Claire paced the length of the kitchen, clearing the space once, twice, three, four times before she realized what she was doing. The blue and white tiles blended, she saw the granite counter, the silver appliances that looked exactly like the ones in her friend Cara’s kitchen. She studied the salmon-colored beams of the house but didn’t see them as the growing pit lodged deep in her stomach caused her arms to shake. A shrill shriek cut through the air and Claire turned around. The sound came from nowhere, a spot she could not place and she thought briefly that aliens had landed before she realized the sound was only the telephone.
She’d been willing it to ring all night. First at five when Preston hadn’t come home, then again at six, seven, eight and now nine. First she’d wanted Preston to call, or maybe the parent of a friend of his might phone to say that he was over at their house, they’d been having so much fun and lost track of time. Then she’d wanted the hospital to call, even the police. They had all been notified. At six o’clock after her son had been missing for an hour Claire had called Massachusetts General and the Brigham Hospital along with Beverly Hospital and the Emergency Care Center two towns over. She’d notified the police that her ten-year-old was missing. No, she was not being crazy, officer. Yes, he hadn’t called; yes, she’d contacted his friends; no, this was not normal, her little boy is ten years old, not a teenaged troublemaker out to scare his parents.
This was the plight of a mother, what all hoped never happened, though as a mother, Claire knew, she was supposed to be prepared for it. The literal waiting by the phone, the hoping it’s not a broken arm, a lost limb—or worse. Claire had heard of this, this pacing the floors, this anxiety, of actually having to be responsible, wholly and completely responsible for another human being, but she’d never thought it would be like this, that the worry would feel like a bright red fire threatening to burn her in the night.
The phone kept ringing, splitting her sinuses as Claire answered it, shaking, though a wash of relief flooded her skin that had been covered in goose bumps since 5:15 exactly. Finally something was happening. Something had to be happening, who called people at 9:07 on a Friday night unless something were happening? “Hello?” Claire asked hopefully into the receiver as if she could already feel Preston in her arms.
“Hello, Mrs. Tumber, this is Katrina Patrick calling from The Boston Animal Search and Rescue Society. We noticed that last year you made a donation to our cause and we were wondering if we could interest you—”a mechanical, though human sounding, voice began on the other end.
“You what?” Claire asked, stomach sinking. “It’s after nine at night and you’re calling for what?”
“This is the Boston Animal Search and Rescue Society,” the woman started again, not seeming to notice the acid dripping from Claire’s voice.
“How dare you call this late?” Claire asked, nearly shouting, though trying to keep her voice down. Claire had been the kind of person, ever since she was a little girl, who tried at all costs to keep her voice down. “Who do you think you are, just because you’re a charity, you’re just as bad as those telemarketers, there should be a law against you, bothering people at night. Children go to bed before nine, don’t you know that?”
“I’m sorry, if you’d like for us to call back,” the woman said still mechanically.
“I do not want you to call back. I want you to take me off your list, if you call again I’ll consider it harassment,” Claire yelled into the receiver. “How dare you call after nine o’clock?” Breathing deeply she hung up before the mechanical voice could say any more.
It sounded like boots traipsing across the wooden floor as the bare night of after nine came in through the large picture windows and Claire turned, having hung up the cordless phone, to see Matthew standing in front of her. He looked wet though he wasn’t, soggy and dripping as his blond hair ran across his forehead, shoulders slumped, eyes at the floor as if someone had just scolded him. Matthew was a big man, muscular without being overly so and to see him sagging like that seemed not so much sad, not so much worrisome, as grotesque.
“I called the police again,” he offered. “I don’t know, they said they’re out looking. I think maybe we should be out there too.”
“They told us to stay put, in case he comes home.”
“I know,” Matthew replied. “But I don’t like just sitting here. I think it would be better if I got into my car, you’d still be here for him.”
“You already got into your car, you looked all the places you can look.”
“I know,” Matthew sighed as Claire went back to pacing. She hadn’t even known she’d been moving, or that she’d stopped, but suddenly she was acutely aware of every tremble of her hands, each turn of her head. She watched her husband’s face as she turned back and forth, back and forth. One, two, three, she counted to herself, believing whole heartedly that each time she hit three Preston would walk through the door. Three was the magic number, it had to be. Something had to be. It was the waiting, the not knowing, everyone said that, but it wasn’t just that, it was the way it was all different now.
“I knew I should have gotten him a cell phone,” Claire cried. “I knew it. At least we’d have something to call, a way to locate him.”
“He’s too young,” Matthew argued. “What if he’s out in the woods where there isn’t any service? That’s probably what happened, he wandered into the woods and got lost. The police will find him huddled next to a tree.”
“It still gets cold at night,” Claire countered. “And what if an animal finds him?” she asked and now it seemed as if that was the only possibility. Of course they’d find him in the woods, where else would a little boy be in a neighborhood like this?
“There aren’t any bears or cougars or whatever in the woods here, only raccoons and chipmunks,” Matthew offered and a net of safety, false or not, was cast around them. Though their son wasn’t home, both of them knew where he was now, he’d be safe soon, he’d be back once they got him out of those woods. She did not consider that a child could come out of the woods in any state other than fine, a little frightened, but fine.
“Raccoons can be very aggressive in their natural habitat,” Claire commented, pacing once again, now because she saw her little boy being mauled by a man-eating masked rodent. “I can’t believe,” Claire fired back, facing Matthew, though both of them knew she was not shouting at anyone in particular. “I can’t believe this! What is wrong with us? And I told myself he was too young to go out with those kids. And they’re fine. They got home safely, they didn’t even notice Preston left, they just went right on playing, didn’t even think to see if he was okay and now…and now…” Claire shook her head, shrugging Matthew off when he approached.
The soft tan carpet seemed to glow, the lamplight was like that of the moon on a barren field as Claire walked toward the plush white couch, past an antique wooden rocking chair and to the mantel by the fireplace. There was her little boy, an array of snapshots on display like wares at an antique shop. There was Preston at his fifth birthday party when Peyton had dropped his slice of cake and tried to scoop it up with his fork as if nothing had happened;