Gone (Ianthony)

Two Months, Three Weeks, Six Days, and Three Hours Before

Anthony:     

A somwhere hither heist.

A threesome whither hies.

Home is where the heart is.

I was never good at anagrams. I remember in elementary school, they would give us those papers with a few words on it and we had to make as many other words as we could out of them. Most kids could make at least six or seven. I got two on a good day.

As I pulled into the driveway, I thought about yesterday. How I spent the whole day avoiding the concerned questions from Ian's friends and family, only using the time to stare at his note and write down every possible anagram from the capital letters. 

There were only three that made any sort of sense.

And only one that stuck out to me. One that I read almost every single day in high school.

I was relieved to see her car parked alone in the driveway. I should have called her first to make sure she was home. But I wanted to avoid the potential awkward conversation and just get right to the point.

I knocked on the door, taking a deep breath and smoothing down my hair, which hadn't been washed or even tamed in any way since yesterday morning. I didn't care. She wouldn't care. There were bigger problems than my hair at the moment.

When the door opened, she looked at me. Her face was expressionless. She didn't smile like when she usually saw me; she always called me "her second son." This time, she only pulled me into a loose hug, shaking her head and staying silent.

I hesitantly returned the hug. Some would say it was weird to hug your best friend's mom. But when her son and your best friend could be dead, it's a whole different story.

"Anthony," she breathed, letting me go. "How... how are you?"

I didn't answer. By the way my eyes probably looked dull and the way my hair stuck out, it was probably obvious.

"Can I come in? I know it might now be a good time, but-"

"No, no, of course, come in." She opened the door and I smiled, as much as my mouth would allow.

The house was still. His dad, my second dad, was probably upstairs, trying to figure out where he went wrong as a parent. Like it was his fault.

"Can I get you anything?"

I shook my head. She blinked at me.

I walked down the hall. And I stopped at the end, where the painting hung proudly over a bouquet of withering roses and a few pictures of their whole family.

Home is where the heart is.     

I stepped closer to the painting. I examined it all around. Looking for any traces Ian could have left. A note, some letters, a picture, anything. But it was only a small blue painting with green letters and a tiny red heart.

"A-are you looking for something?"

I turned around, noticing Ian's mom watching me with skeptical blue eyes. I had never realized how similar they were to Ian's.

"Where'd you get this painting?"

She furrowed her eyebrows. 

"Uh... my mom painted it for me. When I was very young."

I nodded, turning back to the painting. Maybe this wasn't it. Maybe I wasn't good enough at anagrams to figure out what he meant.

Or maybe he really was dead.

"Is there something going on, Anthony?"

I turned back to her. I should have rehearshed this a little better, so she wouldn't see something else was going on. I didn't want to get her hopes up just to crush them later.

But I had to tell her. Maybe she would know something. Maybe I was on the right track.

"Well, to put things simply..."

I took a deep breath. This was the first time I would say it out loud. 

It sounded so stupid.

"I think your son might be alive. And I think he wants me to find him."

Her face didn't move at all. I wondered if she'd even heard me.

And then she laughed. An empty, heartbroken laugh.

"What?"

I handed her the note with scribbled anagrams and hours of confusion spilled onto the back.

Her eyes traced the page. She shook her head.

"I... I don't even know what to say."

She handed it back. Her hand was shaking.

"I don't want to get my hopes up," I offered, biting my lip. "But the cops still haven't found his body, or anything, really. And I checked and some of his clothes and his backpack are missing. I think it's possible."

She shook her head in disbelief. 

"Where would he have gone?"

"I don't know. But I have to find him."

It was silent for a moment. I think she wanted to believe me, but couldn't get herself to.

"You know, Ian was really close to her. His grandma." She gestured behind me. "You could be right."

"You think she would know where he is?"

She sighed.

"Well... honestly, no. She has severe dementia. I don't think she remembers who any of us are anymore." She shrugged. "But it's worth a shot. She lives in the retirement home on Ganson. I think he did just visit her a few days ago."

I nodded.

"Can I ask you another question?" My voice was stale.

"Yes, of course." She offered a smile.

"Do you think I'm being ridiculous? Do you really think he's alive? I mean, I don't know, he could have just been writing things and this is all just a big coincidince. Am I going crazy? I think I just want to believe he's alive, and I'm making up scenarios, and-"

"Anthony." The corners of her mouth just barely curved upward. "If Ian was ever going to do something this stupid, you know he would want you to find him. And especially in his latest mental state, it wouldn't surprise me at all. I don't want to believe he's really... gone, either, so maybe we're both crazy. But I think you're right."

I smiled at her. Maybe I wasn't crazy.

"And even if he is..." She looked down for a moment and shook her head. "He realy loved you, Anthony. Trust me. There was nothing you could have done. He was a wreck, and he just chose the stupid way out. And-"

"He's not dead," I interrupted her. "He wouldn't kill himself. I know him."

She smiled sympathetically, but I only headed for the door.

"I'm gonna find him." I opened the door. "Mrs. Hecox, I promise you, your son is out there, and I'm gonna find him."