Catherine McKenzie: Hidden

When I get home around five, Seth’s at the dining room table pretending to do his homework. But our in-need-of-replacement TV is still emitting that strange, staticky sound it does for the minute or so after it’s been shut off, so I can tell what he’s really been up to. Now what I need to decide is whether I’m going to call him on it.

Letting Seth be home alone for the hour or so between when the bus drops him off and when Jeff or I get home is a new thing we’re trying since he turned twelve in February. He lobbied hard for the freedom, showing us that he was old enough, responsible. He kept his room clean, his grades went up, and he actually put down his PS-whatever-they’ve-gotten-to-now when we asked him to. We agreed to it on a trial basis until the end of the school year. If he doesn’t screw up, we’ll talk about making the arrangement permanent.

It’s nice to have the extra money, though I miss the chats Ashley (Seth’s long-term after-school babysitter) and I used to have at the end of the day, the updates she’d give me about how Seth acted when Jeff and I weren’t around. As Seth gets older, the opportunities to observe him when he isn’t aware of it are few and far between. Teacher-parent interviews, reports from his grandparents, my chats with Ashley, that’s about it. Now, if I want to know what my son really thinks, I’ll have to resort to spying.

Seth raises his head slowly and gives me the smile that melts my heart every time I see it. I’ve steeled myself against it to a certain extent (I had to), but it’s worked on babysitters and women in grocery stores his whole life.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, buddy, how was school today?”

“Same.”

“You have a lot of homework?”

“The usual. I’ll be done soon.”

“It needs to be done before dinner,” I say in a tone that’s way too close to my mother’s.

“Mom, jeez, it’s Friday.”

I raise my hands in surrender and head to the kitchen, thinking about what’s in the fridge, wondering whether I should cook or if we should go out for dinner. Jeff mentioned something last night about having to fire someone today, someone he was upset about. Did that mean he’d rather go out or stay in? Out is a distraction; in might mean him drinking too much and brooding about it.

Out it is, then.

I pick up the phone and dial his work number. When he doesn’t answer, I try his cell. It rings and rings and then goes to voicemail. I glance at the clock. It’s five fifteen, about the time he usually gets home on Fridays. Maybe his meeting went long; firings are never easy. And it’s such a nice day out, he might’ve decided to go to the driving range and hit a few balls first. He doesn’t like bringing bad work energy home if there’s a way he can leave it behind.

I spend the next hour working on a new piece Connie’s given me (Haydn’s Sonata in F Minor), working out the fingering, letting the notes linger in my brain as I tap them out silently on the kitchen table, and now it’s a quarter after six and Jeff really is late. Another round of calls to his cell and work phone get the same result as before, so I dig my cell out of my purse and text him: Home soon? I hold the phone in my hands, waiting for his reply, but none comes. Eventually, it powers down, like it’s tired of waiting.

I feel a small trace of annoyance, but I brush it away. He often gets lost in whatever he’s doing. His focus is something that astounds me still after all this time. Getting mad about it would mean I was mad at something fundamental about him, which I’m not.

But I am hungry. “Seth, do you want to order in?”

Seth comes bounding into the kitchen like an eager dog, lunging for the drawer where we keep the takeout menus. After a small skirmish, we decide on pizza, Seth promising that he’ll eat at least one slice of vegetarian so he gets some vegetables today.

Jeff still isn’t home by the time the pizza arrives, so we eat at the kitchen table while I gently probe Seth about his week. He dodges my questions like he always does, his mouth full of food, his answers a combination of “Jeez, Mom, honestly,” “Dunno,” and “All right, I guess.”

I try not to take it personally. I try to remember how I was at that age, the secrets I kept.

I let Seth take his last piece of pizza into the living room while he finishes his homework. I bring our dishes to the sink, which sits in front of a window overlooking our front lawn. I’m washing the dinner plates when I notice that it’s almost seven thirty, and now maybe I am mad that Jeff hasn’t even bothered to check in.

A police cruiser slows to a stop in front of our house. There are two uniformed officers in the car. The one I know, whose name I can’t bring to mind though we went to high school together, is sitting behind the wheel. He’s gripping it like he’s girding himself to do something unpleasant. I watch them, curious, as they slowly exit the car, two burly men. I wonder if the neighbors’ teenage daughter is in trouble again, but it isn’t their walkway they’re lumbering up; it’s mine. My mind jumps to Seth. What could he possibly have done that’s worthy of police attention?

Then my heart clenches with the sudden knowledge of why they must be here. My hands sit in the sudsy water, turning gently to prunes.

They’re at the front door, and still I can’t move. They don’t look my way, just straight ahead, and push the bell, harder than they should. The chiming gong bounds through the house, a brassy sound I’ve never liked.

All this happens in real time, not slowed down or speeded up, only the time it takes for them to walk to the front door and ring my bell, but it’s enough time.

“Mom!” Seth yells. “You going to get that?”

My brain is screaming Go to the door! Don’t let Seth be the one who answers it! but I can’t bring myself to move. In this, of all moments, I can’t bring myself to protect my son.

“Really,” I hear him mutter as he clicks off the TV and shuffles toward the front door.

Now my feet are moving, my mouth is open, but I can’t get the words out. I don’t beat Seth to the door, which is swinging open, revealing the officers. And my son, my beautiful, intelligent son, sees the unpleasant task in their faces, gives me a look of horror, and runs.

“Have I got this right, Tish?”my best friend, Julia, asks in a distracted tone. “You’re saying you haven’t heard from this guy in a couple of days?”

I’m lying on my dining room floor, the phone receiver cradled under my ear. I can feel the itchy wool rug beneath me, and the hardness of the wood floor it covers. There’s a string of old spiderwebs dangling from the plaster cornice on the ceiling. I have no idea how long it’s been there. I don’t usually lie on my dining room floor. I don’t usually have a reason to. But my heart feels like there’s a hand holding it, and that hand is squeezing, squeezing, so:

“It isn’t the number of days, really, but that he hasn’t answered my email—” I stop myself before I add an “s.” I have to be careful here.

There’s a hint of movement on my leg. It’s a small black ant. A line of them is marching across the floor from the kitchen. I don’t know where they’re going, but I seem to be in their way.

“I still don’t get it. What’s the big deal?” Julia asks. Her three-year-old calls for her in the background. His father shushes him.

And that’s the million-dollar question, because the big deal is what took me four hours to place this call. The big deal is what I’m still not sure I can say out loud, though I’ve got to say something now that I’ve got Julia on the line.