Chương 1
"“Mom, Gideon left me here,” Leo said, and for several seconds I could hear nothing except the automatic doors of a grocery store opening and closing behind him.
I was standing in the hallway outside my mother’s apartment in Chicago with a black funeral dress folded over one arm and her apartment key cutting into my palm.
“What do you mean, left you there?”
“I’m at Keller’s Market.”
His voice was small and careful, the way he sounded when he believed adults were already angry and he was trying not to make things worse.
A man came onto the phone before I could ask another question.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Alan Cho, I manage the store.”
He lowered his voice.
“Your son has been sitting on the bench outside since a little after four.”
I looked at the time.
It was nearly seven.
Alan continued, “One of my cashiers brought him inside because he kept saying he was waiting for someone, but nobody came.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“He’s supposed to be in South Carolina with my husband.”
There was a pause.
“Ma’am, he says he’s been home alone.”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
My mother’s neighbor was coming toward me carrying a casserole dish covered in foil, speaking about refrigerator space, but her words passed through the air without reaching me.
“How long?”
Alan hesitated.
“Your son says six days.”
I put the funeral dress on the floor.
“Put Leo back on.”
A rustling sound followed, then my son whispered, “Mom?”
“Sweetheart, listen to me.”
My voice came out sharper than I intended, and I made myself soften it.
“You are not in trouble.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
I pressed my free hand against the wall.
“You need to hear me say it.”
He did not answer.
“Leo, you are not in trouble.”
“Okay.”
“Where is Gideon?”
“At the beach.”
“With Roger and Camila?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Six days earlier, I had stood in our kitchen in Columbus with my suitcase open on a chair while Gideon made coffee and complained that I had packed too many shoes for a funeral.
My mother had died before dawn from a stroke so sudden that the hospital nurse had initially called me from her phone because they had not yet found my number in her chart.
Our family vacation was supposed to begin the next morning.
I had offered to take Leo with me to Chicago.
Gideon had wrapped one arm around my shoulders and said, “Absolutely not.”
He had sounded almost offended.
“You go handle your mom.”
He kissed my temple.
“I’ve got all three kids.”
I had believed him because believing him had been easier than examining the tiny reasons I sometimes did not.
Now I asked Leo, “When did they leave?”
“Saturday morning.”
Today was Thursday.
“What did Gideon tell you?”
“That I could stay here.”
My stomach contracted.
“Stay where?”
“At home.”
“By yourself?”
Another pause.
“He said I was old enough if I didn’t do anything dumb.”
I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the carpet.
My mother’s neighbor stopped beside me.
Her casserole remained balanced in both hands.
“What happened?”
I raised one finger because I could not explain it yet.
“Leo, did Gideon leave you food?”
“Some.”
“What kind?”
“Cereal.”
He breathed through his nose.
“And frozen pizza.”
“Anything else?”
“There was money.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where?”
“The blue jar.”
I pictured the ceramic jar beside our microwave, the one shaped like an old milk bottle.
We used it for loose bills, school fundraiser money, and the occasional twenty Gideon forgot in his pockets.
“Have you been eating?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
“What did you eat today?”
Silence.
“Leo.”
“I had crackers.”
“For breakfast?”
“No.”
His voice shrank.
“For lunch.”
“What did you have for breakfast?”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
I pressed my knuckles against my mouth.
The hallway smelled like onions and cream of mushroom soup.
Somewhere downstairs, a vacuum cleaner started.
Normal life continued with breathtaking rudeness.
“How did you get to the grocery store?”
“I walked.”
Keller’s was almost a mile from our house.
There were two major intersections between our subdivision and the shopping center.
“Why?”
“I needed milk.”
That almost broke me more than anything else.
My eight-year-old had not gone searching for help.
He had gone shopping.
“How much money do you have left?”
“Three dollars and some coins.”
“Leo, I need you to give Mr. Cho the phone again.”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For bothering you.”
The words entered me quietly.
There was no dramatic crash, no instant scream.
Something simply separated inside my chest.
“You could never bother me by calling when you need me.”
“Gideon said you were already sad.”
I stared at my mother’s apartment door.
“What else did Gideon say?”
“That if I called you, you’d come home.”
“I would.”
“He said then Roger and Camila would have to come home too.”
Leo swallowed close to the receiver.
“And everybody would know it was because of me.”
I stopped trying to breathe normally.
My mother’s neighbor set the casserole on the floor and crouched beside me.
Her hand touched my shoulder.
I barely felt it.
“Did he tell you not to call?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you what to say if I called you?”
Leo was quiet long enough that I knew the answer.
“Sweetheart.”
“He said to say I was having fun.”
I thought of the messages.
Monday evening, while I signed paperwork at the funeral home, Gideon had written, Leo destroyed Roger at mini golf.
Tuesday afternoon, he had written, Your boy has discovered shrimp tacos.
Yesterday, when I asked to speak to Leo, Gideon had replied, He crashed early after swimming all day.
Leo’s own texts had been shorter.
I ate dinner, Mom.
Everything’s okay.
I had thought grief was making him withdrawn.
“Did Gideon write those texts for you?”
May you like
“No.”
Leo sounded frightened now.
