You'd Be Home Now (88)
“Has anybody seen a boy named Joey?” I call out. “Orange shirt?”
“No, sorry, ma’am,” one man says. “I haven’t seen anyone like that today.”
I can feel my mom deflate behind me.
“Well, if you do,” my dad says, “please tell him to come home.”
“Yes, sir.” Murmurs from the crowd.
* * *
—
In the car, my mom is quiet. Finally, she says, “I don’t understand why you got them cigarettes, though. Or the gin. How does that help? That just seems like exacerbating the problem.”
“People go through withdrawal, Abigail. You can’t expect them to do it cold turkey, in bad weather under a bridge. How does that help anything? They could get sick doing that on their own. Choke on their vomit and freeze to death. Same with cigarettes. I’ve got a patch on right now to help me. What do they have? Restricting addictive substances to be punitive or pious…that doesn’t solve anything.”
“Dad, you’re quitting smoking?” I say. “That’s really, really good.”
“I am,” he says grimly. “It’s quite painful, but I’m determined.”
“Drive slower, Neil,” my mom says softly.
“Why?” my dad asks.
“I can’t see the sidewalks clearly,” my mom says. “I need to see the sidewalks.”
“What for?” my father asks.
“Because,” I say quietly from the backseat. “Because of Joey. We’re looking for Joey. Just in case.”
My dad nods and slows the car down.
41
Emory_Ward
Joey I didn’t see you tonight I miss you, I wish you’d come home I wish I could say people applauded like demons Or fiends when I was done with my poem at the show But they didn’t
I think Mom cried, but it was hard to see But she was there with Dad
Everyone misses you
I thought maybe you would be there I thought maybe, wherever you are You could hear the words I was sending to you Hear the fact of my missing you And walk and walk and walk
Through cold nights
Back to me
So I could tell you
That all of the pieces of you
Are beautiful
And not wrong
And not shameful
I wish I didn’t have to write these words I wish I didn’t have all this missing I keep thinking how much I love you I keep wanting love to be enough Because if it was
You’d be home now
#missing #joeyward #millhaven #findjoey
I’M ALMOST ASLEEP WHEN I hear my door open. I look up blearily. I’m tired and drained after the show, and visiting Frost Bridge, and writing a post to Joey on Instagram that I feel like he’ll never see. “Mom?” I say.
She lifts up the covers and slides in next to me, her shoulder against mine.
“Your father was trying to teach me a lesson,” she says.
“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t know. I don’t really understand adults half the time.”
It feels nice, her being next to me, in the dark. Safe.
“I was thinking about what you read tonight. Do you…do you feel like I closed the book on your brother?”
In the dark, it’s a little easier to talk to her. In the light, you can see the Look, which I’m always afraid of. “Kind of,” I answer. “You just expected him to…be better. Right away. Like it was a thing you put on one of your lists. Get sober. Something to check off.”
“It’s the way I was raised,” she says. “Work hard, don’t let your problems stand in your way. Figure out how to fix them and do it.” She pauses. “I loved my father, but he was a stern man.”
“But Joey’s not a problem to be fixed,” I say softly. “He’s a person.”
“I know that,” she says. “Don’t you think I know that? I just want him back. I would do anything to have him back.”
She’s shaking next to me, her body jiggling like she’s outside without a jacket in zero-degree weather.
I have never seen my mom cry like this and I think of what my dad said, the missing part inside her. I wrap my arms around her and hold her as tight as I can.
42
IT’S SNOWING. IT’S BEEN thirteen days since Joey disappeared.
The flakes fall slowly at first and then quickly, turning the world outside the front window white.
My father brings wood inside from the shed, begins stacking the logs in the fireplace. Rolls up old newspapers from a stack next to the fireplace. Slides wooden matches against the box. Scrape, crunch, crackle, flare. All noises seem amplified to me because we are so quiet all the time now, waiting.
Waiting for Joey to be found. Waiting for Joey to come home. That’s our new life.
“A fire,” Nana says, settling on the couch. “A fire is always nice.”
Nana is better now, more agile, and she could go home, but she doesn’t. She wants to be here, with us, and I think we need that.
Flashes of color among the white flakes through the window. Orange, black, green. Small children in costumes and masks, plastic pumpkins hanging from their hands. I blink, peering harder through the glass.