It was funny how large an apartment could seem when it hosted only the memory of a loved one than the overwhelming presence of this missing piece.
Every shadow in every corner of every room would have felt the presence of Sally Jackson's only son at least once. Trailing fingers on painted walls, the boy used to criss-cross his hands whilst he told his mother about his day in a way that he often didn't even realise what he was doing. There was just something about the way he told his stories of the school day and let his hands move across the wall... As if he was a child, again, sparks igniting in his mind so that Sally couldn't see into them except in the way that he moved. Or the way his brows furrowed when even a memory of something disconcerting met them... And the way a grin overtook all of this anxiety at the mere mention of something she said.
She saw his worried face a lot. In fact, the face that floated behind her eyes when she thought of him always wore that expression; as if it couldn't be separated from him in the same way his childish hands never trailed too far from the walls.
Or his eyes could ever burn brighter at the mention of his friends. Or Camp Half-Blood, his home away from home. Or the way she imagined his face would light up when he found the blue muffin she always left out for him when she'd left for work in the early New York morning and he was still asleep, the muggy air not disturbing the sleepy teenager. She saw that smile every time she cooked something blue. Gosh, that kid loved blue things.
She laughed to herself. And suddenly, the silence of playing out her own memories, was suddenly broken... As if the illusion of happiness had been broken in that instance, and she'd realised what day it was, and where he was. Or wasn't. No idea. No Iris-messages. No nothing. Just August 18th, and no Percy stealing her toast and claiming he could do so just because it was his birthday.
The sob built up in her throat just like the foam had touched his feet when he'd been young and she'd taken him to the beach to celebrate, and sand had clung to his toes and lost itself in his hair, and sea shells magically turned up in his pockets as if they were alive and wanted to be... near him. She wanted to be near him.
Oh god, she wanted to be near him. To know where he was. Whether he was okay.
Blinking back her tears, she wondered on and on, worries gnawing at her empty stomach, the lonely mother fearing the worst for her missing son.
No Annabeth coming to her house to cry with her, to tell her of any impending news... It was like they'd been torn off the face of the earth. Like everyone who might know something was gone, and whilst Paul, already at work, could talk to her, calm her, and she loved him... being there, all she wanted was her son back.
18 today. August 18th.
And he wasn't turning up in his doorframe, hair sticky-uppy from sleep, pouring himself cereal, and feigning surprise when the milk had magically turned blue, eye spying the empty food colouring bottles in the bin and winking at his mom. His mom. Her son.
Sally looked at her watch, saw the summer sun rising high in the sky, and turned on her heels to exit her home, knowing if she didn't leave now, she'd be late. She wiped her eyes, patted down her hair, and hitched her bag higher on her shoulder as she walked towards the door. But halfway there, she turned. Sensing something she knew was silly, she drew out a blue muffin from her bag and set it on the table, hoping against all hope, like she did everyday, that it'd be eaten, a bite taken out of it when she got home.
Oh gods, if only it disappeared when she got home.