The Disappearing Boy Read online

  “My grandfather,” he repeated. This was a lot to absorb in one day.

  He studied the man. He was small and square, with fairish hair, sticking-out ears, and a big grin. “Where does he live?” he asked.

  “Near Saint John, New Brunswick,” she said.

  “Does he still have horses?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, gently taking the photo and replacing it in the drawer. “He has a small stable, I believe.”

  Neil’s eyes went back to the painting.

  His grandmother’s gaze followed his and she smiled. She walked over to where it hung on the wall. “You like this, do you?” She touched the frame, staring at the painting for a moment, then turned back to him. “Your father was very proud of this one.”

  Neil stared at her. What did she just say? He felt the house shake as a car rumbled past the side wall. “Did you say my father painted that?”

  His grandmother’s smile disappeared. A robin crash-landed on a bush outside the window, flying off again at the slam of a car door. She turned to the window to watch the bird’s flight.

  “Yes,” she said finally, her voice distant. “He painted it when he was nineteen and studying art at university.” She turned back to him. “He won a prize for it.”

  Neil went over to study the painting again. It looked like a struggle between light and darkness, rise and fall, shapes and spaces, with everything pushing and pulling and yet somehow belonging together. There was a name scrawled at the bottom right: Adam. He turned to her, his mouth dry. “You know my father?”

  She looked trapped, her eyes shifting the way his mother’s had when he’d confronted her the other day.

  “I do,” she said. “I mean, I did.” A siren wailed down the street. She caught her breath. “I mean….”

  “You did? What do you mean, you did?” His voice cracked and then boomed: “Is my father dead?” He was trying hard not to cry. “Tell me! You’ve got to tell me what happened to him. What happened to my father?”

  “I’m sorry, Neil, I can’t tell you that,” she said abruptly. “But I can tell you that he’s not dead.” She paused, and turned away from his angry face. “Your mother must tell you the rest.”

  Unbelievable. He clenched his fists, the nails digging into his palms. Here we go again.

  She cleared her throat. “Please Neil, don’t be angry. Your mother loves you very much. And so do I.” She carefully lifted the painting off the wall. “You can have this if you want,” she said. “I always meant it for you.”

  His eyes jumped from her to the painting, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. This scary creation, dreamed up and slashed onto the canvas by his father, this could belong to him for real? Maybe it could tell him who his father really was, or at least what it was like to be him. Maybe it could lead him to his father. He straightened his back, composing himself.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asked. “Would you like to have it, Neil?”

  “Yes,” he said, his heart bumping in his throat. “Please.”

  Their eyes stayed on the painting as Margaret handed it to Neil. This wasn’t his father, Neil thought, but for now, it was the closest he’d ever come to finding him.

  Chapter 3

  Neil sprawled on his bed and studied the details of the painting, trying to figure out what made it so powerful. He couldn’t wait to visit again next Sunday to see what else he might find out. Maybe he’d get to see that girl again too, Courtenay.

  With a funny feeling in his stomach, he remembered the way the girl had turned and smiled at him from her front door. He’d never had a girlfriend, but she’d seemed kind of approachable—and more real somehow than most of the girls he’d met. Maybe she could be a friend anyway.

  Neil lay back, his hands behind his head, thinking about his visit. So, now he had a nice, kind grandmother, Margaret. And it seemed he also had a faraway grandfather, Ken. Ken had looked kind of friendly and cheerful in the photo, Neil thought. He wondered if he would ever get to meet him.

  He sat up and looked around the room. The best place for the painting, he decided, would be across from his bed, where he would see it as soon as he woke up. He got up and examined the wall, then grabbed a pencil from his desk and drew an X. In the basement, he dug around in the unpacked boxes until he managed to find his mother’s toolbox, and dragged out a hammer and a nail.

  He climbed on a chair to get a better angle and placed the point of the big black nail on the centre of the X. He gripped the hammer halfway up the handle and gave the nail a firm tap. Nothing happened. He shifted his grip and hammered harder until a good whack finally drove the point of the nail into the wall, but when he took his fingers away the nail fell to the ground. He got the point back in and gave the nail several more whacks. This seemed to work, although some cracks appeared in the wall along with a shower of plaster. Finally, he succeeded in driving the nail in.

  His mom wasn’t going to like the mess on the floor, he thought, never mind the cracks, but that was just too bad. Anyway, the painting would probably cover most of the damage.

  He raised the hammer for one last bash at the nail when he heard the front door open. Someone ran up the stairs and his bedroom door opened. His mother stood in the doorway.

  “What’s going on, Neil?” she asked. “I could hear the hammering from the street.” She looked past him at the wall. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve just about ruined that wall.” She sighed. “What were you thinking, Neil? There are special nails, you know, for hanging pictures, so that this sort of thing doesn’t happen.”

  Red-faced and sweaty, Neil climbed down from the chair. He was above his mother’s shoulder in height now, he saw, as they stood face to face, and people said he still had a lot of growing to do. “I wanted to hang something,” he said defiantly.

  Her gaze shifted to the painting propped against the wall, its back towards her. “What is that, anyway? What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until I came home?”

  “I wanted to get it up now,” he said. “And I didn’t see why I should have to wait until you decided to come home.” He walked past her towards the door. “What’s for dinner?”

  She took off her raincoat. “We’re having one of your favourites tonight,” she said. “Sausage, mashed potatoes and peas, and blueberry pie.” She smiled. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my day?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. How was it?” Anxious to get her away from the painting, Neil jerked his head at the door. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  “Wait a minute, Neil,” she said. “I want to hear all about your visit with Margaret. I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.” She glanced down at the picture. “But first, let’s have a look at this.” She bent to pick it up.

  “No!” He pushed past her and snatched the painting from her before she could turn it around. Clutching it to his chest, he glared at her. “My grandmother gave me this. She said she always meant for me to have it. She said my father painted it!” He lifted his chin and said, “I’m putting it up on my wall, Mom, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  He got back up on the chair with it and glared down at her over his shoulder. “Even if you don’t want anything of his around here, you’re not taking this away from me.” He arranged the painting until it hung straight. “It’s mine. You got that?”

  There was no answer. He stepped down from the chair and saw that his mother had slumped onto the bed and was staring, bug-eyed, at the painting. She’d obviously seen it before, in Margaret’s house, so why was she was gawking at it now? Why did she look so shocked?

  Neil went to the far end of the room to see for himself. The painting was even more stunning in its new home. It blazed out of the surrounding whiteness: “I am here!” it seemed to shout, “Look at me!” and even, he imagined, “Set me free!”

  His mother, white-faced, was holding out
her hand. “Neil, sweetheart, we need to talk—”

  He turned on her. “I’m sick of you and your so-called talks. You never tell me anything. You keep putting me off and putting me off until I can’t stand it anymore. I’m out of here.” He looked back at the painting. “And you know what? I’m taking this with me, because I don’t trust you with it.” He yanked the painting off the nail and strode out of the room.

  “Wait, Neil!” He heard her call as he ran off. “I need to tell you something.”

  He didn’t care. He just needed to get away.

  He shoved his feet down into his boots, and tugged his coat on. Then he shot through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

  Chapter 4

  The Rideau centre was a big downtown mall, as busy and noisy as the ones in Vancouver and just as cool as the kids at school had said, except that Neil didn’t know anyone here. Still, there was lots of stuff to look at and at least he and the painting were inside, away from the threat of rain.

  Neil wondered what he’d been thinking, dragging a painting across town. He stopped and looked down at it. It was big and awkward. Maybe he could find a big enough bag to carry it around in. He took the escalator up to the Dollar Store on the third floor, where the only thing he could find big enough was a glossy bag in a gross shade of green.

  He stopped outside a gallery store and peered at the paintings that hung in the window. He considered them carefully, then peeked inside the bag at his father’s painting. You only had to give that other stuff half a look to see how good an artist his father was. When Neil found his father, he’d show him the portfolio he’d already started to put together at his new art teacher’s suggestion. He might like some of it. Perhaps his father could teach him and they could even work together. Maybe.

  He sat on the slatted wooden bench and checked his watch. It was already ten past six, and he was hungry. He’d better get a hamburger and fries at the food court. He had enough money for that, and the mall was open late since it was Friday, so he was okay for a few hours. But then what? He hung his head, staring down between his knees at the empty drink carton and bent plastic straw at his feet. Under the edge of the bench his fingers met a rock-hard wad of gum. He rubbed his hands on his jeans. No way was he going home. It was time his mother learned he wasn’t going to be silenced anymore.

  The problem was, he didn’t have anywhere else to go in Ottawa. He knew his grandmother would just call his mom right away, so that was no good. He couldn’t crash at a friend’s house, because he didn’t really have any friends. Not yet, at least, although there were some possibilities shaping up. There was Hiu, for instance, the guy he’d been paired up with in French. Hiu seemed really cool, and he even had family in Vancouver, but they didn’t really know each other yet.

  And then there was Courtenay, the girl he’d met on his grandmother’s street. She’d seemed friendly. He wondered if she went to his school, and imagined bumping into her by the lockers at the end of the school day. She might recognize him and smile that funny smile, and suggest they walk some of the way home together. He shook his head and stood up.

  In the food court, he poked at the pale, limp fries with a white plastic fork and shoved aside the gray, uneaten hamburger. He remembered the dinner his mom had planned: fat brown sausages, creamy potatoes, and blueberry pie topped with plain vanilla ice cream, the way he liked it.

  He took a gulp of Coke. The ice rattled against his teeth as he remembered the scene in his bedroom. What had his mother wanted to tell him? He jerked his head up and his mouth fell open as he stared over the crowd of diners. Had she been about to explain the truth about his father?

  At the next table, a little kid was throwing a tantrum. “I wanna hot dog!” the kid yelled. “Don’t like chicken! I wanna go home!” He flung out an arm, knocking over a carton of milk. Neil watched the milk spread across the tabletop and flow down into a stroller beside the mother’s chair.

  He turned his eyes away and slumped in his seat. His mom hadn’t been about to tell him any such thing. She probably just wanted to explain how to hang a picture properly. She had looked pretty stunned though, he thought, as she sat there on the bed. Maybe the painting had upset her for some reason, but he couldn’t imagine why.

  “Lemme go!” The kid was being was hauled off, his fat little legs flailing under his dad’s arm. The woman hunched over the crying baby, trying to mop up the spilled milk with a handful of brown paper napkins. Neil shoved his plate away. Even a super-annoying kid like that had a father who was willing to put up with him. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes, trying to think of somewhere to go.

  He opened his eyes a few minutes later and looked around sleepily, then something made him sit upright. Was that Courtenay coming through the street door into the food court? It sure looked like her coat, and her pale face and dark hair. He stood up to get a better look. It was definitely her, he could see now. She looked just as fed up as he felt, walking slowly past the tables, head down. He waved his whole arm to get her attention.

  The kid, back again and clutching a squeezy ketchup bottle, stared at him, his mucky mouth hanging open. He was pretty amazed himself. He, Neil MacLeod, standing up in a public place and waving madly to attract the attention of a cool girl! As she walked on, he went even further and yelled across the tables, “Hey, Courtenay!”

  She stopped and looked around, confused, until she recognized him. Eyebrows up, she grinned and made her way to his table. Keeping her coat well clear of the kid, she flopped down opposite him.

  “Hey!” she said. “How’s it going, Neil?”

  “Good.” His voice came out in a squawk.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. Nothing I guess.”

  “Same as me, then.” She smiled. “Hey, I was just talking to your grandmother this afternoon, believe it or not.”

  He liked her voice. It was clear and soft, not like that scratchy voice a lot of girls had, like it was being dragged from the back of a very sore throat.

  “How come you were talking to my grandmother?” he asked.

  “I went to tell her I was running away, because, like I told you, she’s kind of a friend of mine. Anyway, she persuaded me not to go right away. She said I should try to talk to my mom and dad first. So I went back home and made a yummy spaghetti sauce for supper with stuff from the fridge. You know, a real family meal. Then my mom texted me she was going out with”—she rolled her eyes—“‘the girls,’ and she might stay over at her friend’s house since it was Friday night.” She shrugged. “My dad was going to be out too, so I came here, looking for someone to hang out with.”

  Neil leaned back, squinting at Courtenay over his Coke with what he hoped was a worldly look. “Will I do?”

  “I guess.” The silver bead on her lip flashed as she gave him a crooked little closed-mouth smile.

  They sat across the table, grinning at each other. Her eyebrows were thin, lively arcs and her mouth, with its upturned corners, made her look like she often said funny things. She had a small gap between her very white front teeth. He glanced again at the silver stud on her lower lip. She must have easygoing parents, he thought.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you come home with me, and we can have an all-you-can-eat spaghetti supper?” She pushed his plastic plate away with a chipped purple fingernail. “It’ll be better than this junk, that’s for sure.”

  “Sounds great,” said Neil, trying not to show his relief. At least now he had someplace to go.

  Chapter 5

  Neil twirled the last delicious forkful of spaghetti onto his spoon and crammed it into his mouth.

  “So, you don’t know anything at all about your father?” Courtenay asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’ve asked a million times, but she won’t tell me anything.”

  Courtenay stood to collect their b
owls. “But you must know something. Like, what’s his name, for a start?”

  “All I know is that his name is Adam, and that he vanished before I was born.”

  “But if he deserted you and your mother like that, why would you want to find him?”

  He picked up the salad bowl. “I need to know who he is, or was. I just feel sort of incomplete, not even knowing that.”

  “But you must know something, Neil. Like, what did he do?” She walked into the kitchen, and Neil followed her.

  “Oh, he was an artist like my mom,” he said. “I know that much.”

  “So, you’re right,” she said, stacking dishes in the sink. “You don’t know much at all.”

  “Yes, and it’s really freaking me out. There’s only me and my mom in my whole family, apart from this grandmother I’ve just met. But there is one thing,” he said, lifting a finger at her to wait. He retrieved the shopping bag from the dining room. “At least now I’ve got this.” He pulled out the painting. “Ta-da!”

  Courtenay’s eyebrows shot up and then lowered in a frown as she peered at the painting. “But isn’t that the picture from next door?” She looked up. “How come you’ve got it?”

  “Margaret gave it to me. It’s by my father.”

  “What? Your father painted this?” She looked from him to the painting and back. “That’s awesome, Neil.”

  “What do you think of it?” He fixed her with his eyes. “Just out of curiosity, how does it make you feel?”

  She cocked her head to one side and squinted at it. “I never really looked at it before,” she said. “It was sort of in the dark there and, you know, out of the way, but it kind of scares me now that I can really see it. It makes me feel like something’s trapped in there and fighting to get out. That sort of torn-looking red bit there in the middle especially.”