Catherine McKenzie - Hidden

“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.

“Tish,” she says when I’ve been silent too long. “This really isn’t a good time…”

Here’s my out. I could let her go, give in to the fact that she doesn’t really want to know what I called to tell her. She might even forget we had this conversation. The taste might remain on her brain, but the substance would be gone, like the thought you have right before sleep, the invention, the perfect line, the thing you ought to write down and never do.

I could let her go, but I don’t. Because I’m drowning here, on the floor, with the ants marching across me, the phone slick in my hand. If someone doesn’t pull me out, I may be lost forever.

“Please. Don’t hang up.”

“All right. Give me two minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”

I almost laugh. If I could go somewhere, anywhere, I’d already be there.

I hear the phone click onto the kitchen counter, and the brief negotiation with Ken about taking care of Will for a few minutes.

“Yes, it’s important,” she says, followed by a mumble of assent.

I listen to Will’s wail as his mother leaves the room, and Ken’s curse and immediate apology, like his three-year-old son would be mad at him for swearing.

“Okay,” Julia says a minute later. I can hear the silence behind her. “I’m in the study with the door closed. What the hell’s going on?”

I felt the first flutter of worry Friday night.

After dinner and a movie with Zoey on the couch while Brian worked late, I realized Jeff had never written to say how the firing had gone. He’d been fretting about it so much, I was sure he’d be eager to tell me all about it. But when I checked my email, there was just the message he’d sent earlier in the day.

How’d it go? I typed, and waited a minute for his response. When it didn’t come, I put my phone down and gave my attention back to Zoey, who was impatient to tell me the problems she had with Letters to Juliet, the movie we’d watched.

Brian got home while Zoey was on point #7.

“And why do the main characters always have to hate each other at the beginning of the movie? Like, hello, red flag. It’s so obvious they’re going to get together.”

She stopped her tirade to run to the door and jump on Brian’s back, insisting he take her for a lap around the house even though, at eleven, she knows she’s kind of too old for it.

Brian dropped his medical bag and complied. Zoey whooped with delight. I followed them through the kitchen to the dining room, and up the stairs to her bedroom. It was getting late, close to ten, and Brian ended his tour by dumping Zoey on her bed and pointing to the red, glowing numbers on the clock next to it.

“You need your sleep, kid,” he said, his voice gravelly from a long day. “Big weekend.”

“I know.”

He rumpled her hair, and I kissed her cheek. Together we said, “Don’t read too late,” then we laughed, the three of us, the laughter following us down the hall to our bedroom.

The sight of our soft king-sized bed made me exhausted. I began to undress.

“Late one tonight,” I said.

Brian loosened his tie. “Sorry about that. Harry’s kids had croup again.”

“You must be the last doctor in the world who still makes house calls.”

“I hope not.”

I gathered my clothes together and dropped them into the hamper. Brian came up behind me and slipped his arm around my waist, placing his lips against my neck. I leaned against him, briefly, trying to summon the energy to return his kiss, finish loosening his tie.

“I’m exhausted,” I said.

“I can be quick.”

I looped my hands around his neck. He was smiling, but I knew he meant it too.

“Why don’t we wait until it doesn’t have to be quick?”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Good.” I kissed him, pressing my lips tightly against his to seal our deal. “You coming to bed?”

“I think I’m going to eat something first, watch the news.”

“Don’t stay up too late. Big day tomorrow, right, kid?”

He smiled. “It is.”

We kissed again briefly and separated, me headed for my nightly ritual in the bathroom, he to the leftovers waiting for him in the fridge. A few minutes later I slipped between the cool sheets and rested my head on my pillow. I didn’t even bother reaching for my book. Instead, I curled onto my side, and the last thing I remember thinking is I hope Jeff is doing okay.

Saturday morning passed quickly while I made sure Zoey and Brian had everything ready for their overnight trip to the Spoken Word Regionals, a three-hour drive away.

Zoey’s dress needed a last-minute ironing, and she’s always pretty particular about what she eats on competition days. It was almost eleven by the time they’d packed themselves into the car. Brian was going to have to drive faster than I liked to think about to get there on time. I watched him back out of the driveway, waving at them through the kitchen window. Zoey had that determined look she always gets, her game face I call it. Brian was wearing his game face too, a mixture of nervousness and pride, similar to my own, I expect.

They navigated successfully down our street and their fate was out of my hands. I went to the hallway and dug around in my purse for my phone. I had three new emails, but none from Jeff. I felt a tinge of disappointment, surprise, then that worry again.

I racked my brain, trying to remember if he’d told me about something that might explain the absence of an answer. I hesitated for a moment before texting him because we almost never do, but I was worried the firing had gone badly, that he was taking it too much to heart.

Everything go okay? I typed, listening to the words whoosh away from me. Again, I held the phone in my hand for a minute or two, waiting for a response, but there was nothing. I put it down eventually and tried to put it out of my mind. He’d answer when he could.

But he didn’t.

I spent most of the day cleaning the house with increasing obsessiveness. The air smells very clean as I lie here, trying to tell Julia enough to justify this phone call without telling her everything.

As the hours crept by, I began to carry my phone around like a talisman. My heart leapt every time it pinged with an email or text, but they were never from Jeff. A few were from Brian and Zoey, updating me on their progress, letting me know they’d gotten there, that her first round had gone well. These I responded to. The rest, I ignored.