The Lost Boy

by S. A. McEwen

  It would be funny, if it were the subject matter for a thesis, or a comedy sketch, and not her life.

  Occasionally, she scans these articles. They’re always helpfully left in the centre of her kitchen table, in newspapers that she and Nick never buy. The narrative is firmly pro-Nick and anti-Olivia.

  “There’s been some bad press,” Rolands goes on, gently. “It’s nothing personal. The media likes to have a good guy, and a bad one, that’s all. Remember Lindy Chamberlain?”

  Olivia understands; Rolands doesn’t have to explain it to her. She’s not weeping and begging in public spaces, feeding the public perception of how a mother should be. If people can blame her somehow, they think that they’re protecting themselves. That would never happen to MY child, they think. MY child is too loved/protected/cherished. MY child would not be neglected for long enough to be taken, plucked out of my garden. I am a better parent than THAT.

  At least at this point the story seems to be that she’s too cold and focused on divorcing Nick to look after her child properly.

  That’s a narrative she can work with.

  It’s certainly better than the truth.

  “When?” Olivia says now, in response to Rolands’ comment.

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  Olivia sighs her assent.

  “We need to turn the narrative around. Make them see you as a person. Caring, distressed.” Rolands is careful with her words, but the directive underneath is clear: don’t be cold, don’t be stoic. Be the terrified and grieving mother the public needs you to be.

  Personally, Olivia thinks it’s too late for that. Once the media has a story, it’s hard to turn it on its head. People love a simple explanation: a good guy and a bad guy. Nick is too emotional and hapless to be the latter.

  He’s not effective enough to be viewed with suspicion.

  “Does it matter?” she asks Rolands, wondering how public perception can possibly impact the police finding or not finding her child.

  “Yes,” Rolands replies, firmly. “It’s a distraction. The media is focused on you. We want them working with us, helping us. Sending messages about what we want the public to be doing, what information might be useful, who might have some little tiny piece of the puzzle that might help us. At the moment, they’re looking for pieces of the wrong puzzle.”

  Not really, Olivia thinks to herself. Not as much as you think.

  But she jots down the details Rolands gives her, and agrees to brief Nick.

  She can be the grieving mother the media needs.

  She can be anything, now, she realises with a start.

  She’s had enough practice.

  23

  Three Months Earlier

  When Olivia thinks about the camping trip, she sometimes feels ashamed.

  At other times, she feels the resolution of her convictions.

  Today, the latter is at the fore.

  It’s no wonder things panned out the way they did, she thinks to herself, her hand on the kettle, waiting for it to boil.

  It’s the knowledge of Charlie’s impending arrival: it has stirred up uncomfortable memories. To her credit, she doesn’t blindly accept the explanations that paint her in the better light. Sometimes she examines the darker, murkier explanations. The ones where she has lost her mind a little bit.

  Charlie has visited since that trip, of course. Patricia’s time in London had stretched out and out, to Nick’s rising frustration and Olivia’s relief. It worked in her favour that Nick wasn’t exactly a man of action, too: while he didn’t like it, he also was never going to take any action to change it, and Olivia was grateful beyond measure.

  Sometimes, in other contexts, she wished Nick was more proficient at getting things done. But then she’d remember Charlie, and breathe deeply. And accept Nick as he was.

  But now Charlie is on a plane. Patricia is dead, and it is a tragedy on more levels than Olivia could vocalise with anyone except Jodie. And while of course Nick was sad and worried about Charlie, and struggling to cope with all the practicalities, Charlie was nevertheless on a plane right now to come and live with them, and Nick was a little bit excited, too.

  Olivia had agreed to trialling it—what else could she do?—but she knows that once Charlie has moved in, he will never move out. And something close to fear prickles at her. Fear that her equilibrium will be forever disrupted.

  Fear that all the parenting disagreements she and Nick can barely resolve now will be exacerbated.

  Fear that she will have to be extra careful, extra protective of Wolfie.

  That she can’t, in fact, be present with Wolfie and Charlie every minute of every day.

  She needs to move on signing those documents, putting things in motion. But she feels panicked at the thought. She’s not ready. She hasn’t thought it through enough. She had thought perhaps it might not be necessary, that she could just forget the whole thing, but now Charlie’s arrival is interfering with her plans.

  And also, of course, she can’t just forget it, and hope for the best. Things have been done, actions have been taken. They’re not going to fix themselves. Doing nothing is not, actually, an option at all.

  The kettle boils, and Olivia pours boiling water into her cup, forgetting to put a teabag in it. Later, she’ll find the lukewarm water there and not remember pouring it. Her mind is at once empty and dazed, and racing blindly.

  She has cleared out the spare room, made up the bed for Charlie.

  She has placed clean towels, new soaps at the end of the bed.

  She has asked Nick about Charlie’s favourite meals and shopped diligently in order to prepare them—to help him to feel welcome and at home. She’s even found the name of some grief counsellors, should he wish to talk to someone aside from them about his loss.

  She goes through these motions, these tasks of welcome, of opening her home to her stepson, meticulously.

  She thinks that if she makes the house just so, the bright new bedding and the cheerful plants that now decorate her spare room might conceal the less welcoming, dark recesses of her heart and of her thinking.

  24

  Three Months Earlier

  Across town, Hannah stretches luxuriously in her expensive sheets.

  Nick watches from the bathroom door, so she amps it up for his benefit: back arched, legs extending and writhing. Toes pointed.

  Always toes pointed. Her mother taught her that. Though she meant it in a different, more demure context. A way to take a flattering photo, rather than a way to entice men into her bed.

  The sheets are tousled between her legs, her shaggy red hair spread across the pillows.

  She lets a low moan escape her lips.

  Nick is beside her in an instant, the tie he was in the middle of tying ripped off and discarded on the floor.

  “You drive me completely crazy,” he mutters, reaching to pull the sheets away from her.

  Her skin is creamy and soft, her breasts jutting upwards. He can’t think clearly around her body.

  Hannah, on the other hand, can always think clearly. On the topic of what she wants, at least.

  And after much careful consideration, her thoughts have led her here: she wants Nick to leave his wife for her. She wants him to move in, ravish her, keep her happy.

  She also wants to make Olivia a little bit unhappy.

  Olivia is always so…superior. Always just a little bit too “holier than thou.” Bringing Nick to his knees has the added benefit of bringing Olivia to her knees, too.

  Hannah doesn’t think too deeply about it; she wants, she chooses, she gets. If she thought a little harder, she might realise that her motivations are more about Olivia than they are about Nick.

  But she doesn’t think about any of this.

  She moans again, and Nick’s clothes are soon strewn across her bedroom floor for the second time that day.

  “I want you to move in,” she says. And when Nick stops his journey traversing down her body, abruptly, shocked, she pu
shes him gently back into motion.

  Getting men moving in the direction she requires is her specialty.

  After Nick has gone, Hannah surveys her handiwork smugly.

  Her bedroom is a mess. Sheets and clothes are strewn everywhere. Her favourite bra is—bizarrely—hanging from the corner of the shower door.

  And soon, Nick will be living here with her, able to fulfil her desires on a daily basis.

  Olivia might not be talking to her—again—but she has ways and means of getting her attention.

  Stealing her husband, for a start.

  Honestly, it was easier than she could have imagined. Nick was putty in her hands.

  To be fair, though, Olivia hadn’t really helped herself. She’d pressed Hannah to have Nick over to draw up some plans for a full reno on her apartment: luxury kitchen, luxury everything. Hannah couldn’t really afford it, to be honest, but Olivia had been so encouraging, she’d thought, “What can it hurt?” A free consult with a talented architect…who happened to be extremely pleasant to look at, to boot.

  That was after the falling out, the years of not talking. Hannah had put it down to guilt—Olivia trying to make it up to her, by offering up her husband. In more ways than she’d bargained for, Hannah had thought and smirked to herself.

  Oh, she shouldn’t have done it, sure. She didn’t really know why she did. Habit? In all honesty, she’d missed Olivia. She was grateful to have her back. But it seemed almost like this plot line was written in the stars—she was powerless to fight it. It was like a play unfolding on the stage before her eyes. Nick coming over in the evenings after work. Loosening his tie, accepting a glass of wine. Even before he started drawing up plans, he’d be wandering around the house with Hannah, measuring things, asking about her dreams, her desires. And somehow one day those desires had spilled out from describing sumptuous bathtubs a woman could luxuriate in, with floor-to-ceiling tiles in tasteful hues, to describing him pressing her against a wall, one thigh between hers, his lips on her neck. His breath hot in her ear.

  It could have been scripted, it was so inevitable and perfect and steamy and divine.

  So, now she has Olivia and Nick.

  Well. She thinks she does. Olivia hasn’t been replying to her messages, again. But she hasn’t made any of her grand statements about needing space, or Hannah being a bad person, or whatever, either. Not like that last time. So Hannah thinks it is probably okay.

  She knows it can only be “okay” for as long as Olivia is oblivious, however.

  Oblivious Olivia.

  Something about the impending fallout feels a little bit exciting to Hannah. Nick had been evasive about how and when, but it doesn’t occur to Hannah that she would ask Nick to move in, and he wouldn’t comply. And while she pretends to wrestle with how difficult it’s going to be when Olivia finds out where Nick is going, she nevertheless is humming with low-grade anticipation.

  She guesses this will get Olivia talking to her, again.

  Honestly, she can’t keep up with Olivia’s moods and proclivities. She isn’t even that interested in finding out why this time. The last time was utterly ridiculous. Olivia had declared that she, Hannah, was an emotionally violent person and she chose not to have her in her life anymore. And she’d cut off all contact without so much as a backward glance.

  Perhaps that was why Hannah had strayed into Nick’s underpants. She wasn’t a bad person. Perhaps she was just hurting about that injury all those years ago. Over nothing. Nothing! They’d had a little tiff, was all. They’d all said hurtful things. That happens, in families.

  As Hannah mulls over this, justifying her betrayal in a few surprising heartbeats, she hears her phone beep, and leaves the subject with a sense of finality. She is untroubled by the need to think about things too deeply, or to consider her contribution to the situation. She is quite impressively comfortable with blaming Olivia, and taking no responsibility herself.

  “Bing.” The message reads.

  Speak of the devil.

  A month after Hannah had texted her, though.

  Olivia and her bloody moods.

  Who takes a month to reply to a text message?

  Still: Hannah is eager to see what she has to say. She opens her messages, and laughs a little at what she reads:

  “Step-parenting is harder than you think.”

  25

  Sunday

  The afternoon stretches into evening, and Olivia hasn’t gotten out of bed for the entire day.

  At one point, Nick quietly takes her in some tinned soup. He knows she won’t eat it; she’s gone limp with distress. He knows that food will only make her feel nauseous. But he wants her to feel cared about anyway. To know that he is thinking about her. That he wants to nourish her, in some small way. Because he can’t do it in the one way that matters. He can’t bring Wolfie back.

  He wishes she would eat. She’s becoming smaller and smaller in front of his eyes. He’d slipped an arm around her in bed the night before, and been shocked at her protruding hips. Her belly was hollowed out, concave. He thought that if he held her too tightly, she might break in half.

  She’d acknowledged the soup, then rolled back the other way, staring at the wall.

  She’s been sleeping so badly. Her thoughts are like an old-fashioned newsreel, flitting from one picture to another, with white static and clumsy editing. Now, the camping trip is playing in front of her eyes. But she’s not quite sure what is reality and what are just her worst fears.

  Did this happen? Did that?

  Vaguely, she remembers that after the camping trip, things changed.

  It wasn’t that Nick loved Olivia less, really. Not in the long term. He could separate out the events of that week and put them in an “other” box—anomalies that didn’t fit into his regular life, his marriage. He viewed them as a glitch, an error.

  Olivia’s error.

  But he didn’t see them as anything bigger. He didn’t see them as the things that sowed the seeds of everything that came after. Everything that led them to…now.

  Olivia could almost read his mind, as he settled back in to their ordinary lives.

  Olivia made a mistake.

  She was stressed, and she shouldn’t have been drinking.

  It was a one-off.

  He didn’t need to do anything more about it; the matter was closed.

  It was, in fact, Olivia whose thinking did a U-turn that week. While Nick would maintain that she was in the wrong, that she lost her way momentarily, she herself saw things that she couldn’t un-see.

  The way that Nick failed to see nuance in a situation, for example.

  The way that he was blinded by love.

  Not just love for Charlie. Love for her, too.

  And mainly, the terrifying way that things might look for her child if she was ever out of the picture.

  Olivia’s eyes are closed, but she can see it like it was yesterday.

  Wolfie was playing on the floor with his favourite truck. He was murmuring to himself, zooming the truck hither and thither, smiling, engrossed.

  And Charlie, as he had been doing all week, seemed to need to insert himself into the picture. He couldn’t seem to exist without someone paying him attention—usually Wolfie. Olivia was frustrated: she wanted Wolfie to play independently. She actively encouraged it. It was a relief when he became so absorbed in his own games that half an hour would pass in blessed silence. No demands, no questions.

  No bodily contact.

  It wasn’t that Olivia didn’t love Wolfie touching her. His little body was so perfect. His skin was so smooth and soft, his affection so exuberant; having him in her arms was the closest thing she experienced to bliss. But at the same time, the physical demands of parenting surprised her. Without enough time experiencing her own personal space, uninterrupted, something inside her got chipped away at. Never with Wolfie. But with Nick, standing behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist; or even colleagues at work, leaning close to look at h
er monitor, talk about her project. All of it made her stiffen slightly, as though she could push them out of her personal space through the sheer force of her body language alone.

  She soaked up Wolfie being occupied with something else, her physical being slowly relaxing. It was regulating, even. She needed it, like she needed air.

  And Charlie. Charlie needed something else from her child. At its most basic level, she would have said he got a little self-esteem boost from Wolfie’s attention, from his laughter. And what was so bad about that? He was seeing his little half-brother, who he was lucky to see once a year. Who wouldn’t want to spend as much time as possible, soaking up his adoration?

  But something about it made Olivia uncomfortable. It was hard to put her finger on; even harder to try to express to Nick.

  There was something in the way that Charlie watched Wolfie. It was a shrewd expression, glancing from Wolfie’s face, to the toy he was playing with. He looked older than thirteen. It wasn’t the simple joy of a thirteen-year-old boy, wanting to join in some game that was bringing someone else happiness. It wasn’t jealousy: wanting some of the joy being experienced by another. It wasn’t even wanting to take the joy solely for himself.

  If Olivia had to stake her life on her interpretation, she would say that Charlie wanted to take Wolfie’s happiness away.

  He’d insert himself, too close to Wolfie, and start talking about or doing something else to take his attention away from the item that was bringing him such pleasure. Usually, his interruptions were strange plays toward making Wolfie whinge or nag. Reminding him of something he wanted but didn’t have.

  And then when Wolfie was irritable and demanding, he’d slip back away, suggest he and Nick go for a walk or hit the cricket ball around, leaving Olivia with a cantankerous toddler.

  The first few times, Olivia tried to be generous.

  He doesn’t know how to play with a toddler.

  He’s just trying to get his attention and be involved.