Dead to You

Blake makes it to the four-way stop right out front, where the small group of what looks like middle and high school kids stand, waiting for the bus. He walks up to a couple of shorter guys and I watch them all goof around, stealing glances at the reporters. There are girls there too. One of the taller girls, with a red coat, her black hair shooting down her back, stares at Blake, and then looks sharply at our house, into the window, almost like she’s looking straight through me. But then she looks away when the bus pulls up. I take a bite of my waffle and wonder if I should know any of them. If I ever played with them. I feel so empty, so . . . nothing. I wonder if Blake will tell them about me.

When I see Mama’s car coming around the corner, I rinse my plate in the sink and then go to take my shower. Thinking and thinking about how much more strained all of this is than I expected.

It’s been such a long time. The big hunks of life aren’t going to come back just like that, no matter how much I want them to.

CHAPTER 8

After my shower, I slip past Mama on the phone and head to the basement wearing a pair of my dad’s sweatpants, safety-pinned to keep them up, and a flannel button-down shirt. Upstairs, the phone doesn’t stop ringing. Mama is blabbering excitedly about me, one call to the next. On one call I hear her talking kind of soft to Dr. Somebody, repeating, “Okay, so we’ll take it slow, let him talk when he’s ready,” which is a relief. But then on the next call, she schedules an appointment for me, which is not cool. I think it might be that shrink that Dr. Cook told us about.

The basement is as big as the main floor. There’s a finished rec room, bathroom, and laundry area, but half of this level is unfinished. On the far wall is a slider door that opens onto the backyard, and tons of boxes are stacked all around in the unfinished part and also in the rec room.

I dump all of my dirty laundry out of my backpack and into the washing machine—two shirts, two pairs of boxers, two T-shirts, two pairs of ripped jeans, and three pairs of holey socks. And then I throw in my grungy coat, gloves, hat, even my filthy, stinking tennis shoes, and just wander around the basement looking at things while the machine clunks and spins.

There’s a pool table down here, and the balls are all over the place, like somebody didn’t know or didn’t care. I look at all the old toys that are semi–packed away but still accessible. In the corner of the rec room there’s a faded orange electric racetrack with two cars, red and blue. I pick up the blue one, turn it in my hand, and stare at it hard, thinking, and something clicks. This one was mine.

I set it down on the track and push the button on the controller, but nothing happens. The batteries must be dead.

I look through old, musty-smelling picture books. Where’s Waldo? and I Spy. They’re all about finding something, or someone, hidden. I wonder if my family ever played Where’s Ethan?

There are tons of memories down here. Against the wall by the pool table, I find boxes with my name on them. I sit down on the floor and open one up. There are toys, pictures, memories of all sorts inside. A collection of rocks and some baseball cards. I pick up each item and inspect it carefully. Some of the pictures are familiar, and I know I’ve seen them before on the website. I stare at them, stare at little me. I take after Mama, I guess. Blake is fairer, like Dad, and Gracie is darker-skinned with wavy hair like Mama. And like me.

While I’m packing up the boxes again, Mama comes downstairs. “Hey, Ethan,” she says. Her voice is so timid. “You doing okay? I’m sorry I’ve been on the phone so much.”

I smile at her. “I’m just . . . yeah. Doing my laundry. Thanks,” I say, and then I realize how stupid it sounds to thank my mother for letting me use the washing machine. “So are we going to talk to the reporters?”

“Dad is trying to handle them, but they really want to talk to you. What do you think?” Mama comes and sits next to me on the floor. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” I move over so we’re not too close. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“It’s going to be weird for a while.”

I picture myself on TV. “Why are they even here?” I know why, but I want to hear more.

“Word got out faster than I expected. I should have known. You’re kind of a big deal in Belleville, you know. Massive search, everybody in the community looking for you for weeks.” She shifts and peers at me. “Local TV news is asking for an interview here in the house. I said I would talk to you and see how you felt about it. The news crews aren’t going anywhere, at least for the time being.”

I take it in. “Wow,” I say. They really searched for me. I feel so guilty . . . so good, and so guilty. Then, “Yeah. The people should know about my return.” I’m so delighted to know they searched that I don’t know what I’m saying. The people should know about my return? Who am I, Jesus Christ?

“I’ll call CPS and have them send someone to be here with you.”

I consider it for a minute. “No. I’d rather not.”

“Oh,” Mama says, surprised. “Are you sure?” Her eyes worry.

“I don’t even know any of them. They would just make me nervous.”

“Hmm,” she says, and then she nods. “Okay, I get that. No CPS.”

I give her a grateful smile.

“Do you want me to help you prepare for the questions?” She sounds hopeful.

I’m getting to where I want to be, sort of. But it doesn’t feel right. “No,” I say. “I don’t want to mess it up. I want to sound authentic.” My stomach flutters at the thought of the interview. My mind races, thinking about what I’ll say, how I’ll say it. But then this weird calmness rushes over my skin. I take a deep breath and let it out. It feels right.