"Empty" by: Caroline Johnson -- Handler's Choice

It was frigid outside- so cold that everyone wore puffy coats with hoods pulled tightly over their heads. Some were draped in scarves; others wore thick gloves. My neighbors probably thought I was crazy to join them wearing nothing but a thin sweater and jeans. “Aren’t you cold? Here, take my coat,” men and women crowded around me, but I ignored their offers. I hadn’t organized the search party, that was Kim-From-Two-Doors-Down’s doing. She alerted the neighborhood homeowners’ association as soon as I sent her those words: Owen is missing. Someone forced a small flashlight into my hand. I squeezed it, and shot a beam of light toward the trees in my backyard. The woods seemed deeper now that the branches were empty. I noticed that there were already figures weaving their lights in and out of the elms. They called his name over and over until it no longer sounded like a word. People spat reassurances at me every time we crossed paths. But I knew Owen wasn’t in the woods.

It had only been a few hours earlier that the 911 operator told me she would send some detectives over. She assured me that my son had just run away from home and would return shortly. I agreed with her, and had barely hung up when I heard knocking on the front door.

The taller detective asked most of the questions while the one with the overcoat walked around my living room. I told the first man the same details I’d already given the operator. He jotted my responses onto a legal pad, and nodded each time I told him anything else that I thought he’d like to hear. I had almost forgotten that there were two men with me until the second spoke. “What about the boy’s father? Any chance your son is with him?” the cloaked detective who had been looking through pictures above the fireplace was now facing me. “Mark… my ex-husband died last winter,” I dug my nails into my palms and sensed the two men shifting uneasily around me, “I’d appreciate it if you two would stop asking me all these questions and get out there looking for my son. I’ve told you everything I know,” I didn’t even recognize my own voice when I spoke. It was too calm. And had I been smiling? The men assured me that they were doing all they could for the time being. After asking a few more questions, they left.

My mind whirred until I was so dizzy that I had to sit down. What was wrong with me? I shifted in my seat and took my cellphone from my back pocket. I texted a few neighbors: Owen is missing. The words looked bleak on the screen. Then I leaned back and thought about my conversation with the 911 operator. I needed to piece it together before it slipped away.

“911 What’s your emergency?” the operator waited for my response.

“Yes, hi, my son is gone… I mean, he left the house this morning but then his school called me to confirm his absence. I told them-“

“How old is your son, ma’am?” I knew I was rambling, so I decided to let the operator ask the questions. “He’s ten.” “And what is your name and address?” She paused while I gave her the information. Then she asked me for my son’s name.

“Owen… Owen.” That’s about where we ended things. She reassured me and said she would send some detectives over, and I was relieved that I had already cleaned up the place. Earlier that morning I wiped the coffee table with a sock spritzed with Lysol. Then I finished mopping the living room floor with water. I didn’t use soap-the house didn’t need to smell too clean.

I mulled laments over in my mind until I felt empty. “My son is gone,” the words sounded too mechanical, “My son is gone!” too forced. I walked over to the grand armoire sitting catty-cornered in my living room and pulled the bottom drawer open. There it was. The picture of our family before it was broken. The black frame was scratched from years of being piled under other useless junk that I just couldn’t bring myself to throw away. My own face stared up at me, while Owen and my ex-husband smiled at each other. Owen had his arms wrapped around Mark’s neck and I could tell they had just been laughing at something. I must not have heard the joke. I began to feel those familiar bitter feelings rise up the back of my throat. Jealousy, pain, retribution… “My son is gone,” I gulped, “I hope he’s happy with his father.” I reached up and put the picture over the fireplace. Then that’s when I picked up the phone and called the police. It was the second time that morning that I held the phone to my ear. The first had been when Owen’s school called.

When that phone rang I felt warm blood fizz under my skin. I needed to be calm. I wasn’t supposed to know that anything was wrong. I took a deep breath and answered.

“Hi Ms. Slay, I’m calling from Hollis Elementary to confirm your son’s absence from school today,” I could hear the chipper receptionist typing during her pause.

“I’m sorry? Owen? No, he’s at school right now,” I was proud of my voice’s certainty.

“No ma’am, he’s not. That’s why I’m calling.” “Well he left for the bus this morning like he always does. Are you sure that there hasn’t been a mistake?” the words fell out of my mouth.

“There’s no mistake ma’am. Are you sure that your son isn’t at home? Or maybe playing hooky with a friend?” the receptionist’s words were hastier now.

“Maybe that’s it,” I heard myself say. I didn’t plan this far ahead. But it didn’t seem to matter to the receptionist, as she seemed to be quite relieved with my answer. I thanked her and hung up.

They noticed much sooner than I had expected. I didn’t have much time to think of how to act-how to react. I kicked the corner of the living room rug back down and hoped I had scrubbed the hardwood clean enough.