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“Did you go to bed?” Dad asks.
“No.”
“Did someone come into the room?”
“No.”
“Was there somebody at the window?”
A pause while I think back. “No.”
“What about . . . Art? Can you remember where . . . how you got h
im?” “
No.”
He curses and tugs at his hair with both hands. Looks at Mom and Art again. Mom stares back at him sternly, holding Art against her like a shield. I don’t know what her look means, but I’m glad she’s not looking at me that way — her eyes are scary!
Dad phones the police and they come over. He sits with me while they ask lots of questions. Mom stays in their bedroom with Art. Dad said there was no need to talk about Art with the police. It would only complicate things. Since Art’s too young to tell them anything, they want to focus on what happened to me.
I tell the police the same things I told Mom and Dad. The police are nice. They talk softly, make jokes, tell me stories about other kids who were lost or kidnapped. They want to know if I remember anything, even the smallest detail, but my mind is a complete blank. I keep apologizing for not being able to tell them anything more, but they don’t lose patience. They’re much calmer than Mom and Dad.
I don’t go back to school. Mom and Dad keep me in. Won’t even let me go out to the park. Things feel strange and awkward. It’s like when Annabella died. Lots of crying, sorrow and uncertainty. But it’s different. There’s fear too. Mom’s especially edgy. Hardly lets go of Art. Snaps at Dad a lot of the time. I often find her shaking and crying when she doesn’t think I’ll notice.
Days pass. The police come back, but they’re not too worried. The most important thing is that I’m safe and back home. They recommend a good psychiatrist to Dad, and suggest he takes me to see her, to try and figure out what happened to me. Dad says he will, but I remember what Mom was like when Miss Tyacke suggested a psychiatrist all those years ago. I’m sure I won’t be going for counseling.
That night they have a huge fight. Mom’s screaming and cursing. I’m in my room with Art. They think we can’t hear them, but we can. I’m scared. I even cry a bit, holding Art tightly, not sure why they’re behaving this way. Art’s not bothered. He gurgles happily in my arms and tries biting a hole through the new bib that Dad bought yesterday.
Mom yells, “We’ve been given a second chance! I don’t care how it happened or who gets hurt! I’m not going to suffer the loss of a child again!”
I can’t hear Dad’s reply, but it seems to do the trick. Mom doesn’t shout after that, though I hear her crying later. I hear Dad crying too.
The next morning, Dad calls me into his study. He has Art on one knee, a picture of Annabella on his other. He’s looking from Art to the picture and back again, chewing his lower lip. He looks up when I enter and smiles — a thin, shaky smile. Tells me we’re leaving. Immediately, this very night.
“We’re going on a vacation?” I ask, excited.
“No. We’re moving.” Art tugs at Dad’s left ear. Dad ducks his head and chuckles at Art. “Your mom doesn’t like it here anymore,” Dad says quietly, not looking at me directly. “Annabella died here. You went missing. Art . . . well, she doesn’t want anything else to happen. To Art or to you. She wants to go somewhere safer. To be honest, I do too. I’m sick of city life.”
“But what about school?” It’s the first question to pop into my head.
“The hell with it,” Dad laughs. “You don’t like it that much, do you?”
“Well . . . no . . . but it’s my school.”
“We’ll find you another.” He fixes Art in his left arm, then extends his right and pulls me in close. “I know you haven’t been happy here. Mom and I have been thinking about it. We’re going to move to a place we know, a village called Paskinston. The children will be very different there. Nicer than city kids. We think you’ll be happier, maybe make some friends. And you’ll be safe. We all will. How does that sound?”
“Good. I guess. But . . .” I shrug.
“It’s for the best, Kernel,” Dad says, and hugs me tight. Art laughs and hugs me too, and that’s when I feel sure that Dad’s right. Everything’s going to be better now.
My last glimpse of the city is when I get into our car late that night. I don’t know why we don’t wait until morning —Dad hates driving at night — but I haven’t had time to ask. It’s been a rush, packing bags, going through all of my toys, books, comics, clothes, records, choosing what to bring and what to leave behind. Dad says we’ll get the rest of our belongings sent later, but I don’t want to leave anything precious behind, just in case. I bombed all of the planes in my bedroom at nine o’clock. Mom and Dad helped me. We destroyed them completely. It was cool! Even Mom enjoyed it.
As we’re getting into the car, Dad asks if I want to play a game with Art, to keep him quiet. I say sure. So he makes me sit on the floor behind Mom’s seat, with Art between my legs, and he drapes a blanket over us. “Pretend Art and you are fugitives. You’re a pair of vicious, wanted criminals, and we’re sneaking you out of the city. There are roadblocks, so you have to hide and be quiet. If you’re found, you’ll be sent to prison.”
“Children don’t get sent to prison!” I snort.
“They do in this game.” Dad laughs.
