by Emma Ammirati

 

His house was a sun-bleached green. A lone hydrangea bush sprouted from the yellow grass. One of the windows was covered in blue tape to cover the hole.  A newly- washed Toyota was parked in front with a sign that read, “For sale. $2000 or best offer.  Call (510) 922-4866.”  The house had no electricity or heating because of the numerous times his mom had “forgotten” to pay the bills.

She flung open the door, and she raced down the stairs. She tore the cabinets open, and emptied box after box, their contents in a discombobulated pile on the cold concrete floor. Would it be in the hammock? she wondered.  But flipping it over, she found the hammock was only filled with the crisp, brown remains of dead leaves.

  “Where is it?” she screamed.

    In desperation she went into the bathroom, and flung back the clear shower curtain. There it was. She grabbed it and dialed 9-1-1.   

“Hello! It’s my son! He’s gone. I woke up this morning, and he wasn’t in his bed. He was gone…okay …okay,  I’ll look for one now.”  

Jake hadn’t come home last night. She called his school, and they’d said he had been there, and asked her if she had known that she was scheduled to have a much needed parent-teacher meeting yesterday. She thought about calling Jake’s friends, but then realized he never talked about going to the movies or hanging out with anybody. She’d even tried his cell phone, the one he’d been wanting since he was seven, but he must have had his phone off.  She wasn’t thinking about getting caught. She needed to find her son. She depended on him.

She hung up the phone, and went into her bedroom to retrieve the one picture she had framed. His hair was highlighter blonde, and his chocolate-brown eyes were laughing at something to his right.  An extra tooth grew out of his top left gum. Well, he’s the baby, she told him, and he doesn’t want to leave his mama. But at some point that little tooth has got to go…  

There was a knock at the door. She ineffectively combed through the tangles of her graying hair, and ignored the overflowing garbage can as she opened the door. A tall policeman with dark eyes and an auburn mustache walked up the stairs.

“Shelly Fisher?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Marsh. Why don’t you let me in, and you can tell me what happened.” He looked at Shelly’s chipped nails and eyes heavy with mascara.

“Yes…alright. Of course, come in,” she spoke trying to open her mouth as minimally as possible.  He sat down in the only seat: a wooden crate turned upside down covered in coffee rings.

“So, when was the last time you saw him?” Marsh asked.

“Well….umm…I don’t know…,” seeing the skeptical expression on Marsh’s face, she hurriedly added, “It must have been when I picked him up from school, right? Yes, that’s it: when I picked him up from school.”

Marsh scribbled some notes on a small pad of paper he had pulled out of his pant pocket.

            “What did you say your job was?”

            “I work as a secretary to the dentists down the street. Oh, and here’s Jake’s photograph…but he’s five years older now,” she said, handing it to Marsh.

            Marsh surveyed the room as he took the photograph, and placed it in his briefcase. The floor was concrete and powdery. Dust traced the outline of a square on the edge of the floor, making it look exposed.

“Where’s your rug?” he asked.

            “Hmm? Oh, that. I just spilled something on it is all. That’s all.”

            Marsh looked at her, wanting to believe her, but he sensed she was hiding something. “Would you mind if I had a look in the other rooms? He might have left something that would explain where he went.”

“Oh. Well, yes, of course.” Shelly said, and led him towards Jake’s room.

            The walls were painted ivory, no action figure posters hung on the walls, and no superhero toys were scattered in a pile on the floor. In a blue dresser, with chipped paint, lay all his clothes, folded with precise determination and organized by color. There were no windows. On his desk was a music book, but there were no instruments. It was eerie how old the room felt to Marsh, as if an old man, not a boy, slept there. Walking out of the room, he glanced through an open door to his left.  Clothes were in a thoughtless, dirty pile in the corner. An acrid smell wafted from the room, and a deflated yellow mattress lay on the floor. Marsh took a step towards the room, but Shelly blocked his path. His eyes took in her frail frame, and as Shelly gave a nervous laugh, the light glinted off her rotten teeth.

            “That’s my room. I don’t think Jake would’ve left anything in there.”

“Okay. Thank you for your time Ma’am. I will let you know if I have any further questions.” He left, clicking the door behind him.

 

            When had she seen him last? Shelly thought to herself. She never picked him up from school; he always took the bus home.

The last time was when they had that fight. Oh yes. When he said he hated her. I need this, she had said, pulling the guitar away from his grasp. She had already sold the couch, the rug and most of her clothes. She was laid off yesterday, so if she hadn’t sold the guitar she wouldn’t have been able to buy any. She said I’m sorry; I will buy you a new one when we have more money.  No, you won’t, he said.

            She couldn’t tell Detective Marsh any of that. No, no …because of course he’d think she had something to do with the disappearance.

 I didn’t do anything. No. Did I?

         

            Marsh turned up the oldies station as he drove the cruiser back to the station. One thing was for sure, this Shelly character had something to do with her missing son. She was hiding something. Then, in a flash, he had it: The skin just barely covering bird-like bones…. The rotten teeth….hardly any furniture and the missing rug. Where was that rug? He swerved the car into an abrupt U-turn, and turned on his siren to clear traffic.

She opened the door when she heard his car approach, and he rushed in.

            “I’m taking you in for further questioning, Ms. Fisher.”

“I told you everything I know.  I last saw him when I picked him up from his friend’s house.”

Marsh glanced at his notes, she picked boy up from school.

 “I just have a few more questions for you, Ma’am,” he said, pulling her out of the house, “Right this way.”

 

            When they reached the station, he took Shelly to a small windowless room with a mirror built into one wall.

            “Now. Cut the bullshit. When did you see him last night?” he said, “Were you high?”

            “No,” she said, keeping her eyes locked firmly on the ground.

            “Where is your son?”

“You think I killed him?”

            “I did not say that. But if you continue to resist answering, I will have you arrested. Empty your pockets, please.”

            “But I don’t know where he is. I’m the one who called to tell you he was missing. Wasn’t I?” she said, avoiding his command.

This caught Marsh off guard. Why would she call the police if she had something to do with the disappearance? No. He gave himself a shake. He was dealing with someone he suspected was addicted to drugs, and there was no logic to an addict’s behavior. 

            “I am only going to say it once more, Ma’am. Empty your pockets.”

Reluctantly, Shelly tossed a lighter, a pipe, and a small ziplock bag onto the table that separated her from Marsh.

            “What do you have in there?”

            “You know what it is,” she said, eyes still glued to the ground.

            “Well, I certainly had my suspicions,” Marsh said, pulling on his mustache.

             “Where were you last night?”

            “I went out with some friends.”

            “What time did you get home?”

            “I have no idea.”  She really didn’t. Yesterday was a blur. She remembered discovering that Jake had once again flushed her stash down the toilet. She was filled with such a powerful vein-throbbing rage; she grabbed the Oxford dictionary, and smashed the kitchen window.  Thank God Jake was at school. If she’s had it too much, she can’t control her actions because she is so intoxicated by the feeling; she just doesn’t want to. Time was also irrelevant to Shelly. Most days she would spend passed out on the couch, and then she would stay up all night. She loved how alive and colorful meth made her feel.  There were a few times when she was in so much agony she thought about never waking up. And that time when aliens had abducted her, and tore out her soul. They said they would do the same to Jake. Little Jake. NO! she screamed. The next morning she awoke, soaked with sweat,  her throat felt like it was on fire. She rasped a sigh of relief.  Her boy was safe.

            They were once a family. John, Jake and her--the kind that played board games together, and went camping and all that. She thought it would be okay. After he told her, she said, I’ve known you for 13 years, how long has she been your secretary? She felt like someone had drowned her heart in ice water. The drugs were her medicine. It made her forget those days when she had been truly happy.  What hurt her most was what John said, just before he closed the front door behind him. Oh, and you can keep the boy. He’s yours. That’s what he said. Like Jake was some kind of dog.  How dare he desert me and his son! What did Jake do but worship John like he was some kind of god? It made her sick. When Jake came home from school, she just looked at him, her eyes still swollen from crying. He knew. Jake took in Shelly’s bedraggled state and asked her why didn’t dad say goodbye.

            “Ms. Fisher? Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

            Shelly slowly opened her eyes. She was no longer in the windowless room. She was on some sort of hospital bed, and to her dismay found she was in a hospital gown. She tried to say, “What happened”? But all that escaped her lips was a low croak.

           

            Marsh saw Shelly’s eyes glaze over, saw her slide from her chair. He rushed towards her, and gently lowered her head to the ground. Looking at her helplessly crumpled on the floor, he began to feel sorry for her. Maybe she did have something to do with Jake’s disappearance, but certainly not by choice. The drugs took over her mind so she became almost animal-like in her obsession with meth: her need for it, to survive.  Yes, he knew the symptoms, and he knew that since the evidence suggested she might have done something to her son, he would have to arrest her.  He just wished there was a way…to cure her.  His sister had been an addict, and Marsh had told her how he felt, but eventually he minded his business as she did hers. When she was found dead next to a garbage can down the street, he had tortured himself with what-ifs. What if he had tried harder? Taken it away? Told someone? Could he have saved her?

            He had taken Shelly to the hospital because it was what he wished someone had done for his sister. His sister had died in broad daylight while he was at work. Kids were skipping rope.  An old woman was watering her lawn. They saw her empty the garbage can, searching for something to eat.

Just another hobo, the granny probably said.  He knew Shelly’s fate would be the same, but he could at least try.

   

 While Shelly struggled to remain conscious, reality, dreams, and hallucinations all became one.  She remembered a few days after John left, she shook Jake awake in the middle of the night. It’s your fault.  He left me because of you!  If you had never been born, he would have stayed in love with me forever!  She couldn’t hear what he was saying over the roar of her own voice, but she saw his eyes widen in terror.  He was afraid. Afraid of his own mother.

            A clouded memory rushed into her thoughts. It had been so easy.  After their fight, she told him, I’m sorry.  He told her it was okay, and went into the living room to do his homework. She placed the guitar in her room and then locked the door. She boiled the water; emptied in the pasta, drained out the water, mixed in the cheese, and added the salt. Then she made her way over to the kitchen cabinet and opened a full bottle of sleeping pills. She took out a mortar and pestle, and crushed the pills into a fine white powder. She poured almost all of the powder into the pasta. Just to make sure, just to make sure.  She scooped the rest into a small glass vial. This she placed in the secret inside pocket she’s sewn into her shirt. This will make him feel better. When he wakes up he won’t even remember he was mad at me.  She handed him his dinner, still steaming.  I’ll be back in a while, she told him, walking out into the crisp clean air.  When she got back, Jake was gone. Where his elbows had rested moments before lay the empty bowl of macaroni and cheese.

            But what Shelly didn’t know was that Jake longed to eat the pasta with the cheese slowly meting into it, but he couldn’t.  If he ate this rare meal, his mom had obviously made with love; it would be like having hope. Hope that his mom would change, that she would come home and say, honey, I thought about it, and you’re right. I will never do it again. She would unlock her room and return Jake’s guitar to him. He chuckled at his childish nature, knowing that would always be his pipe dream. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Not another minute of looking at her prematurely- aged face. He needed to escape.  Maybe, if he was lucky, she would miss him so much that she would realize that a life without him was worse than a life without drugs. Maybe. He grabbed his faded jacket and a woolen cap. Before he left, he scraped the still-warm macaroni and cheese outside his window onto the dirt patch below.  He didn’t want to hurt her feelings by leaving the food uneaten. He didn’t know where he would go, but it would be far away, just until she found him. He pulled open the door, and headed towards the path under the BART tracks.

           

 

             The memory washed over her like a freezing wave. “I killed him.” Her words gave her a sickening feeling that made her feel as if she was dreaming. A nightmare. Her own son was dead.

            Marsh looked at her. She had just made a very precise gurgle-y sound, but he could not make out what she had said.

            “What was that Shelly?”

            “I …killed…Jake…,” gaining more strength; she tore herself away from the bed, and screamed, “I did it! Don’t believe me?” she yelled, looking at Marsh’s cautious face. “Check the inside pocket of my shirt. There is an empty vial that contains the remains of sleeping medication.”

            Marsh couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  He had hoped that his suspicions had been false.  Now, not only was she a meth addict, but a child killer as well. That explained the missing rug, too. She must have rolled the body in it before disposing of it.  Marsh went over to the chair where Shelly’s clothes were placed in a clear plastic bag. He turned the shirt inside out and the vial clattered to the floor. It was entirely filled with sleeping medication, as Shelly claimed,   

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” he left the room, but came back in a moment,

“The doctor said you can leave, but you’re coming with me. Get yourself dressed. I’ll be right outside.”

When they got to the police station, Marsh led her past the room with a mirror, and opened the door to a dark room filled with a musty smell of mold.

As soon as he had locked the door, the desk sergeant asked him to investigate some noise that was reported to be in the area of the Albany BART tracks. He gave the sergeant a nod before he left.

After walking a few blocks, he arrived at the concrete BART track that loomed over head. Halogen lights illuminated the night sky.  Five trees stood in a row, the branches twisted in chaotic agony.  He heard a scream, and ran to where it came from. It was just a group of girls screaming with excitement. The BART train roared above his head, and cars rushed past, shaping the wind behind them. His hands grew numb from the cold.  He rested on wooden a bench lit by the glow of a nearby street lamp. A middle-aged woman passed him, running her hands through her faded red hair with anxiety. And then he saw him.

On the other side of a patch of ivy was Jake.  If not for the unmistakable hair peeking out from the woolen cap, Marsh would have thought nothing of it. Just another hobo. He reached into his pocket for the photograph. Yes, that was definitely Jake.  Marsh leapt over the ivy towards the boy, and called, “Kid! Hey! Is your name Jake? Jake Fisher?”

“Umm…yeah… wait, did my mom tell you to look for me? Where is she?”

“Of course, she’s worried sick. But I’m sorry there’s been a huge misunderstanding. Please come with me, I’ll explain everything to you on the way.”

 

Shelly sat down and surveyed the room. Mold and filth reached her nostrils. I didn’t mean to.  To kill him.  I just wanted him to stop hating me for one minute.  She was a coward.  Even though she knew this is what she deserved, to live in a windowless cage for the rest of her years, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t live, knowing she took the life of the only person she could trust. The only person who took care of her. She stuck her hands in her pocket to keep warm, when she felt something. Hard and plastic. She reached deeper into her pocket and pulled it out. A pill bottle.  Sleeping pills. Fifteen pills were left.  She wanted to sleep, to forget; maybe this time it would work. I need this, she thought. She poured the contents of the bottle into her mouth, and forced herself to swallow.

 

Marsh ran, his face getting redder, and redder, with Jake close behind.

When they finally got back to the police station, they rushed inside. Marsh scrambled for the right key, and yanked the door open. He eyed the open pill bottle, and knew something was wrong.

“Mom?”

“Jake?” Shelly whispered as she drifted off to sleep.