Emma, 2004:RememberMe
The phone callcame one day shy of five weeks. I was in the kitchen with Quinn and Grace when it happened. A few minutes before the ringing began, Mom had entered with Kyle. Although nowhere near the woman she was before the kidnapping, Mom was at least making an effort to show some emotion toward the rest of herchildren.
“Mommy!” Grace cried out, excitedly jumping from her chair and throwing herself onto our mother’s wilted body. My sister had been struggling for weeks now with the lack of attention. I did my best to cuddle and soothe her when the situation demanded, which honestly felt like a lot for a kid her age. Although, to be fair, I wasn’t exactly the snuggly type to begin with, and I found myself pushing her away when she got too needy. Still, I wanted this so badly for Grace. All she craved was a little loving. My stomach tightened as the scene played out in front of me, and I silently prayed my mother would show her even the slightest bit of interest. To her credit, she bent down and hugged her youngestchild.
“Oh, Mommy, Mommy, I missed you,” Grace said, cooing as she burrowed herself in deeper. Tears immediately filled my mother’s eyes. At least she seemed to understand her neglectful behavior was horribly impacting the lives of her other children. Grace lifted her arms, begging to be held, but that was where Mom drewtheline.
“No,” she whispered. “Mommy doesn’t have the strength to pick you up right now. Go sitbackdown.”
I watched her pat Grace’s head and then turn away. Confusion and hurt skipped across my sister’s face, freezing my heart. I grabbed her hand and led her back to the table. By the time Grace climbed into her chair, tears were rolling down her face. I worried about my sister. How could she ever mature into a strong, secure woman without the support of the one person sheneededmost?
Quinn caught my eye and rolled his. I smiled sympathetically in his direction, and he groaned before dramatically burying his head in his outstretched arm. Six years old and he was quickly becoming as jaded as the rest of us. Mom glanced in his direction, studied him a moment, and visibly winced. I wondered if Quinn registered the visceral reaction his resemblance to Jake was inciting in the rest of us. Did he read it as something itwasn’t?
After Mom’s heartless declaration of Jake’s unconfirmed death, Quinn had changed, and although I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, the difference in him troubled me. It was as if he’d grown up overnight, and I feared his quick upbringing wasn’t going to serve him well in the future. Still, his newfound maturity certainly made things easier on me. Quinn was becoming more self-sufficient every day and seemed to understand that the new house rules did not favor him. He no longer sought attention, having perhaps learned that there was none to be had. The innocence that once shone bright on his adorable little face seemed shaken. It was clear to me that his stoic exterior was all for show. With Quinn, more than any of my other traumatized siblings, I cursed myself for not having the emotional maturity to soothe him. Maybe it was his resemblance to Jake that made me want to save him; or maybe, just maybe, he was the only one of us that could actually besaved.
“Is there any extra food for Kyle?” Momasked.
Refusing to make eye contact with her, I nodded and grabbed the bag of bread I’d bought earlier at thestore.
“I’ll make it,” she said, her hands trembling as she reached fortheloaf.
“It’s okay, I’ll do it,” I answered in a clipped tone. The last thing I wanted was my mother’s help. It was too little, too late. I understood she was struggling, and I wanted to feel sympathy for her, but I just couldn’t. My anger toward her rantoodeep.
“Emma, I got it,” she said, grazing my hand. I startled at her touch. It had been so long since I’d felt it. We stared at each other a moment, and the pain in her eyes gave mepause.
“Okay.” I stepped away and slumped back down in my chair beside Quinn andGrace.
While Kyle stared down at his bare feet, Mom wordlessly prepared his lunch. Gone was the wild, attention-seeking brat I loved to hate; in his place was a kid I hardly recognized. With his shaved head and oversized clothing, he looked more like the survivor of an apocalypse than a Southern California skater boy. Sadness seeped from his every pore. Looking at him reminded me of allwe’dlost.
Mom motioned for Kyle to sit, and he obeyed robotically. She placed his lunch before him, and he just stared down at the food. “Eat,” Mom instructed, and again he followed orders. After Kyle’s excruciating cry for help last week, Mom had spent that entire night in his room with him. I didn’t know what was happening in there, but when the door finally opened the next day, a blurry-eyed Kyle made his way to the bathroom and washed the blood and filth off his depleted body. Mom shaved the remnants of his chopped hair away, patched him up, and forced food into hisbelly.
It was at least a start. Maybe Kyle could actually be revived. And maybe Mom was ready to resume being a mother. Hell, why stop there? It was my fantasy world, after all. Maybe Keith would get clean, and maybe Dad would stop his agonizing investigative work, and maybe, just maybe, Jake would find his way home. A lump formed in my throat. That was a lot of damnmaybes.
Mom retreated to her perch at the kitchen island and leafed through a pathetically small folder of leads that the missing child hotline had brought in. The first two weeks after his disappearance, the folder had been brimming with possible clues; but now, over a month later, there was next to nothing left. The organized searches had been called off. The reporters were few and far between. Even the hotline had virtually dried up. People were beginning to forget about Jake, like he’d never existed. His disappearance, once a hot media topic throughout America, now generated nothing more than an occasional blurb in the local paper. To their credit, the FBI was still actively working the case, but the hordes of agents who’d once filled our home had been reduced to atrickle.
The ringing of the phone pierced through the steely quiet of the kitchen, startling Mom. She glanced up at me, as if I were expected to pick up the call, so I averted my eyes. I hated answering the phone now. It was always someone I didn’t want to talk to: intrusive reporters, nosy neighbors, or freeloaders attempting to benefit from our tragedy. Mom let it ring once, twice; and then, realizing that I wasn’t going to answer, walked over and scooped up thereceiver.
“Hello?”
I could tell by the impatient look on her face that no one was on the other side. “Hello!” she repeated, and appeared ready to hang up when something caught her attention, and the expression on her face transformed. She held the phone out, possibly to check the number, and when she did, I could hear coughing on the other end of the line. Not a normal cough, like one would have with a common cold, but a wet, gurgling, coughing-up-a-lung-typecough.
Mom gripped the phone a little tighter. “Hello?” she asked again, only this time with a tiny morsel of empathy. “Whoisthis?”
A moment of what I assumed was silence on the other end of the linefollowed.
“Who is this?” she said in a shaky voice. “This isn’tfunny.”
Suddenly her eyes rounded, her face turned white, and she swayed in place. For a second I though she might pass out. Something wasn’tright.
I rushed to herside. “Mom?”
She gripped my arm, her face twisted inshock. “Jake?”
Kyle immediately jumped from his chair. Clearly stunned by her question, we both exchanged identical gasps ofastonishment.
“Jake? Please… if it’s you… please talk to me.” And then, as if some lever had been switched on in her brain, the mother I knew was suddenly back and ready to take action. She turned to me. “Go getyourdad.”
Not wanting to leave her side, I said, “Quinn, you’re a fast runner. Go getDaddy.”
