Mike disappeared on a clear day. I remember that, at least, though not much else. I was five years old.
"Try," the policemen said to me. "Try harder. Remember."
Mike disappeared on a clear day. I remember that, at least, though not much else.
"Try," the policemen said to me. "Try harder. Remember."
"Remember," they all said, greatly disappointed by the blankness of my face, of my memory. Worried voices wearing worried faces. Stern policemen, frantic parents, neighbors alternately caring and merely curious. Mama said it the most, the loudest, her hands the most painful as they gripped my arms and tried to shake an answer out of me.
"Remember," she insisted. "You must remember."
Remember? Remember what? Again and again I force myself back. To think. To remember more. Something I might have forgotten to tell the policemen about. Something important. Something that would give us Mikey back. Nothing. No stranger's face imprinting itself into my mind, no screams, no feeling of danger. Nothing. Just Mikey and me walking home from the grocery store, both intent on not stepping on any cracks. One minute together and the next standing alone at the street corner, not quite sure whether to turn left or right or to cross the street.
"Where to, Mikey?" I asked and when I turned he was gone. Three blocks, they said. Three blocks from home. I didn't know. I was only five years old.
Mike was ten, clever and quick and playful. He's hiding, I had thought then, and went back to look for him, angry that he would tease me like that. I got to the other corner of the street without finding him and turned back, sure that I had missed him somehow. At five I wasn't allowed to cross the street by myself and Mike was constantly lectured never to let me. I knew he wouldn't have crossed the street knowing I would never follow.
Three trips up and down that length of sidewalk, nerves screaming for Mike to come out. Playing hide and seek, Mikey had always boasted that the only reason I could find him was because he'd let me. Always said that I could never find him if he didn't really want to be found.
"Someday, " he'd say to me, all cocky and grinning, "I'm going to hide and you'll never be able to find me. Never."
Hiding, I had decided then, gritting my teeth and refusing to be scared. Hiding and trying to scare me. There was nothing to do but wait till he came out, I thought, and I settled down determinedly on the sidewalk. It was nearly dark and I knew he'd get into a lot of trouble if we didn't get home soon.
He never came out. I was still sitting, still alone when Mama came looking.
Mikey was ten. None of it made any sense, Mama said. It didn't make sense that no one saw anything. That I didn't see anything or don't remember. That Mike was ten and I was five, that Mikey was bigger, smarter, paying attention to where he was going . . . It didn't make sense, Mother said. It must've been a mistake.
At night she cried, thinking I couldn't hear. In the daytime she was on the phone, calling everyone she could think of. Police, relatives, friends, neighbors, everybody. Between phone calls she would turn to me, alternately hopeful and angry.
"Remember," she'd say. "Remember anything you can." A mistake. And the sooner I remembered the sooner we could get Mikey back.
"I don't remember anything, Mama," I'd answer. "I didn't see anything."
"You did," she'd insist. " You must've. You just don't remember. Someday you will. Someday you must."
---
For a month or two I saw Mikey everywhere. On television, newspapers and posters, grinning crookedly out at the world. Daddy went everywhere, looked everywhere, asked everyone. Mama stayed at home, waiting. Always waiting. When Mikey's pictures began to appear on milk-cartons Mama cheered, saying the pictures looked so much like Mikey that anyone who could have seen Mikey would instantly recognize him from the picture. At the store she would turn all the cartons around so Mikey's picture and all those of the other missing kids would be facing out. It made her feel better.
Once I bought one of those cartons and Mama screamed and Mama came near to slapping. I took the money out of my piggy bank and walked all by myself to the store. By then I knew the route to and from the store by heart, having gone over it a thousand times. Mama was angry that I went alone and that I took the money without telling her. But most of all she was angry that I had brought home a milk-carton with Mikey's picture.
"Don't you understand?" she screamed. "That's one more picture that the world could have seen, one more family that might have helped." One more hope I took away.
I couldn't tell her that I bought the milk-carton because of one more thing I couldn't remember. Mama said I would remember everything someday. I couldn't even remember what Mikey looked like.
---
I am seventeen years old now, and soon I'll go off to a college half a state away. I still have that picture, cut out from a milk carton. To help me remember.
But something happened that day they say I can't remember. From then on I could remember everything. I never forget anything anymore. I remember looking for Mikey everywhere, thinking I had lost him and it was up to me to find him. I remember waking up in the mornings feeling sick because I knew Mikey still wouldn't be there. Knowing I had to get up or the day wouldn't continue and all the people looking for Mikey couldn't begin looking. I remember going back to that streetcorner, day after day, waiting. I remember Mama saying that it was a mistake. That Mikey was ten, bigger, stronger, smarter. I remember thinking she was right, that it should have been me that was lost, me that should have disappeared. Not my brother. Not Mikey. It should have been my face on those milk-cartons. I remember hoping that he was with Peter Pan, and happily romping with all the other lost boys in Never-never Land. I remember hoping he would remember to come home.
I remember staring at milk-cartons everytime I go into a store, wondering. Where are all these children? I would think.
Were they all in the same place together, happy, playing, laughing? Were they special? Did Mikey like them better than he liked me?
I am seventeen now, going to a college half a state away. I remember everything. Except Mikey. I don't remember Mikey.
Today is a clear day, like the day we lost Mikey. Or the day Mikey lost us. I remember that much, though not much else.
I remember other things, though, and I know this:
When I go, I'm not coming back, either.
The End.
---
Hi! Thanks for reading.
If you liked this story, you might also be interested in my work-in-progress, Love and Fame Games.
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It has similar themes of loss and self-discovery, as well as a touch of humor and romance.
