By the time evening came, the house had settled into a familiar rhythm.
Maddie played on the rug.
Bentley sat at the table with his backpack beside the old chair.
The blue jar remained near the middle of the table.
The telephone sat on the kitchen counter, close enough for me to hear.
We had kept asking questions.
We had written down the information we received.
We had explained what Bentley knew and what he did not know.
But we still did not have the answer we needed.
I couldn't tell the children when Amber would return.
I couldn't tell them what had happened during the days when she hadn't called.
I couldn't tell them whether the next telephone call would finally explain everything.
I could only keep doing what I had promised.
That evening, I made soup and warmed some bread.
Bentley helped put the bowls on the table.
Maddie insisted on carrying her own spoon.
She dropped it once, then laughed when I picked it up.
Bentley started to get out of his chair.
I looked at him.
He stopped.
I handed Maddie a clean spoon.
She accepted it and returned to her seat.
Bentley watched her for a moment.
Then he sat down again.
We ate together.
Maddie talked about her toys.
Bentley asked whether there would be pancakes for breakfast.
I told him there probably would be.
He smiled.
The smile was small, but it didn't disappear immediately.
After dinner, Maddie wanted to play with the toy telephone.
She carried it around the living room, pretending to call different people.
She called me.
She called Bentley.
She called a stuffed animal.
Then she pressed it to her ear and said, “Hello, Mommy.”
Bentley went still.
Maddie listened to the toy for a moment.
Then she said, “I'm eating dinner.”
She paused.
“Arlene made soup.”
She listened again.
Then she smiled and ran back toward her toys.
Bentley looked down at his hands.
I sat beside him.
“What are you thinking about?”
He shrugged.
“I wish it was real.”
“I know.”
“I wish Mom could hear her.”
I put my hand on the table.
“Me, too.”
He took a breath.
“I don't know what I'll say when she calls.”
“You don't have to decide that now.”
“What if I forget everything?”
“You can start by telling her you miss her.”
He looked at me.
“And then?”
“Then you can tell her whatever you want her to know.”
He considered that.
“What if I cry?”
“Then you cry.”
He seemed surprised by the answer.
“That's okay?”
“Of course.”
He looked toward the hallway.
“I haven't cried in front of Maddie.”
“You don't have to hide every feeling from her.”
“But she'll be scared.”
“She might have questions. You can answer them honestly, and I can help you.”
He rubbed his palms against his knees.
“I don't want her to think something bad happened.”
“We don't know what happened,” I reminded him. “We can be honest about that without deciding the worst.”
He nodded.
Then he leaned back in the chair.
“I miss Mom.”
The words came out simply.
No explanation followed them.
No apology.
No promise that he would be fine.
I felt something in me soften.
“I know you do.”
He looked at the blue jar.
“I miss her singing.”
“I remember you telling me about that.”
“I miss when she makes pancakes.”
“We'll keep making them.”
He gave a faint smile.
“They aren't the same.”
“No,” I said. “They aren't.”
He seemed relieved that I didn't argue.
We sat quietly until Maddie came over and climbed into his lap.
He wrapped his arms around her.
She rested her head against his chest.
“Where's Mommy?” she asked.
Bentley looked at me.
I let him decide whether he wanted to answer.
He took a slow breath.
“We don't know yet, Maddie.”
She looked up at him.
“But we're trying to find her?”
“Yes,” he said. “Arlene is helping us.”
Maddie considered that.
Then she settled against him again.
“Okay.”
Bentley held her for a moment longer.
When she got down, he didn't follow her immediately.
He remained at the table, looking at the blue jar.
“Arlene?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for helping us.”
I reached across the table and rested my hand over his.
“You don't have to thank me for helping you.”
“I want to.”
I let him have that.
After a moment, he asked, “Can I keep coming to your house?”
The question surprised me, though it shouldn't have.
He had been coming every morning for the bathroom, water, and something small to eat.
He had turned that ordinary routine into the place where he could find help when he didn't know what else to do.
“Of course you can come to me when you need help,” I said. “You don't have to wait until something is wrong, either.”
He looked down.
“Even if I'm just hungry?”
“Even if you're just hungry.”
“Even if Maddie wants crackers?”
“Even then.”
He nodded.
I could see that he was trying to believe me.
I couldn't expect him to trust everything immediately.
He had spent days believing that he needed to keep the situation hidden to protect his sister.
He had learned to be cautious because he was afraid of what might happen if he asked the wrong person for help.
I would have to show him, through ordinary days and repeated actions, that asking for help did not make him a burden.
I would have to keep my promises in the small ways that were possible.
I could make breakfast.
I could answer the telephone.
I could keep asking questions.
I could tell the truth, even when the truth was that I didn't know.
And I could make sure the children were not left to manage everything alone while the adults worked to find answers.
Later, I helped Maddie get ready for bed.
Bentley chose a story and read it to her.
He stumbled over a few words, and she corrected him even when she was wrong.
He laughed.
For a little while, their room sounded like a room where children lived rather than a place where two frightened children were waiting for their mother.
When Maddie was asleep, Bentley came into the kitchen.
The telephone remained on the counter.
The blue jar remained on the table.
He looked at both.
Then he sat down in the old chair.
“Did it ring?” he asked.
“No.”
He nodded.
He didn't look pleased.
He didn't look surprised.
He simply accepted the answer.
I sat across from him.
“I'm going to keep the telephone close tonight,” I told him. “If your mother calls, I'll answer. If we learn anything else, I'll tell you.”
He looked at me.
“And if we don't?”
“Then we'll keep taking the next step.”
He was quiet for a long time.
Finally, he nodded.
“All right.”
I watched him sit there, his hands resting on the arms of the chair.
He was still ten years old.
He still missed his mother.
He still wanted an answer that I could not give him.
But he no longer had to pretend that he could carry the whole situation by himself.
I stood and put the remaining bread away.
Then I checked the kitchen one last time.
The blue jar was safe.
The telephone was within reach.
The children's blankets were ready.
There was food for breakfast.
None of those things could tell me when Amber would come home.
None of them could explain why the calls had stopped.
But they were things I could do while I continued seeking the answer.
Bentley rose from the chair and walked toward the hallway.
At the doorway, he turned back.
“Good night, Arlene.”
“Good night, Bentley.”
He went to bed without asking whether everything would be fine tomorrow.
I watched him disappear down the hall.
Then I turned off the kitchen light, leaving the small light in the hallway on.
I had no neat ending to give the children.
I had no date to circle on a calendar.
I had no message from Amber explaining the silence.
What I had was a ten-year-old boy who had finally admitted he was tired, a three-year-old girl who still expected her mother to sing to her, and a promise I could keep one day at a time.
I would keep asking questions.
I would keep answering when the telephone rang.
And until we knew what had happened to Amber, I would make sure Bentley and Maddie had someone beside them while they waited.
PART 20 END
The End
Read more original stories on Feel Every Story.
I Thought My Neighbor’s Boy Just Needed a Bathroom, Until One Quiet Morning Revealed What He Had Been Hiding
Part 20 of 20
One Comment on “PART 20 – I Could Not Promise Bentley When His Mother Would Come Home, but I Could Finally Show Him That He No Longer Had to Face the Waiting Alone”