Chapter 2

Next thing I knew it was already morning and I wasn't in the old Rover anymore. I wasn't even in my house, surrounded by familiar smells and familiar faces. I was with dad at the police station sitting on a chair with one leg shorter than the rest. I had my arms tightly crossed across my chest and I yawned, tired to the bone.

I lifted my head only when the man across this small desk started staring and asking my father if I was OK.

We haven't slept, my father told the man. What was his name, I wondered. I hadn't bothered remembering.

It was true, what my father said, for the most part. It was true for him because he really hadn't closed his eyes even just to let them rest. I don't think I saw him blink a lot, actually. It was only partially true for me because although I didn't sleep - as in, fell unconscious - I felt in a constant state of haziness. Most of the time I wasn't sure whether I was just imagining the things that went on around me, or if it was all brutally real.

Of course, the man said sympathetically.

I didn't like his voice. It was something very artificial, almost synthetic. Listening to him talk was like listening to recorded telemarketing calls, or like dealing with the cashier guy at the Pricesmart. OK, I knew he was doing his job. I knew it was his part to be shitty and phony; that's what he got paid for. But I just wanted so badly to tell him not to bother; my mother was dead and there was nothing his overall shitty and phony voice could do about it.

There was only one thing I was interested in.

Have you found her body? I asked.

I felt, more than saw, the tensing of my father's body after I spoke. Sitting there by his side, so close yet so far away, anyone would have felt compelled to step away from that foul air all about him.

The man from across the desk, the Family Liaison Officer whose name I didn't give a shit about, shifted uncomfortably and planted his palms on the desk as he spoke to me, very slowly, like I was five and he needed to treat me as if I didn't understand a thing.

We have no indications so far that anything bad happened to your mother, he said. We're doing all we can to find her. I'm sure she is fine.

In my heart, I knew that my father wanted to believe these words. He wasn't like me. He didn't get the same feelings my mother and I got from time to time. Even if he knew this officer was full of it and disliked him even more than me, a part of him that he never let anybody see wanted to hope for the best. I felt bad for him. If only I could have explained to him what I knew… maybe things would have happened differently after we left the station.

There's just a few things I need to make sure I do before I let you out, the man smiled.

He gave us pamphlets. Told us of procedures, names, people who were involved in the investigation of my mother's disappearance. He asked my father again if he knew people that might want to hurt him or his family. To my surprise, when my father said that he didn't know anyone that would want that, the officer didn't believe him.

Come on, he said. We're in confidence here. I assure you, as a favor, anything you say here-

I said, my father grounded out. I don't know anyone that would want to hurt us.

The way the officer looked at my father, like he was trying to figure out his way around a tricky move in a chess match, made me wonder if maybe there was something my father was hiding. This feeling of ignorance wasn't too strange for me, when it came to my father. He'd always been the unknowable type. But at that moment when I felt as if there was an unspoken secret hanging between us three, above the cluttered desk, it was a whole new level of uncomfortable for me.

What do you know? my father asked.

The officer seemed to debate with himself, wondering whether my father was challenging him to say whatever he had on him in front of his fourteen year old son, or if he was just asking about the investigation.

Nothing concrete, the officer said, settling for something vague enough, but with a tone of arrogance, as if he knew it all. It was a compromise with himself; let it pass and allow the stench of his crap in the open for a while, and then he'd be back searching for something more incriminating.

Have you questioned the people at the retirement home? my father wanted to know.

The officer was reluctant to say anything more.

As I said, he repeated, we've nothing concrete yet. But yes; we are questioning everyone who might offer helpful information. We're doing everything in our power-

Yes, I know, my father said with a tone of boredom and exasperation.

I could understand that being in his position wasn't pleasant in the least. Ignorance is like an endless field of darkness where, if you find yourself standing, the emptiness overtakes you. Blurs the lines of reality. Fucks up your world.

Look here, Lon'qu, the officer began again, but my father wasn't in the mood for it anymore. Neither was I. Imagine how it was for me, sitting there, rocking back and forth and trying to ignore the visible bit of a picture that had partially slid out of a folder in front of the officer. There was nothing to be got from that sliver of picture, except for a patch of wet-looking earth. Mud. And a tinge of red in a murky puddle.

My father hadn't taken notice of this at all, he was so focused on glaring daggers at the officer. But again, in my heart I knew where this place was. I'd been there with my mother, just a few nights ago. I felt a chill just glancing at that picture. I could feel it all over again - the cold sweat, the rain, the dark, all on my skin all over again. I was left breathless by that shadow's grip on my neck… I was so distracted with these dreadful sensations I missed most of what my father had said. All I caught was when he was already standing and telling the officer not to call again until he found his wife.

Get up, my father told me, but didn't wait for me to get out of that stuffy office.

Coming out of that room I met the same grey, weary faces I'd seen when first arriving at the station. There was a girl that I thought I recognized, but it was only my imagination. She was sitting on what I guessed must have been the most uncomfortable chair in the world, judging by the look of misery all over her face. I stared for a little while, as I passed by her side. She looked not much older than me, maybe two years at most. She caught my eyes and flashed me a sultry smile, all glossy lips and perfectly white teeth. She tried reaching to touch my hand but she forgot she was handcuffed to the chair's arm and there was a small tinkle of metal against metal.

She was embarrassed for a moment, as was I, but she shrugged it off and winked at me. At this point I was almost at the exit doors. Awkwardly, I waved good-bye.

My father wasn't exactly happy to see me sort of interacting with this teenage prostitute. He and mom had this unspoken rule about strangers and talking to them. This was not the same rule that all parents give to their kids when they're young and foolish; this was harsher and more paranoid. I remember that when I was younger I used to think that we were on the run. It was only obvious for me to come to such a conclusion because my parents used to ask me all the time about my day at school. Who did I meet, what did they look like, what did they want and, did they have a car, did I see the plate number?

This was fun for a while. I felt like a spy, like an outlaw. I felt cool. I started wearing my shirts' collars upturned whenever I could, although mom would always fix it again, despite how amused this made her. She stopped being entertained by this when a teacher of mine told her that I was violating school uniform policy, this during fifth grade. After that I only pretended to be some sort of criminal at home and with my friends outside of school. It was for the best.

The only other person who knew of the unspoken rule about strangers and the paranoia was my friend Owain. We had been together since first grade. We did all sorts of things together, talked about everything and anything. We formed part of a bigger group of friends, of five people, but even within groups of friends there are other inner groups. There was, in our small clique throughout the years, Inigo and Lucina for example. They were siblings and they stuck close to each other. They weren't best friends by any means, but they lived under the same roof, so naturally they knew things about each other that didn't need to be spoken aloud between them.

Inigo had this boyish smile that he always waved around like a red cape, wanting to tease girls into compliance. Just as it was natural though, he always got the horns. Lucina was perhaps his only female friend. But even then there was a wall in between. I knew that the distance had something to do with their father's expectations of each, but even if I'd wanted to say something about it, the problem never seemed so grave that it actually merited my butting in. It was normal for siblings to have rivalries, anyway. And it's not that I had anything against Inigo, but there was no way he could go up against Lucy to snatch away his father's attention. We all knew it; Lucy was her daddy's girl.

Then, you had me and Owain. We were friends in and out of school. Our mothers knew each other. And even though Owain was Inigo's and Lucy's cousin, it never really felt like they were related at all. I'd go as far as saying he was more family to me than to them. It felt like Owain and I were always together. Just the two of us, together apart from the others, and in some ways in spite of the others as well. So what if we got teased for acting like superheros or rockstars or spies? We were cool - this we knew and anybody who told us otherwise was jealous and lame.

That makes two inner groups in our clique, but strangely the third inner party consisted of only one person. There was a kid, quiet and introverted, whose name nobody outside our group knew how to pronounce. Yarne came from god knows where. Not for lack of trying but, we never found out where he used to live before transferring schools. We also didn't know what to make of him. The only certain things about him were these: He was an easy target for bullies and we needed to keep him in our group, for his own safety and self-esteem. He was just so terribly shy, so insecure in all that he did, but quiet enough that we didn't mind keeping him around.

Of all these people it was only Owain who knew about my feelings. Those fleeting sensations, soft and brief.

It was like this: I told him about the unspoken rule one day. The matter simply bubbled up to my lips, it was that easy to speak with Owain. We'd been at his house, inside his room, and I was toying with his magic 8-ball, trying to think of things to ask that I didn't already knew.

That's a bit creepy, Owaid said after I told him of my parents' almost obsessively insistent questions about the people I knew.

I think they're just worried, I told him. You know, like all parents are.

My parents don't ask me about plate numbers, Owain said and I fell silent. I thought about this for a moment, but didn't feel like questioning too much.

What do you wanna know? Owain asked and took the 8-ball from my hands. He seemed to trust that toy a lot.

I don't know, I shrugged. It's probably not gonna tell me anything I couldn't guess on my own though.

Oh yeah? You can see the future?

I laughed at this. No, I told him. I couldn't see the future, but I knew more than most. It wasn't so hard actually, all you had to do was close your eyes and open your heart a bit. It was easy. Though… not so much really; just like trying to open a tuna can with a rusted can opener. A bit challenging, but it could be done.

So, can you tell me, Owain said, the winning numbers for the lottery?

I could try, I told him. I could get you numbers, but I can't guarantee it'll be for the lottery. Could be an address. A phone number. Or a date. It doesn't depend on me. I don't control what I get.

There was a moment of silence. Owain stared at me a little curiously, maybe he was waiting for me to start laughing and making fun of him because he was actually considering that I might just be serious.

Finally, he said, Woah, you're not kidding? You actually know these things?

Well, I murmured, depends on what you mean by knowledge. It's not like I can instantly know what it is that I see, or what I hear, or smell, or feel. It takes a bit to figure out. It's not so hard when I get stuff from mom though.

Owain became even more confused by this last part.

I tried explaining that these foreign feelings weren't always so foreign. I could sense my mother behind some of the messages. Things that came from her were… warm, loving, bright, but also a bit melancholic. It was a very distinctive feel. A personal identification of her heart.

Like telepathy, Owain guessed enthusiastically.

Yeah, I shrugged again. Like that. Except that I don't hear her voice. Sounds, yes, but sometimes I have difficulty distinguishing sounds from colors or shapes, or movement. You know; images, motion.

That's weird, Owain said. How can you not know the difference between a color and a shape? There's like… a whole world of difference between those two things.

Well, I said. I guess that wherever I get these feelings from, it must be a very bizarre place. Where things are like that. Where you can hear shapes and taste colors, maybe.

Dude, Owain laughed. That's crazy talk.

Was it really crazy though? It didn't feel that way for me. Mom told me that some people had tried convincing her that she was in fact a bit nuts. Who these people were, she never told me. But she did make sure that I understood one thing. That we weren't bad, or strange, or different. We were just, as she put it, more receptive and understanding.

It's why I like your father, she told me once. I like knowing these things. It makes me feel more confident where others would feel hopeless. But, you know, it's not so good to be a know-it-all all the time. For me, life is like a video game. Like I can see the stats and calculate outcomes, sort of… You never know when the RNG will be in the mood for something funky. Anyway, what I mean is, your father gives me that sense of mystery that I needed. He's hard to read, isn't he?

Yeah, I told her. Sometimes it was hard to know whether he was really there. Such was the silence of his heart. Did he even have one? Sometimes I doubted it.

Don't say that, my mother defended him. Of course he has a heart. It's just a bit hard to find at times.

Where could it be? I wondered aloud. It wasn't like he could just reach inside his chest and take out the bloody thing, lock it in a box and throw the key away.

I don't think you know what kind of heart I'm talking about, is what my mother said.

As I walked out of the police station and saw that no, the world outside wasn't less grey than the inside of the building, I thought I finally understood what mom had said about the heart. If the heart were an inside thing, like the organ, then I wouldn't have been able to feel my mother in the smell of dust as I got inside dad's car again. My mother would have been nothing more than an inert piece of flesh, rotting away, still as stone and unable to whisper to me with soundless words of the clouds of dust that trailed after her and dad as they rode by an endless desert, once under a clear blue sky.

Put your seat belt on, my father said out of habit not noticing that I'd already done that.

I sat in silence hoping to receive something else, almost willing it to come back to me. But that wasn't how it worked. I couldn't just ask and receive. Sometimes I could go whole months without a feeling and I almost didn't notice, but now that mom was gone I was desperate for scraps of her. So desperate in fact that I didn't notice five minutes had gone by and dad hadn't even started the car.

Looking at him, I got nothing. As per usual. It was a bit amusing how he could make himself invisible like that. He had this strange ability to turn the lights off. In my head I always had some kind of light alerting me of people's presence, or other things, but dad could just flip a switch and poof. Nothing. Emptiness. Desolation.

Why did you ask if your mother is dead?

I was considering correcting him. I hadn't asked it. I knew it. What I asked was, Where was her body? I didn't say it though. I had a feeling it probably wouldn't be a good idea. It might have been cruel, or maybe just plain stupid, but I didn't want dad to know mom was dead just yet.

I shifted in my seat and looked out the window at the hard concrete sidewalk.

I don't know, I muttered.

She's not dead, my father told me. I'll find her.

I bit my lips. I was tempted to tell him. He sounded so determined though. I wondered if he really meant it. And wistfully I allowed myself to believe that if somebody could find where she was, it was dad.

I nodded absently and rummaged through a dozen pieces of paper in the glove box. I knew which lists where old, so it was easy to find the last one mom had made before she had left for the weekend to visit grandpa at the retirement home.

Can we drop by the Pricesmart? I asked tentatively. To buy groceries.

A/N: I forgot to mention; even though the tags say Murder Mystery, and that is the driving plot, this is mostly a family thing. A father-son thing. A growing up thing. A feeling out-of-place thing.

Next Chapter: Morgan. A lot more Morgan XD