By late afternoon, I knew I needed to make another call.
I had been waiting for a message that might never come on its own.
I couldn't let the silence decide what I did next.
Bentley was helping Maddie put her toys into a box when I returned to the kitchen.
He looked up as soon as he saw me reach for the telephone.
“Are you calling again?”
“Yes.”
“Can I stay here?”
“Of course.”
He brought the toy box closer to the table.
I dialed the hospital number I had used earlier.
While the call connected, I looked at the blue jar.
It had a small mark near the bottom, as though someone had once knocked it against the counter.
I wondered whether Amber had filled it with coins over time or put the money in all at once.
I wondered how often she had reminded Bentley where it was.
Those questions had no answers, either.
When someone answered, I explained the situation again.
I gave Amber's name and repeated what Bentley had told me about the fall at work and the surgery.
I said I was concerned because the children had not heard from her.
I tried to be as precise as possible.
I didn't want to exaggerate.
I didn't want to leave out the part that mattered most.
A ten-year-old boy and his three-year-old sister had been alone for nine days.
Their mother had told them she would contact someone if she couldn't return.
Then the calls had stopped.
I listened carefully to the response.
There were limits to what the person could tell me.
I understood that I was a neighbor, not a family member.
I understood that private information could not simply be handed to anyone who called.
But understanding the reason for a limit did not make the situation less frightening.
I asked what I should do to make sure someone understood the urgency of the children's situation.
I explained that I wasn't asking for every detail of Amber's medical care.
I needed to know how to reach the right person or how to make sure my concern was passed along appropriately.
I listened again.
I wrote down the information I was given.
I repeated it to make sure I had heard correctly.
Then I thanked the person and ended the call.
Bentley was standing beside the table.
He had put the toys away.
“Did they tell you anything?”
“They explained what they could and gave me information about how to continue asking for help.”
“Is Mom there?”
“I still don't have confirmation that I've spoken to the right person about your mom.”
His face fell.
I hated saying it.
I hated watching him take another uncertain answer and try to fit it into the small space he had left for hope.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
He shook his head.
“It's not your fault.”
The words were so familiar that I almost asked him who had taught him to say them.
Then I remembered that he had spent days trying to convince himself that everything was his fault.
Perhaps he had learned to recognize that sentence because he needed to hear it himself.
“Thank you,” I said. “But I know you're disappointed.”
He looked at the telephone.
“Can we call again?”
“Yes. We'll keep working through it.”
He nodded.
I put the number and notes in a safe place.
I didn't want to lose anything that might help us continue.
Then I turned back to Bentley.
“Would you like something to eat?”
He looked puzzled.
“Again?”
“You can have something if you're hungry.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“All right.”
I didn't make him take anything.
He sat down beside the jar.
Maddie came over and climbed onto the chair next to him.
She rested her head against his arm.
He immediately put his arm around her.
For a few minutes, he looked almost peaceful.
Then Maddie asked, “When's Mommy coming?”
Bentley closed his eyes briefly.
“I don't know, Maddie.”
“Today?”
“I don't know.”
“Tomorrow?”
He looked at me.
I sat down on the other side of the table.
“We're trying to find out,” I told her gently.
She considered that.
Then she asked if she could have a cracker.
I got one from the cupboard and broke it in half because she preferred small pieces.
She ate it while leaning against her brother.
Bentley looked at me.
“I used to tell her Mom was coming tomorrow.”
I didn't interrupt.
“Every morning, she asked. I kept saying tomorrow because I thought Mom would call.”
He rubbed Maddie's shoulder.
“Then she stopped asking all the time.”
His voice became quieter.
“That's when I got scared.”
I let that settle between us.
Children sometimes stopped asking questions because they had received an answer.
Other times, they stopped because they had learned that asking did not change anything.
I could not know which had happened inside Maddie's little mind.
But I could see what the waiting had done to Bentley.
“You don't have to make up an answer for her anymore,” I said.
He looked at me.
“What do I tell her?”
“You can tell her the truth in words she understands. You can say we don't know yet, and that I'm helping you find out.”
“But she might cry.”
“She might.”
He looked down.
“I don't want her to cry.”
“I know.”
He stroked Maddie's hair while she chewed her cracker.
“You can't keep every sad thing away from her,” I said gently. “You can comfort her when she's sad, but you don't have to make every feeling disappear.”
He didn't answer right away.
Then he whispered, “I thought that was my job.”
“No, Bentley. Your job is to be her brother.”
He swallowed hard.
“What if I don't do enough?”
I reached across the table, stopping short of touching his hand until he looked at me.
“You have already done far more than a child should have had to do.”
He stared at me.
For a moment, I thought he might cry.
Instead, he turned toward Maddie and rested his cheek against the top of her head.
She didn't seem to notice.
She was busy trying to fit the last piece of cracker into her mouth.
I gave them time.
Later, I prepared a simple dinner.
Bentley helped set the table, but he didn't rush to take over every task.
When I handed him a spoon, he placed it beside his plate.
When Maddie asked for water, he looked at me instead of jumping up.
I poured the water.
He watched me carry it to her.
Then he sat back down.
Nothing had changed about Amber's absence.
We still had no confirmed answer about where she was or when she might come home.
But Bentley was beginning, in small and uncertain ways, to let someone else do the things he had been doing alone.
I knew that would take time.
I also knew that a quiet evening did not mean the problem had been solved.
After dinner, I checked the telephone again.
There was no message.
I left it beside the blue jar.
I would keep asking.
PART 14 END
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: When Maddie Asked for Her Mother’s Voice, Bentley Tried to Become the Answer Again, and I Had to Remind Him He Was Not Alone
I Thought My Neighbor’s Boy Just Needed a Bathroom, Until One Quiet Morning Revealed What He Had Been Hiding
Part 14 of 20
