The Disappearing Boy

  Praise for Sonia Tilson

  Shortlisted, 2010-2011 Metcalf-Rooke Award Finalist, 2014 Ottawa Book Awards

  “There is a whole body of literature concerned with the empathy gap between parents and their grown-up children...Ottawa’s Sonia Tilson has mined this emotional material for an engrossing and ambitious debut novel.”

  –Zoe Whittall, 2016 Giller Prize shortlisted author of The Best Kind of People for The National Post, on The Monkey Puzzle Tree

  “Tilson's engaging story features a host of memorable minor characters on both sides of the Atlantic, and it culminates in a most satisfying confront-the-abuser scene. A fine first novel.”

  –Cynthia Flood, Journey Prize-winning author of Red Girl Rat Boy, on The Monkey Puzzle Tree

  Copyright © 2017, Sonia Tilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3731 Mackintosh St, Halifax, NS B3K 5A5

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  NB1287

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Design: Jenn Embree

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Tilson, Sonia, author

  The disappearing boy / Sonia Tilson.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77108-548-9 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77108-549-6

  (HTML)

  I. Title.

  PS8639.I557D57 2017 jC813’.6 C2017-904119-3

  C2017-904120-7

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  Chapter 1

  Turning the corner to his new house, Neil shivered and heaved up his backpack. Ottawa was a lot colder than Vancouver. Not so long ago, he’d been skateboarding with his friends in the sunshine at Stanley Park. Here, although it was only October, a cold wind seemed to be blowing all the time. People hurried along, heads down, clutching their briefcases, listening to their headphones. Even the dogs looked like they just wanted to get home.

  He stopped at the townhouse and stared up at the red-brick front of his new home. It was okay, he supposed. It was one in an identical row of six, bigger and grander than the little bungalow they’d left behind in Vancouver. His bedroom here was bigger too, with room for bookshelves and a work table and an armchair. There was even room on the top floor for his mom to have a studio. It had a pathetic little yard though, and no view worth talking about. He wondered if this house would ever feel like home.

  He opened the gate and fished around in his pocket for his key, then unlocked the front door and pushed his way inside.

  “Hi, sweetie.” He heard his mother first, before she came out of the kitchen into the hallway. She was wearing a red-striped apron over her soft wool sweater and long swishy skirt.

  “You’re home,” he said, surprised.

  She smiled, tossing her dark hair behind her shoulders. “I had the afternoon off.” She helped him with his coat, reaching around to hang it in the closet as he shucked off his shoes. “How was school?”

  “It was okay,” he said. He wanted to tell her about the painting he’d done in art class. It was of the view from the old bungalow’s front window, with yachts in the bay and the sun on the mountains. He’d kind of liked it, but it wasn’t real art, not like his mom’s work. He decided to keep it to himself. “We started a new book in English,” he told her instead, “A Wrinkle in Time.”

  “I’ve read it,” she said. “It’s wonderful! One of those books you never forget.”

  “Cool. So…how was your day?” His mom had only just started her new job at the children’s hospital, where she helped sick kids have some fun and maybe express their feelings through drawing and painting and making stuff. “I bet the kids really liked messing around with paints.”

  “It was great,” she said, but then looked away, her smile fading. “But there’s this little boy, Jeremy, who has pretty serious cancer. He drew a picture of himself flying to the moon in his pajamas.” She shook her head. “He’s only six.”

  “Oh.” Neil let the image sink in. “But he’ll be all right, won’t he? He’ll get better?”

  “I don’t know, Neil. But I do know he was happy for a while today, poor little guy.” She went into the kitchen. “Why don’t you wash up and then come help me? I knew you’d be hungry, so I’m making dinner a bit early. We’re having haddock, and French fries from scratch.”

  Neil enjoyed cooking with his mother. As she set about breading the fish for the oven, he dragged the familiar beat-up wooden cutting board from its home beside the microwave.

  He chopped tomatoes for a salad, and listened to his mother humming as she moved about the kitchen. It actually felt like a bit like home for the first time since they’d moved in.

  When dinner was ready, they took their places at either end of the table and settled down to enjoy the meal. The fish was tender and crispy and the fries were perfect.

  The fish scraps made Neil think of his little cat, which they’d left behind in Vancouver. He looked sideways at his mother. “Perkins would have loved this,” he said, as he scraped bits of fish skin to the side of his plate.

  She closed her eyes. “Oh, not that again, sweetie.” She stood up. “I know you miss Perkins, Neil, but bringing him here would have been just too difficult. Remember, we had no idea where we were going to live, and Perkins would have been traumatized by the flight.” She reached across the table to pick up his plate. “Anyway, you know he’ll be happy with the Thompsons. He spent half his time around there when you were at school, and they positively begged to have him. He loved them, Neil. I’m sure he’s happy there.”

  She took the dirty dishes into the kitchen and Neil got up from his chair and followed her.

  “But he loved us more,” he said as she put the dishes into the dishwasher. He felt tears pricking his eyes. “Remember how he used to follow me down the street, meowing, and cuddle up to me at night, purring his head off? He misses me, I know he does.”

  Neil's mom took a deep breath. He could tell she was frustrated. “I’m sorry Neil, but what’s done is done. We had enough on our plate without figuring out how to deal with Perkins, and that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

  “Why did we have to come here anyway?” he said, his voice raised. “You never asked me if I wanted to move. You never tell me anything. You treat me like a little kid!”

  “Oh Neil, that’s not true. I know the move was hard on you, but I had my reasons for coming here. Believe it or not, it’s not easy being a single parent. It’s hard always making these decisions by myself.”

  “You say you’re always by yourself. Why is that anyway? Why are you by yourself?” Fixing his eyes on hers, he said quietly, “What happened to my father?”

  After a long pause, she sighed heavily. “I don’t know what’s happening to us, Neil,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “We used to get along so well, didn’t we? But you’
ve changed so much lately. You’re so quick to get angry with me.” She put her hand on his arm. “I do understand that there are things you want to know, and I will tell them to you,” she said. “Not right now, but very soon. I promise.”

  He pulled his arm away. “Soon. That’s what you always say. Why not now?” He stared hard at her. “Is he dead?”

  She looked away, sighing, but didn’t answer him.

  “If he is dead, how did he die? Did he get sick? Was he in an accident?” He took a sharp breath. “Was he murdered?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Neil! Of course not. Don’t be so melodramatic.” She turned away, but Neil wasn’t finished yet. He needed to know. He was sick of her pushing aside his questions.

  “Did he kill himself?” he said. “Or did he murder someone and get put into prison for life?” His mother left the kitchen, but he persisted, following her into the living room. “If it wasn’t any of those things, and he just ran off and left us,” he said to her rigid back, “what’s the big deal? Lots of dads do that.”

  “Stop it Neil!” She put up a hand to shush him, but he wasn’t done. The questions had been piling up in his mind for too long. He needed answers.

  “Is he in a hospital somewhere? Or locked up in an insane asylum? Or”—this was his latest theory—“is he a spy, involved in top-secret missions that we’re not allowed to know about?” He realized he was shouting, but he didn’t care. “Don’t I have a right to know?”

  “It’s complicated, Neil,” she said firmly. “But I promise I will tell you all about it when the time is right, which will be very soon.” She sat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. “Come and sit by me for a minute, sweetie.”

  He stood looking down at her, his arms folded.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “But there’s something I want you to do for me, Neil. I think it will make a big difference to both of us.”

  “What is it?” he asked, interested despite himself.

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide and anxious. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother.”

  “Your mother?” he repeated, trying to understand.

  “Yes,” she said. “Your grandmother.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice barely a squeak. “I have a grandmother? Here? In Ottawa?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” He sat on the edge of the sofa, shocked. This was the first he’d heard of any grandmother. “Have you been to see her?”

  “Yes, I have. I wanted to go alone the first time…. We haven’t spoken for several years.”

  “Why not?” he demanded. “Does it have something to do with my father?”

  She sighed. “Yes, in a way it does. But I’m hoping that you and I can begin to spend time with her now that we live here. I’d really like for you to meet her, Neil, and I know that she’d love to meet you.”

  He considered this. “When do you want us to go see her?”

  His mother reached out and put a hand on his knee. “Actually, Neil, she and I have agreed that you should visit her by yourself at first. You could get to know each other better that way than if I were with you. I know it seems odd, but I promise, everything will make sense in time.”

  “In time…in time….” He pushed her hand off and jumped up, frustrated. “Why do you always keep me waiting like this, Mom?”

  “But will you go, Neil?”

  He sat down again. “Whatever. Guess I don’t have much choice.”

  Chapter 2

  Neil slouched across the park, kicking a pebble through the wet, yellow leaves. He was still brooding over the fact that he was nearly fourteen and didn’t know a thing about his own father. Now his mother had dropped a brand-new mystery into his lap: Margaret MacLeod, his grandmother—a grandmother he’d never even known about. It was all so weird. He booted the pebble into the gutter and checked his phone.

  This was Mercier Street, all right, and there was the house, facing him from across the road. He could see the numbers beside the door: a six and an eight in dull gold against the dark brick wall.

  Like the other houses on the block, this one was half of a pair, their second floors joined over a shared driveway. The dried-up roses hanging their heads in number sixty-eight’s little front yard didn’t look at all inviting. Neither did the lacy, old-lady drapes. He shoved his phone into his pocket, wishing he hadn’t agreed to come.

  As he stepped onto the small walkway in front of the house, he turned to see a girl charging down the sidewalk towards him. A long black coat flapped behind her and as she got closer, he noticed a stud gleaming from her lower lip.

  To Neil’s surprise, she stopped when she reached him. Up close, he realized that, despite the coat and piercing, she was around his age, probably no more than fourteen. Eyebrows raised, she looked him up and down with a crooked little smile.

  “You visiting Margaret?” she said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You a friend of hers?”

  It was none of her business, but Neil didn’t want to offend her. “She’s my grandmother.”

  The girl did a double take. “No way! I’ve lived next door to Margaret for years and she never said she had any family. Are you from away, or what?”

  “Yeah. From Vancouver. We just moved here a few weeks ago.”

  “Huh! Whad’ya know?” She tilted her head, considering. “My name’s Courtenay.”

  “Hi. I’m Neil.”

  “Cool. See you around, Neil.” As fast as she’d appeared, she moved up the walk and unlocked the door of number seventy. She turned, giving him a big grin, and then pushed inside the door, banging it shut behind her.

  Neil pulled the hood tighter around his face, and walked up to the door of number sixty-eight. He waited for a minute, then poked the doorbell. Nobody answered. He shuffled on and off the step a few times, his laces trailing in a puddle, and then put an ear to the glass and squinted through the lace curtain. There was no sound or movement. Blowing his hair off his nose in a mixture of disappointment and relief, he turned, and was about to leave, when the door creaked open behind him.

  “Neil?”

  Ducking his head, he turned to squint at the tall, thin old woman in the doorway. She smiled and opened the door wider.

  “Please come in,” she said. “I’m so glad you came!” She stood back. “My goodness, you’re tall for your age,” she said as he edged past her. “Now, turn around and let me look at you.” She stepped in behind him and closed the door.

  He shucked off his wet Nikes and turned to glance shyly at her through his lashes.

  “Oh! Right.” Her voice had gotten strange, Neil noticed, shakier and a bit rough.

  “Come on in.” She pointed to a high-backed armchair in the living room. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get you a bite to eat.”

  Settling himself in the chair, he looked around the room. This was the smallest house he’d ever been in, but it was cozy. The colours were soft and warm, the old-fashioned furniture shone, and the winged armchair was really comfy. Tired after the long walk, he stretched out his feet and leaned his head back. Gentle clinks came from the kitchen, along with the smell of something delicious.

  His eyes stopped at a painting beside a small window. He stood up and walked over to the wall to get a better look. The thick sweeps of scarlet, green, and deep blue, edged by black slashes and lit by jagged streaks of lemon, reminded him of his mother’s paintings, but this was much rougher and wilder—savage even. His art teacher in Vancouver would have called it abstract, but it didn’t feel abstract to him. It felt real, like someone was suddenly in the room with him.

  He got back to the chair just as his grandmother came in carrying a tray.

  “There you go.” She put the tray down on the little table
beside him. His mouth watered at the sight of freshly baked cookies, along with a tall glass of milk. “I made these especially for you,” she said. “Dig in.”

  Neil realized he was starving and got started on the cookies. They were delicious, the chocolate chips still half melted. He washed them down with gulps of cold milk, and then smiled at his grandmother.

  “They’re good,” he said. “Thanks.”

  She smiled back at him. “Did your mother tell you who I am, Neil?” she asked.

  He nodded, suddenly awkward, then grabbed another cookie and fixed his eyes on the carpet; chewing carefully, he focused on its complicated pattern of dark red, navy blue, and gold.

  “What exactly did she say?” she asked.

  He swallowed. “She said, um, she said you’re her mother…my grandmother?” He looked up at her.

  “That’s right. I’m Sasha’s mother.” She smiled. Looking at her properly for the first time, he could see the likeness to his mom in the slightly curved nose and brown, downward-sloping eyes, and in the thick dark hair springing back from a point in the middle of her forehead.

  “You don’t have to call me Grandma, of course,” she said. “Call me Margaret if you like.” She smiled again. “I hope we can become friends.”

  Was she serious? She seemed nice enough, but she was old, with gray hair and wrinkles. He wondered again why his mother had never mentioned her before.

  She walked to a cabinet in the corner, opened a drawer, and pulled something out, glancing at it briefly before handing it to him. “Here. Your mother says you like horses.”

  It was an old photograph, Neil realized, taking it from her. He examined it carefully and saw a smiling man leaning against a dark horse, its head bent towards him, the arched neck and long, surprisingly light-coloured mane making it look like a knight’s charger. He dreamed of being able to ride a horse someday. Maybe, if he ever got rich enough, he would even have one of his own.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “That’s your grandfather, Ken,” she said. “And that’s Dude, his prized Rocky Mountain horse.” She paused. “You look a bit like Ken, you know. You have his eyes.”