Day 173

He stands outside, counting under his breath, clutching his backpack so hard that his knuckles turn white. It’s cold outside, and he can’t stop himself from shivering violently, but he refuses to go inside. Sure, it’s warm in there, but also noisy and smelly and crowded with people that he hates…and he doesn’t want to leave, he wants to stay right where he is, in the middle of the driveway, so that he can’t miss it when he comes….

It’s been 85642 seconds since they told him. He’s been counting religiously since yesterday. He panicked this morning, starting to cry, because he lost count; but then he found a clock, and did the math, and then he felt better. He missed his mother, though. She wouldn’t yell at him like these people did, or pick on him like the other kids. She understood.

But it didn’t matter now, because today, very soon, he will get to go back, just like he wanted. He can’t stop smiling, certain that somehow, someone knew what he was wishing for, and is giving it to him like a gift. His mother, probably. He’s not entirely certain where she is, but judging by what people have been telling him, she’s sure to be around here somewhere.

Six o’clock. They said six o’clock. It should be six o’clock right now, he knows it should be, he’s been counting�"he wants to check a clock, to be absolutely sure, because it makes him nervous, not knowing what time it is, but he doesn’t want to go back inside. He promised himself an hour ago that he’d never go back in there again.

Soon, he comforts himself. Very soon. Give it one hundred and twenty more seconds. His dad would never be late. Maybe other people’s dads, but not his dad.

His patience is rewarded; 78 seconds later, a car pulls into the driveway. A dark green Acura that he recognizes at once. It’s him!

Evan backs out of the way, standing on the porch, wide-eyed with excitement. Finally, after so long in this horrible place…. He’s forgotten that his father always made him nervous, that his mother told him to stay away from him; it’s his dad, and after all this time without a mom or a dad, he’s overjoyed to have one of them back. Surely if his dad could come back, his mom would too…she’d have to. She loved him way more than his dad did, she’d said so.

The car turns off; the door opens, and his dad steps out, looking around in disgust. But Evan doesn’t see that; he’s too worked up, too eager, and he can’t stop himself from running right up to his dad and standing on tiptoe to hug him around the waist.

“Daddy! Daddy!” he yells. “I knew you’d come get me, what took you so long? I’ m�"”

But his father stiffens, grabbing a handful of his shirt and pushing him away. “Get off me,” he snaps.

Evan can’t understand why his dad would act this way. Confused, he reaches very slowly for his dad’s belt, wrapping his fingers around it, but his dad grabs his hand and shoves it aside.

“Let go,” he says impatiently. “Where is she? Mrs. Comer?”

Evan wrinkles his nose at the name, pointing inside. “She’s in there.”

“Well, go get her,” his dad orders, as if it’s obvious, as if he’s stupid not to have done it right away. Evan doesn’t understand this attitude.

“But I don’t want�"” he tries to protest.

Before he can finish, he’s cut off by the front door opening with a bang; he flinches and whirls around, hastily stumbling after his dad as he goes up to the woman on the porch and starts to talk with her about things that Evan knows about, but is scared of: Child Protective Services, the government, social workers, foster homes, and money.

Mrs. Comer gets paid to take care of Evan, he knows that, and even though she hates him, she doesn’t want him to leave, especially if she won’t get her check for that month. She demands to know if Evan’s dad is allowed to take him back, if he asked for permission. But Evan’s dad replies, in a low, venomous undertone that terrifies him for some reason, that he could take Evan back whenever he wanted, and says something else that Evan doesn’t catch.

He does not know that Evan is watching. Evan, getting scared again, tries to latch onto his dad’s pant leg, but his dad shakes him off, telling him to put his things in the car. Evan does as he says, but even though he stalls to linger and eavesdrop, he can understand no more of the conversation. He runs to the car in time to hear Mrs. Comer bring up money again; and then Evan’s dad, losing patience, pulls out his wallet and counts out five bills, slapping them into her pudgy hand.

This means nothing to Evan, only that Mrs. Comer, judging by the satisfied look on her face, will finally shut up and let him go. He doesn’t think about the money, except to wonder why, if that’s all she wanted, his dad didn’t just give it to her in the first place. He had a lot of it, Evan knew that, and he couldn’t understand why he’d had to stay in that place for so long….

Mrs. Comer tries to say something, but Evan’s dad turns his back on her, giving Evan a stern look and gesturing to the car. Evan follows his dad happily enough, and when his dad pauses for a second, he, seeing an opportunity for a hug, tries to latch onto him again; but this time his dad grabs his arm and jerks him away, holding onto him so tightly that it hurts.

“Don’t touch me,” he hisses, pushing Evan away. Evan flinches and pulls free, clutching his arm, bewildered and frightened.

“That hurt,” he whines, but his dad silences him with a terrifying look, pointing to the car; and Evan, sensing that he was in a lot of trouble for some reason, scurried over to the other side of the car, opening the passenger door and hesitating.

“Daddy?” he pipes up. “Can I sit up here?”

“Whatever,” his dad snaps, and Evan, happy to take this as permission, climbs with difficulty into the front seat, pulling himself up by the seatbelt. After several slips and a banged knee, he finally manages to get in and shut the door behind him; by then his dad is already buckled in, the car already started, and he is losing patience. When Evan starts to fumble with the seatbelt, he reaches over so quickly that Evan stiffens with surprise and snatches the seatbelt from him, buckling it in a second. Evan admires him, watching eagerly as his dad backs up and the horrible Comer house disappears from view; he sticks his tongue out at it when he thinks his dad isn’t looking, settling back in his seat, perfectly happy with the world.

All he needs to do, he thinks, is grow up a bit; and then he’ll be just like his dad, and walk right up to people like the Comers without showing any fear, and have enough money to make them do what he wanted. He just had to be taller, was all. But even though he couldn’t see over the dashboard now, he must be at least halfway there, if his dad was letting him sit up here; only grownups were allowed in the front seat, right? So he would just have to wait a little, count some more, that was all. And then he’d be just fine.

“Are we going home now?” he asks his dad, peering out the window to make sure they were really going somewhere, and that that somewhere wasn’t back to the Comer house.

“Yeah,” his dad replies after a moment.

“Is Mommy there?” Evan wants to know.

His dad’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. But all he says is, “No.”

“But she’s…when’s she coming back?”

“I don’t know,” his dad snaps.

“But Daddy,” Evan protests, confused, “I thought�"‘cause you’re back, Mommy’s back, isn’t she? I thought that’s why you came to get me!”

“I came to get you because you’re my son,” his dad says very slowly, each word deliberate, precise…and cold. “Not her son. Mine. The only one I’ve got. All right?”

Evan doesn’t hear his icy tone. He only hears the words. He beams with pride, clutching happily at his seatbelt, even if it is sort of strangling him. “What took you so long, Daddy?” he wants to know. “You were gone forever and ever and ever, for one hundred and fifty-five days, that’s three thousand seven hundred and seventeen hours, and two hundred�"”

“Yeah, I get it, thanks,” his dad cuts him off impatiently. “How did you know how long it was, how many hours? Who told you?”

“Nobody. I counted,” says Evan proudly.

His dad doesn’t respond. He just scowls.

“We’re really going home?” Evan asks, just to make sure.

“Yes, I just said that, Evan,” his dad says sharply. He does not notice.

“And we’re not ever ever going back?”

“If you’re good,” his dad responds tonelessly.

“If I’m good?” Evan repeats, eyes widening. That meant…if he were ever bad….

“Yes, that’s what I said,” is the impatient reply. 

“Well…I don’t ever want to go back,” Evan informs him. “They were really mean. Really, really mean.”

“Were they?” his dad mutters. Evan does not hear how bored he sounds, or perhaps does not care.

“Yeah! They were really, really mean, they made fun of me, and they�"”

“Would you please shut up, Evan?” his dad interrupts, speaking through gritted teeth.

“Uh�"Daddy,” he complains, shocked. “That’s a bad word�"”

“Shut. Up,” his dad snarls, and Evan hears the danger this time, and complies at once. “Or I will turn this car around and take you right back. Do you understand me?”

He nods very slowly, frightened again, not sure if he was allowed to speak. Would he really…? No, he couldn’t possibly….

“Say ‘Yes, sir’,” his dad snaps.

“Yes, sir,” he parrots, confused.

His dad continues to drive in silence, driving perhaps a little too fast, stopping a bit too abruptly. Evan decides to put the shoulder strap behind his back, so it will stop cutting into his neck when his dad stops too hard; he does it very subtly, because his mother had told him many times that it was bad to do, but his dad doesn’t say anything.

Really, he should be in a car seat. But it was not there anymore, and anyway he had always hated it, and thought it was about time he grew out of it. Still, grown-up seats were not very comfortable. Or maybe it’s the car, going too fast, stopping too suddenly. He cranes his neck to watch out the window, but the speed of the car frightens him, so he looks away.

“What happened to your face?” his dad says suddenly.

Startled, he looks down. “Oh,” he says blankly. “They hit me. A lot. It hurt,” he adds in a mumble.

“Hit you?” his dad repeats, his voice a snarl. “What other kids?”

Evan, deciding that the anger is directed at the others and not him, does not mind “tattling” on the other kids, so he answers: “Yeah, they did, there were lots of other kids�"um, seven. They were really mean�"”

“Seven?”

“Yeah, seven, and they were so mean! They kept making fun of me, and being mean to me, and�"”

“Yeah, I get it,” his dad interrupts. “And how did she take care of all of you? Where did you sleep? What did you eat?”

“Um�"well, there�"we were supposed to take turns with the bed, but the same three kids always got them, so we were on the floor. They stole the covers, and they kicked me a lot, it hurt�"”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah, with sleeping bags, but it wasn’t any fun�"”

“And what about food? What did she feed you?”

“Um. Lots of stuff. Macaroni and cheese, and potatoes, and noodles, and McDonald’s sometimes, and chicken. I liked it, but it made my tummy hurt a lot�"”

“What about for breakfast? What then?”

“Well, we…um, we just got dinner, and snacks sometimes�"”

“You’re lying,” his dad says harshly, and Evan looks up at him with wide eyes, startled. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Evan�"”

“I’m not!” he protests. “I’m not lying. It’s true.”

“You’d better not be,” his father growls. “I’ll know if you are. Now, those kids�"”

He asks question after question, until Evan starts to get nervous; whatever he’s saying is making his dad angry�"no, not angry, furious�"but he gets even angrier when Evan hesitates or does not want to answer, his voice growing too loud in the empty car.

And then, all at once, his dad does not want to talk anymore. A heavy silence falls that makes even Evan, bewildered and innocent, nervous. But when he tries, hesitantly, to break it, his dad snaps at him to shut up.

A long, long time later, the car slows down, and Evan, looking out the window, recognizes Skyland. He watches eagerly as his father drives them down the familiar roads, his breath misting the glass of the window.

They pull into the driveway of his house, which looks just like he remembered it�"he tumbles out of the car, grabbing his backpack, and dashes into the backyard, smiling at the swing set and trampoline, familiar and welcoming.

But when he runs inside, he notices a change; he cannot see anything different, except that the floors are grimy and the counters are cluttered with trash, but something else is wrong�"though he can’t say what, exactly. It is more a strange feeling than something he can see or touch. A bad feeling…a tension, a darkening in the corners…he  finds himself thinking of ghosts, but then immediately forgets it, because what kind of ghosts would come out in the daytime? He is too young to know of any.

He darts into the kitchen, dropping his backpack on the floor, but before he can investigate further, or even get something to eat, his father snaps, “Pick this up. Go put it in your room.”

The edge to his voice scares Evan, who does what he is told at once, glad for an excuse to get away from him. His dad is not like he remembers him; he used to be aloof, and curt, and calm, and cold�"he would keep his distance, rarely speak to him or his mother, at least not that Evan ever saw, and had long since stopped giving Evan reason to fear his anger. He had just been there, never interfering with Evan’s business, only occasionally even showing interest in him.

But the way he was now…it made Evan nervous. His mother had always told Evan to keep away from him, but he had never understood how she talked about him, like he was something to be feared. Now he was starting to feel like there was a bit more to it. His dad’s being really mean….

The house looks wrong; he finds himself noticing more and more that has changed. Mostly, things are missing�"especially things from the walls. They used to be hung with paintings, brightly-colored prints, mirrors, ornaments that his mother had thought were pretty, photographs that she’d taken, landscapes and still lives and portraits of their family….

He wishes they were still there; they had made the house bright, happy, livable, but now it felt empty and cold. And there is something bothering him, tugging at the corner of his mind…even when he closes his eyes, he has trouble remembering what his mother looks like…all he can remember is the way she had looked in that wooden box, buried in lace, wearing a stiff new dress, white and emotionless and�"

No. It wasn’t real. She was just sick, that was all. That’s all that was. Just part of her being sick. And he’d had to go away because he couldn’t go with her when she traveled to Hawaii, to find a better doctor, because it was warm and beautiful there�"or something like that�"but now he was back, so she must be coming back too�"he can’t remember who told him so, but he knows it’s true, he knows it is….

The walls in the hallway upstairs are just as barren as the rest of the house; up here, now that he is closer, he can actually see the rectangular patches on the wall where the pictures and mirror used to hang, where the wall had been shielded from dust and dirt and glared at him in the dim light coming from the dust-coated window. Frowning, curious, he tries the doors along the hallway; one of them, his mother’s studio, will not open. Disappointed, because that was the one he most wanted to see, he gives up and heads into his room, hoping that it has not changed.

And to his surprise, it has not. Not at all. It is as messy, as disheveled, as cluttered as it was the day he left it, as if it has frozen in time, waiting for him to come back. The only difference is that everything is coated in dust, enough to trigger a sneezing fit when he sits on his bed. The bed feels strange, like the guest bed that had stood in his mother’s studio, cold and stiff and belonging to no one.

He slides off of the bed, in no hurry to go back downstairs, and starts checking all around the room, making sure that his treasures are still in place. And they all are: the coin jar with its bottom coated in sticky pennies, the spaceship he made out of Legos, his favorite books, his “collection” consisting of a handful of rocks, his lucky bouncy ball….

But no�"there is one thing missing: his bear. He can’t find it, even after looking all over his room, even under the bed. He’s had Mr. Bear since…since forever; it had felt so strange, being without it, but his dad had not let him take it. Now he doesn’t know where it is.

In its place, however, he has gained something that wasn’t there before: a new suit, with a tie and everything, hanging up neatly in his closet above a box of shiny black shoes. He can still remember how the whole outfit felt, painful and uncomfortable and rigid, the tie far too tight, the shoes too small…. He hates it, he won’t look at it anymore; he jerks the whole ensemble off the hanger and crumples it into a ball, burying it and the shoes at the bottom of his toy box, wrapping them in an old t-shirt so he will never have to see them again.

From downstairs, he hears a shrill beeping sound as the back door’s alarm goes off; then he hears his dad calling his name, sounding impatient. He runs to the top of the stairs and sees his dad waiting with fast food downstairs. Is his coming home really such a special occasion? All worries forgotten, he runs downstairs, feeling better at once.