Genesis. Volume 2

October 1, 1986. Brookfield. The Walkers' house. Morning. Arthur woke up a minute before the alarm went off. He lay on his back, staring at the yellow water stain on the wallpaper. His father had promised to patch it up back in the summer. He never did. The alarm rang. Arthur clicked it off and sat up. On the nightstand lay a red thread. Thin, rough, looped into a bow. In a year, it hadn't budged a millimeter, hadn't faded, hadn't lost a single fiber. Arthur touched it with his finger. Cold. He got up and walked to the window. On the tree across the way hung a red balloon. New, bright, tied to a branch with string. It swayed slightly, though there was almost no wind. "I'm imagining it," Arthur muttered. He stepped away from the window, got dressed, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, his mother was frying eggs. His father sat at the table, reading the Brookfield Herald—yellowed pages, faded type. On the front page was a brief item about a missing boy from a neighboring town. Arthur didn't read it. "You look pale," said Sofia, not turning from the stove. "Didn't sleep again?" "I slept, Mom." "Don't lie." Arthur sat down at the table. The eggs were hot, but he couldn't taste them. Lately, all food felt like paper. Or maybe he'd just lost the ability to distinguish flavors. Lisa came in a minute later. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, dark circles under her eyes. She sat across from him, picked up a fork, but didn't eat—just held it, tapping the tines against the rim of her plate. "Did you see it?" she asked quietly. "What?" "The balloon." Arthur nodded. "I'll take it down after breakfast." "It won't help. It'll come back." Their father lowered the newspaper. The furrow between his brows deepened. "What are you two talking about?" "Nothing, Dad," Lisa answered too quickly, not giving Arthur a chance to speak. "Just a balloon in the tree. Kid stuff." Mark looked at her, then at Arthur. He didn't believe them. But he didn't press—just sighed and raised the paper again. Sofia set the frying pan on the trivet and turned off the stove. Slowly, she dried her hands on a towel and gave her children a long, searching look. Arthur knew that look. She wanted to say something, but the words got stuck somewhere inside. "I'll call the school," she said at last. "I'll tell them you're sick. Take the day off." "Mom, we're not sick." "Take the day off," Sofia repeated. "Please." She left the kitchen, clutching the towel to her chest. Mark folded his newspaper, got up—the chair scraped across the linoleum—and slammed the door behind him. For a moment, the kitchen went quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator. Lisa set down her fork. "She knows." "How?" "I don't know. She feels it. The same way she did when Jack disappeared." Arthur looked out the window. The balloon was still hanging in the tree. Now it seemed bigger. Or closer. Or both. "After breakfast, we'll go to the garage," Arthur said. "Max is waiting." "And the balloon?" "I'll take it down on the way." He finished his eggs without tasting them. He stood up, put his plate in the sink. Lisa sat gripping her fork so hard her knuckles went white. "Arthur." "Yeah?" "Do you remember his face?" Arthur froze by the sink. "Jack's," Lisa said. "Do you remember what he looks like?" "Of course I do." "I don't. I try, and I can't. Only his eyes. One green, one blue. Everything else is just a blank spot." Arthur wanted to say it was normal, that a year had passed, that memories fade. But he didn't. Because he couldn't remember Jack's voice himself. Not the tone, not the laugh. Only silence where a voice used to be. He put on his jacket and stepped out onto the porch. The balloon hung on the tree. Arthur walked over and yanked it down. The string was wet, though it hadn't rained. He squeezed the balloon between his fingers—the latex popped with a soft crack, letting the air out. From inside, a yellow circus ticket fell out. Arthur picked it up. The paper was old, thinned at the creases, with curled edges. On the ticket was a number: 3. He stuffed it into his pocket without saying a word to Lisa. Outside, it was damp and still. He headed toward the garage. Behind him, without a word, Lisa simply followed.