonder if it is because he is worried that Mrs. Brock will give him trouble again but I do not see Mrs. Brock and I think that is weird because all of the kids in my class are sitting in chairs and pointing and laughing at me.
I know they all hate me. All of the kids in my class hate me.
I stop looking at the kids in my class and look to the side of the stage and see all of my hockey team and all of my coaches and realize they are laughing and holding signs and screaming just like Tyson and all of the kids in my class. Even my coaches are laughing at me. Pointing, and calling me names.
Auntie Tay is there as well but not Julia. I try to talk to Auntie Tay but she turns sideways and suddenly she isn’t Auntie Tay anymore and I am so confused and so scared and I want my mommy.
But she is not here.
She is in New York.
28
Ashley
Just before midnight, two police officers returned to our house. I watched them park in our driveway from the family room window, where I had been perched for the previous twenty minutes. My heart constricted as they got out of the car, and I forced myself to breathe.
In and out. Breathe. In and out. Breathe.
I could do this. I had to do this.
Incomparable angst shot through every nerve ending in my body, prickling the bottoms of my feet with each step as I lunged for the door. Pete was right behind me, and he gripped my shoulder as I opened the door to greet the police officers.
“May we come in?” the female police officer asked abruptly but warmly. Her name tag read Constable Matthews.
“Yes … yes. Of course,” I responded. I opened the door wider, and felt the cold wind from outside whip into our front hallway.
“Sorry we’re so wet,” Constable Matthews apologized, stepping into the house. The two polices officers had wiped their feet on the mat outside our door, but puddles still formed at their feet the minute they walked into our home.
“Have you found him yet?” I asked, ignoring her apology. The last thing I cared about was a wet house.
“No. I’m sorry, Mrs. Carter. We haven’t,” the other police officer replied gently.
“Then why are you here? Why aren’t you looking for our son?” Pete snapped.
“We need to ask you some more questions. We think they will help us. And then we’re going to call in more officers to expand the search. So we can keep looking for your son.”
I nodded. “Yes, of course. That makes sense. Please, come in.” I guided them to our kitchen table.
“Mrs. Carter, I’m Constable Matthews and this is my partner, Constable Baker,” the woman began, taking out a black pen and notebook from her chest pocket. I couldn’t help but notice her bulletproof vest. “We’d like to start with you, if that’s okay. We’ve had a chance to ask your husband several questions, but we want to start fresh with you in case there’s anything we missed.”
“Yes, of course. By all means … ask me whatever you’d like.”
Constable Matthews launched into the same questions they had asked Pete. For the most part, I assumed I told them the same answers, given that Pete sat across the table from me nodding his head in a way that suggested he’d already covered what I was telling them.
“And he doesn’t have a cellphone, correct?” Constable Baker asked.
“Right,” I responded. “No cellphone.”
“What about Facebook or Twitter? Any accounts we could access? It might help give us leads regarding where to look,” Constable Baker continued.
“No,” I shook my head. “He’s only nine. He’s not allowed to have a Facebook or Twitter account. We monitor everything he does.”
“And what about his behaviour? Has he been acting strange at all lately?”
I paused, unsure of what Pete had told them.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Carter. You can tell us,” Constable Matthews urged gently.
“Yes, well … Nate … he … uh … he’s been acting a bit unusual lately. Doing things we don’t normally see him do.” My mind flew back to the night Nate stole the gum. I was slightly torn on whether to tell the police officers that my adorable son had turned into a thief. But I knew I had to tell them everything if it would help them find him.
“What types of things, Mrs. Carter?” Constable Baker urged.
I started by telling the police officers about Nate moping around the house and losing interest in things he had previously loved, such as hockey. I told them about how he acted strangely in class, jumping around like a hyena, and how he hit his head after he fell off the desk. I mentioned the panic attack, the sprained ankle, and even how he had sneaked out in the middle of the night to go to the park. Eventually I even told them about the stolen gum. Once the floodgates were open, I told them everything.
Both constables nodded their heads as I poured out the new information, and furiously scribbled notes into their memo books.
“Thank you, Mrs. Carter. This has been enormously helpful,” Constable Matthews said after she’d finished writing. She glanced up and looked straight at me. “I’d like to ask you more questions about the moods you described Nate having. Did it ever seem like he was depressed? Do you know if Nate might be suffering from some kind of mental disorder or illness?”
Upon hearing her questions, the world seemed to halt in front of me. I froze, taking in her stigmatic words, which were suddenly dancing all around me, like they were pointing and making fun of my son.
Having the police officer link mental illness to my son’s name — out loud — was like getting smacked in the head by buried inner truth. While others surrounding us and watching our family from the outside had hinted at depression and delicately suggested that Nate’s odd behaviour wasn’t normal, I’d never considered an actual mental disorder.
It couldn’t be that … could it? My sweet son couldn’t be … crazy?
Yet, it was in that moment, with two soggy police officers and an angry-looking elephant on the fridge staring at me, waiting for an answer, that I saw the truth clearly for the first time: the innate infallibility that had bubbled just below the surface of my conscience for Nate’s entire lifetime. Every maternal instinct I’d inherited since the birth of my son told me that Nate was living with mental issues we needed to deal with. But my ferociously protective nature had concealed what was right in front of me. What I had known all along …
I had ignored what my gut was telling me. And the contrast of the two … the juxtaposition between listening to
motherly instinct and the need to protect a child from stigma and a lifetime of battle had ultimately caused the intense inner panic I’d been feeling for way too long.
With Nate still missing, there was no time for overthinking an already complicated situation. I knew the best thing I could do was answer the police officer’s questions as simply and honestly as I could.
“I don’t know for sure, Officer, but I think that maybe he does …”
29
Nate
It is raining. I am outside again. I had to leave the school when a person carrying a broom came up to me and asked me for my name. He wanted to know why I was in the school by myself. He wasn’t blurry like everyone else.
I wanted to tell him my name and ask him for help but I got scared that he would take me back to the monsters. So I kicked him in the shins as hard as I could and ran as fast as I could out of the school and away from him.
The man carrying the broom tried to chase me but I am super fast so he couldn’t catch me. My daddy says I am the fastest runner ever and that I am even faster than Spider-Man but not Superman because I can’t fly.
The rain is pouring onto my face and suddenly I feel really cold. My mommy would say it is called chilled to the bone. I am soaking wet. I need to go inside again.
I see a building in front of me with a blinking sign that looks like a Christmas decoration. It says “Ian’s Billiards and Bar” on the bright blinking sign. Beside it there is another bright blinking sign that says “OPEN.” It is red. I guess that means I can go in.
When I get inside there are big men everywhere with long sticks in their hands and they are all drinking beer. That is what my daddy drinks in the summer when people come over for a barbeque.
I crouch down in the corner beside a chair and watch the men. They are all laughing and saying words I know I am not allowed to say. One man keeps saying the F-word over and over again and I know my mommy would not be happy to know that he is saying it in front of me. We are not allowed to say that word in our house.
My legs start to feel all prickly from crouching beside the chair for so long. But I cannot move because if I do the men might take me back to the monsters and I know they will not help me find the airport or New York or my mommy.
A man in a red shirt asks me my name. He comes right up to me and asks me where my mommy is, and then says something to the other men that makes them laugh. Something about my mommy hookin’ on the corner. But I don’t know what hookin’ means, so I don’t find it funny.
They talk about calling the cops but decide not to. I hear them say something about being afraid of getting busted by pig sniffers for the skunk in their pockets.
And then they just ignore me.
The bar smells like throw-up and the floor is sticky, and I don’t like it in here. But if I go outside the elephants will get me, so I have to stay here.
I slide back down into my spot beside the chair and watch the mean men with their long sticks and try not to think about the cold, wet clothes sticking to my skin.
I just keep watching.
And then I start to shiver.
30
Ashley
“So you think it’s possible, then, that Nate is suffering from some sort of mental disorder or illness? That there’s the chance he might hurt himself or someone else. Mrs. Carter, I need you to confirm this.” The question was clear as crystal, and pointed directly at me.
“I … uh … I don’t know for sure. But … maybe, I guess?” The police officer continued to stare at me. It was clear she wanted a more specific answer. “I mean, yes. My answer is yes. I do think it is possible that Nate could hurt himself. He doesn’t seem to be making much sense lately. But I don’t think he would hurt anyone else. He’s too kind for that,” I answered weakly. I looked down into my tightly clasped hands to avoid Pete’s gaze. I could sense that he was clenching his teeth, even from across the table.
“Has he ever been diagnosed with anything we should be aware of? Or gone to see a doctor for symptoms that might suggest he needs help?” Constable Matthews interjected. The questions coming from the cops were becoming more pointed. Increasingly urgent. Like rapid fire.
“No. Nothing like that yet,” I responded.
Pete remained quiet.
“What about your families? Is there a family history of mental illness?” Constable Matthews asked.
“No. Nothing.” I responded.
More silence from Pete.
“Mr. Carter? Anything in yours?”
Pete didn’t respond. I looked across the table to see fear and uncertainty reach his eyes. He seemed torn about what to say next.
“Mr. Carter, it’s important you tell us everything you know,” Constable Baker said firmly. “Your son’s life could be at stake. Every minute counts.”
Pete shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then answered the officer’s question. “Yes … Todd Blakely … Ashley’s father and Nate’s grandfather … he’s bipolar. He was diagnosed with the disease two years ago and has been in and out of psych wards a lot since then.”
Heat raced to my cheeks as I struggled to keep up with what Pete was saying. My father? Bipolar?
With Nate missing, it was all too much to take in and I began to feel faint.
“Mrs. Carter? Are you okay?” Constable Matthews asked. “Perhaps you could use a glass of water.”
I nodded my head, and Pete jumped up to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. He twisted off the cap and handed it to me, silently apologizing with his eyes when they met mine.
I took a long sip and closed my eyes. Forced myself to inhale slowly and begin to dissect the pieces of the puzzle Pete had just revealed.
“My father … he’s bipolar?” I looked at Pete for his response, but couldn’t miss the glance exchanged by the two police officers. My question made it clear that this was new information to me. Pete had clearly known about it for a long time.
“We’ll let you two talk about this. We’re going to go look for Nate. We’ve got everything we need now, and we’ll get a bigger team of officers out on the street to look for him right away.” Constable Baker stood from his chair and pushed it into the table. “This new information about possible depression in Nate and a past medical history of bipolar disorder in the family escalates the urgency a great deal. I’ll need to notify the sergeant. Ultimately, it will be his call, but I suspect he’ll bring in a search commander and set up a mobile command post right away.”
“Wait! I’m coming with you!” I shrieked, standing up and lunging for the police officer. I grabbed Constable Baker’s arm as he was walking away and pulled him back towards me.
“Mrs. Carter? I know this is hard for you, but you need to let go of me. Now, please.” Constable Baker firmly shrugged his arm out of my grasp.
As soon as my unexpected aggression registered with my brain, I dropped his arm. Judging by what was happening to my own actions and voice, I wasn’t recognizing anything around me. There was too much going on for me to actually process anything.
“I’ll tell you what,” Constable Matthews interrupted. “Mrs. Carter, why don’t you come with us? You can ride along as we look for Nate. It might be helpful to have you there, and I can guess you aren’t going to do well sitting and waiting. But Mr. Carter, we need you to stay here. In case your son comes home.”
Pete begrudgingly nodded in agreement. I grabbed my jacket and was out the door before he could consider asking to switch places. There was zero chance I was actually going to stay at home waiting while my son was out on the dark streets by himself, and I was too furious with Pete to even be in the same room as him.
The news of my father being bipolar, and how Pete knew about it when I didn’t, had smacked my brain with more surprise and concern than I would have thought possible. But it was nothing compared to losing Nate, and I couldn’t stop to think about
why Pete hadn’t told me. I couldn’t focus on anything — or anyone — but my son until I knew he was safe.
Once in the back of the cruiser, I sat as close to the window as possible, peering out into the black night. The car window was icy to my touch, and it was still raining outside. Fresh tears streamed down my cheeks as I thought about Nate out in the dark. All alone and scared.
I looked up at the almost-full moon, barely distinguishable through the threatening, inky clouds. My mind flew to a conversation Nate and I had had a few years before, on one of my favourite days with our family.
Nate was about six years old, and we were by ourselves, lying on the dock of a cottage we’d rented. We were looking up at the stars. Overstuffed with toasted marshmallows we’d just roasted over the blazing fire Pete had built, Nate and I were enjoying some alone time and taking in the balmy August night.
“Mommy?” Nate had asked. “Why does the big moon look bumpy?”
“It’s a great question, Bean,” I’d replied. “Those things that look like bumps are called craters. And craters are big, gigantic holes.”
“Gigantic holes? Like bigger than this lake?”
“Some of them, yes.” I chuckled under my breath.
“How do they get there?” Nate was fidgeting beside me, but kept asking questions.
“Well, sometimes there are these huge flying things shooting through space at super-fast speeds.”
“Faster than Superman?” he asked, his voice rising towards the end of the question.
“Yes, faster than Superman,” I said and laughed. I gave him a squeeze. “Anyway, these super-fast things are called asteroids. Or comets. And sometimes they crash into the moon and create those massive craters. Which are the giant holes. And some of them are so big we can even see them just by looking up. Isn’t that cool?”
“Uh huh. That is cool.” Nate snuggled closer into me. I put my arm around him and he rested his head on my shoulder. His hair smelled like the lake and dirt but filled me with comfort as I remembered all of the fun we’d had in the water earlier that day.
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