“Oh, goodness,” Mama says, realizing it. “I’m sorry. I’ll get another hook up tomorrow.” She reaches out her hand.
I stand there, unsure I want to let go of my coat, sock-footed on hard little balls of snow, feeling the cold wetness seep through. “You can use my hook,” Gracie says, her shyness having dissipated into the walls of familiarity. She ceremoniously drops her coat and hat on the floor and grins all naughty-like. Like she knows she is in control of this family because of her unique position. I let go and Mama takes my coat from me and hangs it up, and then hangs Gracie’s coat over hers.
Two steps lead up from the mudroom to a door to the main part of the house. We walk in, everyone crowding behind me. “You guys go first,” I say. I let Blake, Gracie, and Mama scoot past me, and I follow them. I don’t need the pressure of them watching me right now, I really don’t. I feel like I’m going to crack. Like my head is made of stone.
The kitchen has a few dirty dishes piled up in the sink, and there are bowls with food in them still sitting on the table. But the rest of the house is so clean.
“We left in a hurry,” Mama says, apologizing. “It’s a bit of a mess, but when we got the call that you were down in Red Wing, well.” She sweeps her hand around the room. “You can imagine. Do you want some food? Are you hungry?”
I shake my head. “The lady got me some dinner.”
Mama turns to my brother. “Blake,” she says in a firm, quiet voice, “can you clear this up, please?” She turns back and beams at me, and then looks upward. “Dear God,” she says reverently, clasping her hands together, staring at the light fixture, and shaking her head in wonder, “is it really our Ethan? After all these years . . .” She comes over to me and hugs me again tightly, and then she shoos Gracie to her room to get her pajamas on.
When we hear Gracie’s door click shut, Mama gives Dad a meaningful look. Dad nods and beckons for me to follow him and Mama into the living room, so I do.
“Gracie doesn’t really know what’s going on,” he says in a low voice. “She’s a little too young for us to explain what happened to you. You understand?”
I feel something twist in my gut. “Yeah, sure,” I say. My voice sounds thin in my ears.
“She knows you’re her brother and that you are the boy whose picture is on the wall,” Mama hastens to add. “We just didn’t tell her any details about the abduction. She’s only six. We’re going to try and make your return as normal as possible for her—for all of us—and send her to school tomorrow as usual. Blake, too. Give you a chance to settle in before the weekend.”
“It’s okay,” I say. I know it’s not Gracie’s fault. Still, I feel upset about it. “So, if she asks me about things, what do you want me to do, just sort of lie?” I laugh nervously and it comes out like a hiccup. It’s a bad habit of mine, laughing at weird times. Somebody could up and punch me in the stomach or say something really horrible to me and chances are I’ll just start laughing hysterically, even if it hurts like hell.
“Maybe just be vague,” Dad says. He scratches his five o’clock shadow. “I’ll bet you were surprised to see her,” he says.
“Yeah, a little,” I lie. I knew all about her. The website has more pictures of her than anybody else. I just feel bad. I do. I feel bad for having had to relearn everything about them from our little family website—all those years I missed. And I feel bad that I don’t remember them—like I didn’t care enough or something, you know? There’s so much stuff to know. I’ve been gone for more than half my life.
“There’s a lot of things different, I’m sure.” Dad smiles. “We’ll have time to catch up. We have the rest of our lives now,” he says, a little overdramatically. It feels like we’re in a movie. He puts his hand on my shoulder and it sits there like it’s a parrot, and I’m a pirate, yarrr. I shake my head, trying to concentrate. So tired.
Dad gives me a tour of the house to help me get reacquainted. In every room he asks, “Do you remember this?”
Remember this? Remember that? They want me to remember so badly. Sometimes I say yes, sometimes no. Mostly no, because the yeses give him so much hope. It’s hard to watch. Can’t stand the pressure of that much hope.
I’m grateful when we return to the living room and Mama has photographs to look at. Me at Christmas in my red footie pajamas. Me at my sixth birthday party, surrounded by children I don’t recognize. On Halloween, dressed as Superman. At a lake, wearing a blue swimsuit. I stare at my overexposed face as Mama reminisces.
Blake passes by the entry to the living room, where we sit. He pauses, and then instead of coming in, he walks down the hallway, and I see my chance to talk to him. “Is it okay if I go?” I ask, and I slide out from under my dad’s arm and follow Blake, not waiting for an answer. Not looking back.
“Hey . . . ,” I call out, trying to catch up with him. I pretend that Dad hasn’t just shown me the room, so that I have something to talk about. “So, uh, is our room the same as before?”
Blake snorts. “No. Choo-choo trains? I got rid of that wallpaper a long time ago.” He turns into our room and I follow. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen now,” he says, and I don’t know what he means, until I realize he’s talking about the furniture.