Page 55 of Cut Off
We both fix our shirts, and I’m attempting to put my bra back in place when Jonah steps back, the way you create distance from something that might detonate, and he wipes a hand down his face and clears his throat. “In the drawer by the dishwasher, Mom.” His voice is all gravel. “The big drawer.”
“Found it!”
He looks at me one more time. The kind of look that is a whole paragraph that neither of us is going to say out loud.
Then he picks up the paprika, says, “I know, this didn’t happen,” and walks out of the pantry, and I stand with my back against a shelf of alphabetized spices, breathing in and out, with absolutely no idea whether I’m relieved or wrecked.
Both. The answer is both.
16
Sleep Buddies
JONAH
Isit up straight in bed. The clock reads 2:17 AM. Something woke me, but I’m not sure what. I lie still, listening to the quiet house, when a sense of wrongness creeps over me.
I should check on Eli.
I slide out from under the sheets and pad down the hall to his room. The door’s still cracked open as I left it, but when I peek inside, the bed is empty, covers thrown back.
“Eli?” My voice is unsteady.
I push the door all the way open and flip the light switch.
The pale-blue walls, the stuffies, the Star Wars posters—they’re all the same as before, except for the gaping absence of the kid. I check under the bed to find nothing, not even dust bunnies. I say his name again. Silence, except for the dull thudding in my ears.
My stomach drops, and I trip over Eli’s discarded sweatpants, shoving open the bathroom door so hard it rebounds off the stopper.
Nothing.
The chill in my spine goes arctic as my mind races back to how Eli ran away from the foster home in Portland, which is how he got to Dickens in the first place.
My heartbeat jacks, my limbs rubbery as I rush into the hall.
“Eli!” I cry out, so strangled, I barely recognize it as my own voice.
No response. The bathroom across the hall is dark and empty.
Jesus Christ. My mind races through worst-case scenarios as I rush through the house, checking rooms, flipping on lights.
“Eli!” I call over and over, trying to keep the terror out of my voice. “Are you here?”
I check the game room, the guest rooms, even my room again in case he came looking for me. Nothing. My pulse erupts as I race downstairs, checking the kitchen, living room, even looking out the windows to see if he’s in the backyard.
Just as I’m about to call 911, a sound catches my attention. A sniff, barely audible, coming from upstairs. As I head to Eli’s room, I hear it again: a muffled sob.
I scan the room, checking under the bed, behind the door. The sound seems to come from the closet. I approach it, easing the pocket door open.
Eli’s curled up in the far corner, knees pulled to his chest, clutching his Flash action figure so tightly his knuckles are white. Tears streak his face, and his eyes go wide as he looks up at me.
“Eli,” I breathe, relief flooding through me. I rush over, kneel, and pull him into a hug. “Hey, what’s going on? Why are you in here?”
He doesn’t answer, just curls tighter around himself, rocking.
I keep holding him tight. “Are you okay? Did something scare you?”
A nod, but still no words.
