I woke before the alarm.
For a few seconds, I didn't remember why I had gone to bed with the telephone on the bedside table.
Then I saw it.
The room was dim, and the house was still.
I listened.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No telephone ringing.
I got up and went to the kitchen.
The floor felt cold beneath my feet.
I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then took two plates from the cupboard.
I had already decided what breakfast would be.
Pancakes again.
Not because pancakes could fix anything, but because they were familiar and easy to share.
I measured the flour into a bowl.
I cracked the eggs one at a time.
The small sounds made the kitchen feel less empty.
While the batter rested, I checked the telephone.
There was no message from Amber.
I stood holding it longer than necessary.
Then I set it down and continued cooking.
The first pancake came out uneven.
The second was better.
I stacked them on a plate and covered them with a clean towel to keep them warm.
When I heard footsteps in the hallway, I turned.
Bentley appeared in the doorway.
His hair stuck up on one side.
He had changed his shirt but was still wearing the same pajama bottoms.
“Morning,” I said.
He looked at the stove.
“You made pancakes.”
“I did.”
“Like yesterday?”
“Pretty much.”
He stepped into the kitchen and glanced toward the counter.
His eyes found the telephone before they found the plates.
“Did Mom call?”
“No, sweetheart.”
He nodded, then looked down.
I could see him trying to hide his disappointment.
I wanted to tell him that a quiet telephone didn't mean his mother had forgotten him.
But I couldn't prove that.
So I turned back to the stove.
“Would you like some breakfast?”
He hesitated.
“Can I take some for Maddie?”
“Of course. But first, you can have yours.”
“I can wait.”
“You don't need to wait.”
He looked at me, uncertain.
I put two pancakes on his plate and set it at the table.
Then I put two more on a smaller plate for Maddie.
Bentley watched me pour a little syrup over his food.
He picked up his fork but didn't begin eating.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I sat across from him.
“Bentley.”
He looked up.
“You're allowed to eat your breakfast without checking whether everybody else has enough.”
His fingers tightened around the fork.
“I just want to make sure.”
“I know.”
I slid the smaller plate toward the counter.
“Maddie's breakfast is ready. I'll take it to her when she wakes up.”
He glanced toward the bedroom.
“Will you wake her?”
“No. Let her sleep a little longer.”
He studied the pancakes.
Then he cut off a small piece and ate it.
He chewed slowly.
After a moment, he took another bite.
I tried not to watch him too closely.
There was something painful about seeing a child hesitate over food that had been put in front of him freely.
He had spent too long measuring every piece against the possibility that there might not be another.
When he finished one pancake, he looked at the plate.
“Can I have another?”
“Yes.”
The answer came so quickly that he looked surprised.
I placed another pancake on his plate.
He ate it while it was still warm.
I poured myself some tea and sat down again.
For a little while, we spoke about ordinary things.
He told me that Maddie liked her pancakes cut into little squares.
He told me she didn't like the syrup touching the edges because it made them sticky.
He told me she sometimes insisted that the smallest piece was the biggest one.
I smiled at that.
“That sounds like a three-year-old.”
“She says she's not little anymore.”
“They all say that.”
He smiled briefly.
It was the first real smile I had seen from him since the previous morning.
Then he seemed to remember something and looked toward the telephone again.
I didn't tell him not to.
I was watching it too.
After breakfast, he carried his plate to the sink.
I told him he could leave it on the table.
He shook his head.
“I can wash it.”
“You can, but you don't have to.”
“I don't mind.”
I recognized the words.
This time, I didn't let them pass without answering.
“Bentley, you don't have to earn your place here by doing chores.”
He stopped with the plate in his hands.
“I wasn't.”
“I know you may not mean it that way. But you can let me take care of things, too.”
He looked down at the plate.
Then he placed it beside the sink.
“All right.”
I washed it while he dried his hands.
He stood nearby, waiting for the next instruction.
I gave him none.
After a while, he wandered to the window.
He looked out at the street, then back at the kitchen.
“Do you think we should go home?”
I dried my hands.
“Do you want to go home?”
He considered it.
“I want Mom to be there.”
“I understand.”
“But she's not.”
“No,” I said gently. “We don't know when she'll be back.”
He pressed his fingertips against the windowsill.
“I keep thinking maybe she'll be in the kitchen.”
I looked toward the telephone.
I imagined him opening his own front door each morning and hoping to see Amber standing there.
I imagined him checking the rooms, the kitchen, and the place where the blue jar sat.
Then I imagined him having to return to the same empty house and begin another day.
“That's a hard thing to keep hoping for,” I said.
He nodded.
“I don't want to stop hoping.”
“You don't have to.”
He turned toward me.
“Even if you don't know?”
“Even if I don't know.”
For a moment, he seemed to accept that.
Then he asked whether I could make sure the telephone was loud enough to hear.
I told him I would.
He walked to the old chair and sat down.
His backpack remained on the floor beside it.
He pulled the straps into his lap and began smoothing them between his fingers.
I wondered what he had packed.
I knew there were school things inside, but I hadn't looked.
I wasn't going to search through his belongings just because I was worried.
If he wanted to tell me what was in there, he could.
For now, I let him sit with it.
I returned to the kitchen and checked the telephone once more.
Still nothing.
The morning light had begun to spread across the table.
I made another cup of tea, though I barely drank it.
I knew I couldn't keep waiting for the telephone to solve everything.
I also knew I couldn't force an answer to come simply because the children needed one.
There was a difference between waiting passively and continuing to seek help.
I had to remember that.
Bentley lifted his head from the backpack.
“Arlene?”
“Yes?”
“If Mom calls, can I talk to her first?”
“Of course.”
He looked down again.
“Even if she's upset?”
I walked over and sat in the chair beside him.
“Even then.”
He nodded.
I didn't tell him there was nothing to worry about.
I couldn't know that.
I only told him that he would not have to face the call alone.
PART 11 END
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: When Bentley Asked Whether He Could Keep the Blue Jar Near Him, I Realized He Was Still Waiting for the Promise His Mother Had Left Behind
I Thought My Neighbor’s Boy Just Needed a Bathroom, Until One Quiet Morning Revealed What He Had Been Hiding
Part 11 of 20
