Answer Me
by Salena Casha

6:01 PM: Your hand circles around the neck of the bottle, the glass’s sweat making your palm slick. Blurry, just shapes. But then, you see it, the puzzle pieces from Sophia’s failed attempt, strewn across the counter. You pick up the cornerstone chip, a slim piece of cardboard sunset, and place it in its rightful spot. One piece at a time.

5:45 PM: The door slams behind his figure. Your eyes burn, focusing on the cross above your head. Crucified. How could anyone prepare for such a thing? Maybe though, it was because you knew who you failed to save.

5:05 PM: “I’m taking her from you. So you can’t hurt us anymore,” he says.

You don’t know how to beg anymore. Just stare at your husband, your daughter’s wrist clutched in his hand. You don’t understand, you want to scream at him. I’m the one who needs saving.

4:35 PM: Bottles litter the counter. The room is blurry, unfocused, all but the picture. His blonde hair swept to one side. An angel. Your angel.

3:21 PM: The phone rings once. Twice. You sit motionless at the counter, staring as the message light blinks. “Joann, pick up the phone, it’s Tess. I haven’t seen you in days.” A long pause follows. “Goddamn it Joann. You can’t hide from the world forever.” Yes, I can, you think, taking a long swig.

3:00 PM: Your fingers shake as you hold the key, the metal teeth biting into you palm. Your husband’s been hiding it lately. You push it into the lock, the doors unfolding as you stare at the glassy containers of liquor. You’re good at searching. Always looking but never finding.

2:42 PM: Sophia will be home from school soon. She’ll tell you about her day, give you a picture of a smiley face she drew. You want to be a good mother and tell her that you love her. But how can you? You already gave your love to someone who misplaced it long ago.

2:28 PM: Forever. It’s only been three years. He did it out of love, you know, left you because he loved you too much. Your baby, your little boy. The letter slips from your fingers.

1:58 PM: I can’t. You focus on those two words, repeating them over and over until they don’t make any sense anymore. Not that they ever did in the first place.

1:03 PM: You don’t know what makes you go digging into that box again. Your fingers caress the edges as you undo the latch. His handwriting makes your vision blurry, your dry eyes stinging. Dear Mom.

12:30 PM: The phone rings. You cradle the receiver against your shoulder. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Malton?”

“Yes, this is she.” Your voice sounds tired to your own ears, exhausted from claiming the title.

“We found your son.” Your heart rises in your chest and you grab the table for support.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Is he okay?”

A long pause. “I’m sorry.”

11:45 AM: “I have all the answers,” a bald man proclaims on the TV set. You shake your head at the lie. You figured out long ago that no one knows what really happens. There are too many different types of truth.

10:49 AM: You gather the papers beneath your arm, stapler in hand. The door slams shut behind you. You walk down the cement sidewalk, your scarf wound tightly around your neck to keep out the autumn chill. You pin the first sheet to the telephone pole. It’s a picture of him, his white smile tattooing itself into your eyes. MISSING: 17 years old. Disappeared March 2006. If found please call, 223-453-9090. You press your fingers to your lips and blow him a kiss.

10:04 AM: You call in sick from work again, your stomach rolling. You can hear the woman sighing, wishing she could just let you go. But she decides to give you another day, another chance. Today’s the anniversary. But it’s not the good kind.

9:30 AM: You read the paper. Clean the dishes. Vacuum the rugs. Even though the house is already completely pristine. Ordered. Devoid of chaos.

8:00 AM: Sophia leaves. You can’t help watching her as she gets on the bus, making sure she doesn’t vanish before your eyes. It seems so familiar, the way she steps up the stairs, like déjà vu. But you know where you’ve seen this once before. The day when Christopher got on that bus and never came back.

7:30 AM: “I’ll be home around five,” your husband says. He kisses the top of your head, something flashing across his eyes. You want to think it’s worry, that it’s some sort of pity, but you know better.

6:01 AM: You’ve been awake for a couple of hours already. Sitting, staring at your kitchen wall, your fingers tracing absentmindedly over the rim of your coffee cup. Maybe today will be different, you tell yourself. Puzzle pieces are scattered across the countertop, a mismatch of colors and shapes. But you still can’t fit them all together.

 

SALENA CASHA is a freshman at Middlebury College. Her work has appeared in Six Sentences, Sonar 4, and Niteblade Magazine.

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