The Lost Boy

by S. A. McEwen

  Olivia starts to cry quietly.

  Her baby. Her dear little boy.

  What had she done?

  8

  Thursday

  Hannah stretches out her legs and rests them on the lip of the bath, admiring the curve of her calves, her perfect red toes.

  She’s always liked her feet. They’re shapely, womanly. Her toes are perfect. She has no qualms telling her lovers to suck them.

  She should be at work, but she’s taken the day off.

  With nothing to do, nowhere to be, her fingers wander almost mindlessly between her legs.

  Boredom wank, she thinks. Surely she could come up with something better to do with her day off?

  She wonders what Nick is doing. Men never cease to amaze her. Despite a missing child, he’d pulled off a pretend “work day” to spend some time with her, the clues not even cold on the ground. And though he’d been a bit more needy than usual, he’d still managed to come three times before showering thoroughly and heading to the office to pick up his alibi.

  Her fingers pick up their pace, remembering that last time, up against the bathroom door. The way he manoeuvres her. His confidence that he knows what she likes and can give it to her without asking. Six months in, and they’re still breaking furniture.

  She closes her eyes, not bored anymore.

  An hour later, still horny, she films herself masturbating, emails it to Nick. She likes the thought of being in his house, getting him hard, watching her furtively in the bedroom or the bathroom while Olivia is oblivious in another room.

  Oblivious Olivia.

  Honestly. Women trust men too much. She once had a friend whose married lover skipped out of hospital after the birth of his first child for a quickie, while he was “buying supplies.” The affair fizzled out after that. It was too much, even for Liz.

  It’s not that she hates Olivia. If anything, she feels sorry for her. She also thinks that, if she wanted to, she could move Nick into her house without too much trouble at all. There was something about her that drove men crazy. She’d known it since she was barely a teenager, and had harvested it in her favour ever since.

  Did she want a full-time boyfriend, though? Especially a cheating, lying one? Sometimes, though she’d never admit it, Hannah really did crave the normalcy of a committed relationship. And Nick certainly knew how to look after her, in bed and out. But she’d always valued the fun of new flings, new lovers. Finding them. Winning them over.

  Longevity in a relationship did not seem like something she’d excel at.

  But now, well. Things were getting a bit sticky. She’d put some things in motion, carelessly. Recklessly. She’d asked for things that she wasn’t even sure she wanted. She was better at starting things than sticking with them. Or even stopping them, when the situation called for it.

  She needed to think about Nick and think about her future. What did she actually want?

  At least she didn’t have to think about the child, now.

  At least the child was out of the picture.

  9

  Thursday

  In his side mirror, flashing red and blue lights make Ray’s heart jump into his throat.

  Instinctively he pulls his knees upward, and the truck sighs and groans, it’s momentum tanking against the steady climb immediately, reminding Ray to keep his foot on the pedal.

  His heart hammers in his chest, but the patrol car speeds past him, lights with no siren. Within minutes it is out of sight.

  Ray’s shoulders relax, and he turns on the radio, smiles to himself. Soon, he’ll see the river flats spreading out in front of him, the towering red gums making his heart sing. Who knew such a thing existed, just a short drive outside his hometown?

  Would his life have been different, if he’d run outward, toward this, instead of further in?

  His mind skips away from this thought, though. He knows he should sit with it. He can still remember Mandy, his case worker—her enthusiasm, bouncing right back after every put down, every crappy thing they said to her. God, she must have been straight out of university. He wonders what she made of her job. A whole bunch of juvie crims, her barely older than any of them.

  “Sit with that feeling,” she’d say, nodding encouragingly, when Ray tried to talk about that day. The day that changed everything. His father. His mum. Even now, he winces when he thinks “mum.” But how could he talk about that? Mandy wanted to find their soft parts. She wanted to help them connect to something different to the hardship, the pain. The anger. She wanted to support the parts underneath. Their soft underbellies.

  But life had never been kind to those.

  Best to keep those parts hidden away.

  Still, he wondered if he’d be where he was now without those conversations. It was hard to share those parts of himself in detention. But did they help him later, in his relationship? He’s certainly found an intimacy he could never have imagined in those early days.

  Now, Ray lets the landscape wash over him, rub off on him. It’s the same one he saw yesterday, but he’s learnt to be patient with other people’s errors. He drives his truck where he’s told to drive it. It wastes his time, when there’s errors, and time is money when you’re driving trucks. But getting angry doesn’t help.

  He glances down at his wrist. Breathe, it says, in typewriter font. It’s hidden amongst other tatts, that have other meanings. But breathing to calm himself is something that he did take from his time with Mandy, and he’s grateful for it. So grateful he had it inked onto his wrist.

  Further up, there’s a tattoo of a woman’s face, a birth date, a death date. Most days his eyes linger on that, at some point. But not now.

  He wonders what Mandy’s up to nowadays. She was so optimistic every time he left, but she never chastised him every time he bounced back. She just got straight back to work. She was like Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting. She never said it, but Ray felt it. He could see it in her eyes, even in that first meeting, when he was so angry and rude.

  It’s not your fault.

  It’s not your fault.

  It’s not your fault.

  But who’s fault was it, then?

  Was it his father’s? Because you could certainly say that what his father did was the start of when it all went wrong for Ray. But should you go further back?

  Why was his dad like that?

  Why did his mum not see it?

  Ray squeezes his eyes tightly shut, just for a second. He’s trying to stop the memories; he knows these thoughts don’t give him any answers, let alone any relief. But sometimes, on long drives, they bubble away, and he picks at them, relentless. It’s harder to intervene, to redirect himself when he’s just sitting in a truck, with hours and hours ahead of him, just him and his thoughts.

  Now, though, another police car announces itself, the lights bouncing off his mirror and elbowing their way into his memories. He doesn’t question the panic, though it’s been years since the flashing lights have been for him. Panic is just the way it is.

  Which cop will you get today?

  Good cop? Bad cop?

  The devil?

  He shrinks in his seat a little. He knows he is safe; he knows he is a citizen of this country with every right to be on the road.

  But his body remembers something different.

  10

  Five Months Earlier

  “It’s not like you actually spend any time with him.”

  Olivia leans against the door frame, her chin jutting out in that aggressive way it does when they disagree and she wants Nick to capitulate.

  “I spend plenty of time with him. He’s just not the only thing in my life,” he counters, his voice even. He doesn’t really understand Olivia’s agitation. Wolfie is a handful, but he’s not getting any worse. Privately, he thinks Olivia is overly focused on him, reading worries where there aren’t any. His natural tendency is toward more discipline; he thinks Wolfie has Olivia wrapped around the proverbial little finger. Even this mo
rning, Wolfie insisted Olivia be the one to help him get his breakfast; when Nick tried to insist that Nick, too, was perfectly capable of getting some damn Weetbix into a bowl, the crying had been ridiculous. And Olivia had tried to negotiate, tried to solve it, instead of just letting the kid go hungry, as Nick would have done.

  “A four-year-old child shouldn’t be so worried about life.”

  “That’s true,” Nick agrees, his voice soothing. “But we should be just doing normal family things. We shouldn’t make our whole weekends revolve around him. He’ll settle. He’ll get used to things. It’s just a phase he’s going through.”

  At one point, Nick thought Olivia might take over the world. She had the ability to see the big picture when everyone else was caught up in the details. At work, at leisure, socially, all of it. She had big ideas, big passions. She’d started the social club at work, the industry e-magazine, the running club. And these weren’t just things to do—they were projects in inclusion. She could see gaps, she could see how to engage people who were struggling, she could just somehow coalesce a hundred smaller parts into something meaningful and magnificent. His workplace was happier, better, more alive because of Olivia.

  Somehow, he thought that parenting had diminished her.

  Now, all she thought about was Wolfie.

  Of course he loved Wolfie. Of course he did. But a child should fit into your life, not the other way around. Right?

  And now she was talking about splitting their family up. A country house for her and Wolfie, and a city pad for him to stay at during the week. The thought of not seeing either of them during the week is weirdly polarising. On some level he feels relief: it would be so peaceful.

  On another level he feels panicked: that Olivia would get used to life without him. Might prefer it, even. And maybe their lives weren’t perfect, but that just seemed like admitting failure. Just letting it happen. Just giving up.

  “It will be better when he starts school,” he tries again. “When he has friends and a routine. When he’s learning interesting things.” Privately, he does think such a nervous child is going to be a prime target for bullying, but they have eighteen-odd months between now and then. Nick is a great believer in letting things sort themselves out. He wants Olivia to just leave it be, but he knows his wife better than that. She’s not happy unless she’s doing something. She’s never been able to sit still.

  “Are you wanting to split up?” he asks suddenly, his throat tightening. He might have Hannah, but that’s just poor self-control.

  Olivia is the one he loves.

  She shakes her head, but without conviction. She looks restless. It doesn’t seem to occur to her to pursue why Nick would think that, or comfort the thought away. “It’s just so much cheaper in the country. I could take a few years off work, just be a mum till Wolfie is more settled. It’s quieter. Sometimes the city makes my head hurt.”

  “Having two houses isn’t going to be cheaper.”

  Olivia starts. Did she really not think about that? Nick wonders. Perhaps all the late nights settling Wolfie are getting to her more than he thought. He studies his wife more closely. There are purplish strokes under each eye, as though someone has roughly painted them on with a brush. The sparkle has gone from her eyes. Her posture is slumped, unusual for Olivia; usually she has an easy gracefulness, moving through space with effortless elegance.

  Nick feels a pang of guilt. He hasn’t been paying as much attention.

  “Why don’t we just take a holiday?” he suggests, gentle, beckoning Olivia over, pulling her slight frame onto his lap, nuzzling her neck, breathing in the smell of her. “We can go somewhere quiet and peaceful, just hang out for a while. As a family.”

  “That sounds nice,” Olivia murmurs, leaning into him. He loves the feeling of it—like she’s moulding herself into him. Like she needs him so much she wants to become him.

  Already, he is skipping ahead to solutions and fixes: where they could go, what would help Olivia to relax. The things that she might need that she herself is oblivious to. Sometimes, Nick thinks of Olivia like an automated machine—one that you set and forget and it just keeps going. She sets off with precision in one direction, finely attuned to her environment, carefully observing and assessing the requirements. But since they had Wolfie, it’s like her focus then shifts to the action itself: the whirring, beating, mixing, moving, oblivious to whether the job is done or the circumstances have changed.

  Without him around to temper her, he thinks she might just work herself into the ground.

  Now, he throws himself into the task of finding them a resort for a week or two. It’s an easier task to focus on than understanding the nuances around why Olivia might want to move to the country without him. In his practical way, the problem to solve seems to be a linear one—starting with spending quality time together, and helping Olivia get some more rest. Everything else, Nick thinks, will flow on from that. Better sleep. More optimism. More joy in the daily activities of living with Nick and Wolfie.

  He books ten days in Port Douglas, with a swim-out pool and a day spa. He books Olivia a couple of massages, and books a babysitter for two nights, so he can take her out for some nice dinners.

  He plans all sorts of ways he can help her to feel better, and goes ahead and books them, as a special surprise.

  “You’re making it shit, aren’t you?”

  Olivia startles, and looks back at Jodie sharply.

  “It is shit,” she says.

  Jodie pauses when Maggie runs over. She pulls her daughter onto her lap and kisses her head, then pops her back down and pushes her gently back toward the trampoline, where Wolfie is bouncing happily.

  “I haven’t seen Wolfie this relaxed for ages,” Olivia muses, thinking again about his rigid little face at bath time the night before. She had helped him undress, not thinking, and directed him to the toilet next to the bath. What followed was heart-wrenching. He had demanded she dress him again; he “did wee-wees BEFORE undressing.” Olivia had refused, tired of his rigid routines, his inflexibility. Just tired, in general. She thought he would capitulate. She felt the familiar rage rising in her chest.

  Just fucking take a leak, she screamed on the inside.

  When he refused, she tried to manhandle him into the bath, the rage overflowing, like it did more and more these days. She was only brought back to earth by the absolute terror his little face betrayed.

  He wasn’t being stubborn or difficult.

  Shocked, ashamed, Olivia sees that bathing out of routine upended his world to such a degree that he literally could not cope with the disruption.

  Today, though, he bounces with Maggie as though he has no cares in the world. A little younger than him, they’ve known each other since birth; Olivia and Jodie have known each other nearly since their births.

  “Don’t think we’re not coming back to this,” Jodie warns, but follows the change in topic: “Has it been any better?”

  “Not really.” Olivia turns to face Jodie, dragging her eyes away from the rare sight of her content child reluctantly. “I’m asking around about a child psychologist. All the ones people recommend have wait lists months long.” The thought both comforts and bothers Olivia. Partly, she thinks she knows her child best—shouldn’t she be able to understand him, work out what’s wrong? But partly, she longs to hand over the uncertainty and worry to someone else. “It’s really like a matter of life and death to him, if something is unexpected, or out of his routine. It’s not like a temper tantrum or a power struggle. At least I don’t think it is. It looks to me like sheer terror.”

  Jodie clucks sympathetically. They have traversed the highs and lows of childhood, adolescence, careers, and now parenting together. There are barely any thoughts either has that the other doesn’t hear about or guess.

  Jodie waits. Olivia’s brain whirs haphazardly, trying to find somewhere to land that makes sense, that explains how she feels. Eventually she offers: “I just don’t feel like I’m very
good at it. Parenting. I can’t stay calm. I feel rage. Tsunami-like rage. I just want him to do what he’s supposed to do. And when he’s so difficult, I…”

  Jodie nods encouragingly.

  “I want to punish him,” Olivia whispers.

  She doesn’t say the rest: that she does, sometimes.

  That she pinches him a little as she buckles him, finally, into his car seat, an hour after they were supposed to head off. Or takes satisfaction in throwing his favourite treat into the bin as a consequence for something completely unrelated that he cannot understand. She knows it doesn’t help. But it makes her feel better, for a little while.

  Later, Jodie returns to Nick.

  Olivia’s lip curls involuntarily.

  She doesn’t want to talk about how she is or isn’t making things shit with Nick.

  11

  “Come here, boy.”

  The voice echoes out from a dark corner. The boy squints to see the furthest recess of the protection afforded by the bridge.

  He doesn’t know where he is or even how he got there. He does know that it is surprisingly quiet. Muffled sounds drift down from above him, but the pitch of them is soothing, rather than anxiety-provoking.

  He had thought he was alone. He’s cold and hungry, and had crouched down against a brick wall, the vibration of cars thrumming comfortingly against his back.

  He had crouched down there, and had no further plans about what to do next.