Pancake Day: A Kintsugi Companion Piece
Tocktocktock.
Three quick raps, then the door opened, just as it did every Saturday. The sweet smell of pancakes and frying bacon billowed warmly in.
"Wake up, Erik! It's Pancake Day!" Her cheery sing-song filled his room.
She knew it was wrong before the last syllables left her lips. Blankets on the floor. Empty bed.
"Erik? Honey?" Tentatively, as though she were an uninvited guest, she tiptoed to his bed. Maybe he was just underneath, hiding. He did that sometimes. "Are we playing hide-and-seek?"
But he was eight, now. A big boy. Only the week before, he looked at her with those preternaturally adult eyes and told her he was too old for baby games. Such a reversal, so soon, seemed utterly unlike him. Still, the bed was empty.
"Okay. I'm looking for you!"
Erik was such a slender boy. He could hide in the oddest of places. But he wasn't in his closet. Or any of the closets. Or under the desks. Or behind them. And it didn't feel right. Her pace quickened, as did her breath and her heartbeat.
"Young man, you can just come out, right now," she snapped, clearly ready to brook no funny business. "It's time for breakfast and you have to get started on lessons."
She stood in the kitchen as her angry foot-tapping turned to anxious pacing, and then stopped. He really was not coming. He really wasn't there. But there was nowhere else for him to be.
Unless…
She ran to the front door, bedroom slippers flapping madly.
Unlocked. Unlocked and broken. It looked closed, but a little sunlight…just a thin golden line…showed that the door sat loose in its frame. Eventually, that golden line faded as the sun rose. Erik wasn't there, and the latch was broken.
The air was glass; if she moved, it would break. She would break, and shatter into a thousand pieces. But she had to move.
"My son," she yelled into the phone's receiver. "My son…is gone!"
Someone told her to calm down. Someone was asking her questions. And then tocktocktock, there was a knock at the door, and police were telling her to calm down. But she was calm. She was as calm as a crystal vase falling to the floor.
And they were asking questions, again.
When had she seen him last?
"Last night. Bedtime."
Was he angry? Had they fought?
"No, no. We almost never fight."
Where was the father?
"Gone. Seven years ago, and not a word since."
Was anything else missing? Valuables? Electronics?
"He was the only valuable thing…" teetering on the edge of tears, glass tears that would surely slice her open if she let them fall.
Had she heard anything? Seen anything unusual?
"No. Nothing. Please, officer… My son…"
Do you mind if we take a look around?
"No…"
There are scuff marks. The latch was broken. No fingerprints. Looks professional. They were sorry; the police were sorry, ma'am. This was a kidnapping investigation, now. Did she have photographs? Medical records? Dental records?
"Yes. Here."
And she pulled out the photo album. And the room was quiet. Police and detectives stared down at the thing in the photographs.
Was this a joke?
"It is Erik. He is a special boy, officer. He isn't like other children."
At least we won't have any trouble identifying him. The detective was joking, grimacing, pulling away. Giving her their card. They would be in contact. She should see a doctor. Get a sedative, if she needed it.
She needed it, but she couldn't leave. He might come home. Any day now, her baby might come home.
Natalie sat through questionings. Her sister and concerned friends brought food she could not eat. Applied for leave from work. Paid bills as they arrived.
"Natalie, sweetie," Alisha took her firmly by the shoulders, just barely refraining from giving her a good shake. "You know I love Erik, and you know I love you. But you've got to admit he's gone." She packed as much emphasis on the word as a kindly tone would allow. "He's gone, Natalie. You've got to say goodbye."
Shards. Shards everywhere. A year to the day after that dreadful Pancake Morning, the vase finally crashed to earth.
Broken, she wept into her sister's shoulder. Broken, she returned to work. Broken, she put the house up for sale. There were too many memories, too many echoes of his beautiful voice. The cat…a family friend took her, mewling plaintively…but even the cat was too much a reminder of her lost heart.
But she never did say goodbye. He was not gone, she insisted. He would come home.
And she survived on, never really living, a ghostly glass-woman, until thirty-five years passed.
Tocktocktock.
An older man, smaller of build, but very sturdy, stood on the front porch.
"Ms. Valliere?" He displayed his badge, feeling only a little guilty about having it long after it should have been turned in…