Chapter 2 - The Whispers in the Dark
The paper calendar page flapped slightly under the draft of the air conditioning, its jagged edge pointing down at the blank space where September 15th should have been.
My back throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that radiated down toward my hips. I leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, my hand pressed firm against the side of my belly, feeling the rhythmic, sharp kick of my daughter inside me.
Behind me, Drew’s footsteps sounded heavy on the hardwood. He came into the kitchen, his jaw set in a hard, tight line. He looked aged by ten years in the span of twenty minutes.
"He won't talk," Drew said softly, his voice raspy. "He’s sitting on his bed, staring at the wall. I checked his closet, his under-bed storage, the back of his bathroom. The bag isn't in his room."
"Drew, it’s not just the bag," I whispered, pointing a trembling finger toward the refrigerator.
Drew walked over, his eyes landing on the torn calendar. He reached out and touched the torn white border. The red marker he had used to circle my due date was snapped right in half, the missing piece gone along with the entire third week of September.
"Why would he do this?" Drew breathed, looking completely lost. "He loved helping us pick out the yellow paint for the trim back in June. He was the one who insisted we get the wooden mobile with the clouds because he said babies like looking at the sky. What happened to him?"
"Something changed three weeks ago," I said, my voice barely audible over the hum of the fridge. "Remember when he stopped eating dinner with us on Thursdays? When he suddenly stopped wanting taco night?"
Drew froze. "I thought he was just getting older. Nine-year-olds get moody."
"No," I said, a cold realization pooling in the pit of my stomach. "A nine-year-old doesn't dismantle a heavy oak crib rail with a screwdriver and hide an entire hospital bag because he's moody. He’s terrified, Drew. He’s trying to freeze time."
Drew turned toward the back door that led to the garage and the backyard patio. "I’m going to check the garage again. If he hid the stroller and the car seat out there, the bag might be in the rafters or the tool shed."
"I'll check downstairs," I said, moving toward the hallway closet.
While Drew went out into the humid evening air toward the detached garage, I walked down the quiet hallway toward Eli’s bedroom. His door was shut tight. I didn't knock. Instead, I moved toward the hall linen closet, opening the slatted folding doors to look through the spare quilts.
Nothing.
As I turned back toward the stairs, a soft, electronic hum caught my attention. It was coming from inside Eli's room—a faint, muffled chime that sounded like an incoming notification on a device.
Drew and I had strict rules: no tablets or screens in the bedroom after seven at night. Eli’s school iPad was supposed to be downstairs on the charging station in the kitchen.
I pushed Eli’s door open gently.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the pale blue glow of a screen under Eli’s blanket. He was huddled in the far corner of his bed, his knees pulled up to his chest, staring intently at something in his lap.
"Eli?" I said softly.
He gasped, shoving the device beneath his pillow with frantic speed, his face pale in the faint light.
"I told Dad I didn't want to talk," he whimpered, his eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears. "Leave me alone."
I stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind me. Lowering myself down onto his desk chair—a task that took considerable effort with my massive belly—I looked at him gently.
"I’m not here to yell at you, Eli," I said, keeping my tone as calm as the water in a quiet pond. "I’m in pain, my back hurts, and in six days—or maybe six hours—your baby sister is going to be born. But I can't leave for the hospital without my bag, and I can't come home to a room that feels like a war zone."
Eli pressed his back tighter against his headboard, his teeth digging into his lower lip until it turned white.
"Who were you talking to on that screen?" I asked quietly.
"Nobody," he whispered.
"Eli, you know I can hear the notification chime. Whose phone or tablet is under that pillow?"
He didn't answer. He just tightened his lips into a thin line, refusing to break.
"Is it your grandmother Brenda?" I asked gently.
Eli’s shoulders twitched violently. His head snapped up, his dark eyes wide with shock.
In that single, fleeting reaction, I had my answer. Brenda. Drew’s former mother-in-law. The woman who had never forgiven Drew for moving on after her daughter, Sarah, had walked out on them seven years ago. Brenda, who legally had supervised visitation with Eli once a month, but who constantly tried to whisper poison into the boy's ear whenever she got the chance.
May you like
"Show me the phone, Eli," I commanded, my voice dropping into a firm, maternal register that allowed no room for negotiation.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, Eli reached under his pillow and pulled out an old, cracked smartphone in a rubberized black case—a device Drew and I had never seen before.
