Kidnapped

A woman sat at the kitchen table, sobbing into her arms. Her son watched her from the next room, his face composed.

“Are you okay mommy?” the boy asked. “Did you make my cake yet?”

The woman looked up quickly and began to dry her face. “I thought you were studying Jake,” she said.

“It’s Jane again, isn’t it,” Jake said. He looked on the table and saw the newspaper headline: “First anniversary of mystery disappearance of autistic child.” He picked up the newspaper and threw it in the trash. “Come on mom. You still have me.”

“I know,” she sobbed clutching Jake to her.

“Did you make my birthday cake yet?” Jake asked, unphased by his mother’s affection.

She shook her head.

“Mom! It’s my birthday. It’s supposed to be about celebrating me!” he said, drawing himself out of her grasp. The mother redoubled her sobbing. Jake turned his back and walked out of the room, picking the newspaper out of the trash as he left.

After he left the kitchen, he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. After hurling himself on the bed, he opened the newspaper to the story he had seen. He glanced quickly over the reporter’s sad account of the event, which related how the girl had been separated from her brother who was taking care of her and how she had disappeared. When Jake had finished reading the article he began to cry. Fighting the tears at first, he soon gave in to his emotions and buried his face in his pillow, his sobs shaking the bed. His mother, hearing the creaking of the bed from down stairs called up to him.

“Jake, is everything alright?”

After receiving no reply she walked slowly up the stairs and opened his door. Without a word she sat down on the bed and, seeing the newspaper, began to rub her sons back.

“I know honey, I know,” she said to him softly.

“It’s all my fault. You’re sad and it’s all my fault,” Jakes voice, muffled by the pillow, said.
“It isn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could have done to prevent it,” the mother said soothingly, breaking into tears once again. “Sometimes it’s alright to be sad.”
Jake rolled over to face his mother. “But it’s my birthday. You’re not supposed to be sad on my birthday!”
“You’re right. I’m sorry Jake,” the mother said.
Jake pushed her arms away. “You’re sad because she got taken and not me! You always loved her more. Even when she was around my birthday was always about her! Why can’t we just go back to the way it was before she was born?” Jake said, rolling back over and burying his face in his pillow once again. He heard his sister’s screams and saw her terrified face as she was dragged into the van, screaming for help.

The mother, who had left Jake’s room after his outburst, sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. She remembered his lack of concern after his sister disappeared, and remembered how he had been so concerned and angry about his birthday party being cancelled. She got up and took out the cake mix, still lost in thought.
Jake was still lying on his bed, but was no longer crying. He stared at the ceiling, his dry eyes unblinking. He remembered the police officers face as he asked if Jake had seen or heard anything: he had had a rather large fleshy face with unsmiling eyes. He had threatened to put Jake in jail unless he told the whole truth. “But I am telling the truth,” Jake had sobbed. After that his mother didn’t let him talk to any of the police officers.
“Jake, can you come downstairs? Your cake is almost ready,” his mother called from downstairs.
“I’m coming,” Jake yelled as he jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs. “I thought you said my cake was almost ready,” he said looking questioningly at his mother who was sitting at the kitchen table with the unopened box or cake mix in front of her.
“I want to ask you something, Jake.”
“You could have just said so,” Jake said, dropping himself into a chair.
“Do you remember the day your sister was taken?”
“Do we have to go over this again? Of course I remember,” he said.
“Well I was reading an article about traumatic experiences the other day and it said that sometimes it takes a while for our minds to allow us to remember certain traumatic experiences,” she said, watching Jake closely. “I was just wondering if you can remember anything more about the day Jane was taken.”
“No.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing more you can remember?” she asked.
“No, there’s nothing I remember that I haven't already told you,” he said.
“You’re sure you didn’t see anything?”
“Promise not to get mad?” he asked, after a brief silence.
“Go on,” his mother said, sitting up on the edge of her seat.
“Do you promise?” he asked.
“Yes, yes. Of course. I promise.”
“I didn’t tell the police or you everything I saw. I saw them take her. I heard her scream and came running. I’m so sorry mommy. I just got so sick of you loving her more giving her all the attention. I just thought that maybe if she never came back it would be like it was before she was born. I’m sorry!” Jake sobbed, getting up and trying to hug his mother. She repelled his attempts at affection, her face grimacing.
“So you saw who took her and didn’t tell me,” she said softly.
“Stop! It wasn’t like that. I just wanted us to be happy.”
“Do you realize what you did? You were supposed to take care of you sister!”
“Stop! You said you wouldn’t get mad!”
“I’m not mad,” his mother said, trying to control her breath. “I’m not mad. I will tell you what I am though: I’m disappointed. I’m disappointed that you were so selfish. Go to your room and don’t come out until I call you!”
Jake, after being repelled by his mother, walked sobbing up the stairs to his bedroom. He remembered how his mother had moped around the house for weeks crying off and on. He saw his sisters face stare at him as she was dragged to the van, pleading with him to help her because, “Jake I don’t know what is happening.” He remembered how the whole community had come to their house, crying, to say how sorry they were. Yes. His mother was right: he was selfish. How much she must hate him right now! Things would never go back to the way they were before Jane was born: she would always hate him. He went to his drawer and took out his belt. Standing on a chair he looped one end around his neck and closed the door on the other end. He stepped off the chair.