Ghosted

“But?”

“But they’re filming in the city again.”

“And you’re worried he’ll show up? Worried he’ll try to see her again?”

My father motions past me, at where Maddie is still running around in the rain. I smile softly, as she twirls, oblivious that she’s the topic of conversation.

“Or are you worried he won’t?” he continues. “Worried he gave up and moved on?”

Maybe, I think, but I don’t say it. I don’t know which possibility worries me more. I’m terrified he’ll force his way into her life and break her heart with his brokenness like he once broke mine. But at the same time, the thought that he might’ve given up scares me just as much, because that’ll hurt her someday, too.

The rain starts falling harder as I mull over those thoughts. Maddie is running circles around the puddles, soaked. Water streaks her face like falling tears, but she’s smiling, so happy, ignorant to my fears.

“I should get going,” I say. “Before the storm gets any worse.”

“Go on, then,” my father says, “but don’t think I haven’t noticed you didn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah, well, you know how it is,” I mumble, leaning down to kiss my father’s cheek before grabbing the backpack from the porch. “Maddie, time to go home, sweetheart!”

Maddie runs for the car, yelling, “Bye, Grandpa!”

“Bye, kiddo,” he calls out. “See you tomorrow.”

Waving goodbye to my father, I follow her. She’s already buckled up when I get in the car.

My eyes seek her out in the rearview mirror. Tendrils of her dark hair fall into her face. She tries to blow them away, her blue eyes watching me. She has a way of looking at you like she’s looking through you, like she can see how you’re feeling on the inside, those things you try not to let show. It’s unnerving sometimes. For being so young, she’s quite intuitive.

Which is why I plaster a smile on my face, but I can tell she doesn’t buy it.

Home is a small two-bedroom apartment a few blocks away. It’s not much, but it’s enough for us, and it’s what I can afford, so you’ll hear no complaints from me. As soon as I open the front door, Maddie takes off through the apartment.

“Straight into the bathtub!” I shout, locking up behind me. I flick on the hallway light as I make my way to the bathroom, passing Maddie’s bedroom as I go, seeing she’s rooting through her dresser, looking for the perfect pair of pajamas.

She’s fiercely independent.

Something she got from her father.

“I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready!” she says as she runs into the bathroom when I get the water started. Shoving between the bathtub and me, she grabs the pink bottle of bubbles and squeezes some under the faucet, giggling, as always, when they start to form. “I got this, Mommy.”

I take a step back. “You got this?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, not looking at me, fixated on the filling bathtub. She sets the bottle of bubbles down on the floor near her feet before turning the knobs, shutting off the water. “I got this.”

Like I said… independent.

“Well, go on then. Do your thing.”

I don’t close the door, but I give her some leeway, keeping an eye on her from outside the bathroom. I can hear her splashing, playing in even more water, like the rain hadn’t quite been enough. I use the time to gather up laundry, trying to distract myself, but it’s pointless.

My mind keeps going back to him.

I sort two weeks worth of dirty clothes into piles on my bedroom floor. Every time I pause, my eyes flicker to my closet, drawn to the old ratty box on the top shelf. I can’t see it from here, but I know it’s there.

I haven’t thought about it in a while. I haven’t had a reason. Life has a way of burying memories.

In my case, they’re buried under a mountain of other junk in the closet.

I fight it, for a moment, but the pull is too much. Abandoning the laundry, I step straight for the closet, digging out the box.

The cardboard rips when I yank it down, falling apart in my hands. Things scatter around the floor. A picture lands by my feet.

I carefully pick it up.

It’s him.

He’s wearing his school uniform… or as much of it as he ever wore. No sweater, no jacket, and no dress shoes, of course. His white button down is unbuttoned, the tie draped around his neck. Beneath it, he’s wearing a plain black t-shirt. His hands are in his pockets, his head cocked to the side. He almost looks like a model, like the picture belongs in a magazine.

A knot forms in my chest. It’s suffocating. I can feel the anger and sadness bitterly brewing inside of me, growing stronger as the years go on. My eyes burn with tears, and I don’t want to cry, but the sight of him takes me back.