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What do you do when your son stops eating?
It’s not gradual, like all the self help blogs suggest. The night before you saw him happily indulge in an eight course meal. One that he prepared himself—mixing salads, spreading cheese, sauteing onions, marinating chicken, chopping asparagus, frying fish, chilling strawberries, laminating pastries. He spent three days perfecting his chili sauce and another two finding the ripest mangos at the local farmer’s markets.
When he sat down to eat it last night, he slowly chewed through each bite, savoring and studying the flavor. One thing you love about him is that he never takes notes, but each time he makes a dish, it’s better than the last in ways you wouldn’t expect. This meal is no different. He shares it with you and your husband and you can’t help but comment on the use of pine nuts and blueberries. You’ve had this soup a dozen times and he always manages to surprise you with something fresh. Your husband isn’t minutely ashamed to ask what’s for dessert. Neither is your son, when he gives his last few bites of chicken to his dog, despite you asking time and time again to not feed him table scraps.
Eight courses later of elegant dining and you can’t help but laugh when your son asks for popcorn during the late night run of The Mutant Bee. Always hungry, your boy.
But that was last night. This morning, he wakes up late and rushes to school. When he does finally spare you a glance, it’s pure terror. You open your mouth to ask him what happened, but he’s already out the door. It’s hours later when you get up to let him out that you realize that your son took the dog with him.
When he comes home that afternoon, he forgoes his usual snack. You’re not a chef like your son, but you’ve made your grandma’s butter cookies the same way for the last thirty years and he’s never turned them down before. You call your husband and ask him to come home from work early while your son’s in his room. When he gets there, he asks what happened and you can’t explain that you just know. Something’s wrong. Sudden and immutable—it cements into place when your son looks queasy at the offer of your husband’s famous double decker club sandwich.
You press the back of your hand against his forehead. He doesn’t feel warm, but he flinches away before you can really tell.
“What’s going on, son?” your husband asks. He stays seated on the couch, knowing that it doesn’t help your child’s spirals to feel boxed in. You both know the signs of his mounting anxiety. He puts too much pressure on himself.
Curiously, his dog doesn’t come over at the first sign of stress, instead seemingly… moping in front of the TV.
“I- I…” He looks around the awards he’s won over the years, proudly displayed in the kitchen. “I’ve never done, like, any of these things.” You follow his gaze to a photo of one of his proudest moments. A feature he did on the Fancilee Show after defending his title for the fifth year in a row at the Souffle Olympiad. He picks up the frame and it shakes in his grip.
“Don’t be silly,” you admonish gently. He’s gotten like this in the past, so full of his own expectations that he forgets that you only ask for him to be happy. “We’re so proud. Our son, President of the Chef’s Club, winner of the Ultimate Teen Chef award, and you’ve won the National Junior Epicurean of the Year award three times in a row.”
“But, I- I’m like, a slacker!” he cries and your heart clenches. Only your boy would meet a reminder of his accomplishments with disdain.
Your husband, unfortunately, gets a bit frustrated about these things. “I don’t buy that story for a second,” he starts. He tries to say more. About how important your son is, just as himself. About how you both will always support him.
But your boy has gone to sit with his dog, a clear sign that he wants to be left alone.
For the next week, you watch your son make the same green-and-red-pepper-sausage-sardine-mushroom-pepperoni pizza twice a day. He watches it bake in the oven with dead eyes, his dog curled up and whining at his feet. Unlike before, when he tweaked ingredients with gusto, he does so now somberly. No timer needed, he pulls each pizza out with practiced ease.
Methodically, he cuts it into eighths. He gives one slice to the dog, who licks at it dubiously. He takes one bite and then spits it into the trash can after little consideration. The rest of the pizza follows.
You hear him cry from the hallway and think…
How do you comfort someone who’s lost their first joy?
What do you do when your most promising daughter becomes distracted?
She is all your wanted from a child: beautiful and sharp and determined. She possesses a grace that can’t be taught, a wit that can’t be imitated.
The pregnancy had been a difficult one. Your wife hadn’t wanted another child. The quadruplets were unbearably needy and horribly dull. But you had a feeling that this one, this one, would be different. Your persistence paid off from the first dazzling smile in the hospital, only hours after her birth. You knew that she would be your star.
You gave everything to her. All your wealth, all your encouragement, all your hope. She had the best nannies, the best tutors, the best clothes, the best schooling. While her sisters tripped over each other to vie for your gaze, it always landed on her, still as can be.
Her sisters disappointed over and over and your wife eventually grew bored of trying to build them up. But your youngest daughter flourished. She won pageants and decathlons and scholarships. And eventually, she won the heart of a very special boy.
A very special boy who proposed to her and then a week later, calls off the wedding.
You hadn’t seen much of your princess that week, but you made sure to have this afternoon free for the first wedding planning session. An engagement is a special thing, although not to the Chiles boy, it turns out.
He’s apparently convinced your daughter to wait until they're older, as if it’s any matter at all. But she doesn’t want to talk about the betrayal on the car ride home. No, all she wants to talk about is her sisters, of all people, and you wish that you’d left the quadruplets at home for once. You and your wife typically don’t like to leave them unattended, fearing they’ll embarrass you if left to their own devices. And, when your youngest is achieving yet another success, you want your other children there to see what a shining example your princess truly is.
Now, you regret letting them interact at all.
“Dorothy, are you sure you don’t know how to drive?” your youngest asks, voice frantic and with none of the natural poise you’re used to.
You see one of the quadruplets nod in the rearview mirror. “Dad always drives us everywhere we need to go,” she responds meekly. It’s true, not that any of the older girls have places to be all that often.
Your youngest looks furious. “Daisy,” she tries. “You haven’t had any medical training?”
Another quadruplet shakes her head, tears in her eyes. “You know I failed biology,” she whimpers.
You don’t know what’s gotten into your daughter. First, she has no qualms with the wedding being postponed. Now she’s insulting her sisters?
Your princess is uniquely kind. She’s always tried to uplift her sisters, although she’s never quite managed to do it.
Perhaps some of your own, more harsh nature is rubbing off on her.
You sigh. “Princess, adding insult to injury isn’t like you. Is everything alright?”
She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not trying to be rude,” she defends. “I’m just-” She looks at Dawn. “What is going on with everyone?” Her eyes shift to Dorothy. “Why aren’t you all engaged?” To Daisy. “Why do none of you have a college degree?” To Delilah. “Where have all of your passions gone?”
“That’s enough,” your wife says. “I know you like to encourage your sisters, but this is just cruel. Your sisters all know they’ll never be as good as you.” The quadruplets shrink back and you roll your eyes. “You don’t need to rub it in their faces," your wife finishes.
Your youngest works her jaw. “Just because you can’t see the promise in them doesn’t mean I can’t.”
It’s the same words she’d said only a few weeks before, when she'd suggested that her sisters could use some new clothes and you and your wife couldn't find a reason for it. But now, those same words sound wrong. Her voice is haunted and her eyes wild. Whatever’s happened with this wedding, she’s clearly taking it out on her sisters.
You want to throw the Chiles boy off a building. You want to defraud his future business. You want to take back whatever he seeped out of your daughter.
You can’t though. Instead, you wonder…
How do you give her back her shine?
What do you do when your daughter has her first break up?
You thought she was so happy with her. The two have been inseparable since they tied for first place in their sixth grade science fair. At first you'd overhear them bouncing more and more complex chemical formulas and biological phenomena off each other. Giggling when one of them suggested a particularly hard-to-test hypothesis, usually late into the night during one of their sleepovers.
Over the years, their time spent together increased and so did the intimacy of their conversations. You weren't sure what this meant until you overheard the two of them kissing during one of your routine sweeps of the hallway. Over breakfast the next morning, you gently reminded her that just because there isn't a risk of pregnancy, there's always a risk of STI transmission. She sputtered, clearly conflicted over being embarrassed or grateful. After you slid over a book about safely unfurling one’s internal erotic energy through crystals, she quickly settled on embarrassed.
She did, however, keep the book. Even if it was just to poke fun at the 'flawed logic' with Marcie when they hung out next. Your daughter has never been much for the spiritual, not since she learned about the water cycle in Kindergarten, disproving the work of the water nymphs you'd told her about. You don't think you've ever seen her look so devastated. Except, maybe, now.
All you did was ask her how Marcie is. The two had been out late again, surely capturing Lassiter gringol mollusks to survey the effects of mineral erosion.
Before you even finish your question though, she bursts into tears. Your daughter's words jumble together on a good day—thoughts all rushing to make it into the world. Upset like this, all you can make out is “all my fault” and “gone” and “end of the world”.
You never thought her to be much for drama, but you sooth your daughter nonetheless. You brush her hair from her face—red and wet and snotty now. She looks at you with such hope and you wonder what you did to deserve such a trusting girl.
You send her off to school with a midnight rose tea and a book on cleansing the soul after a lost relationship. You’re more than surprised to get a call only a few hours later from the attendance officer informing you that she skipped class.
Your daughter is two weeks away from graduation and has had perfect attendance since she threw up on her desk in first grade. (Your fault on that one. It was her birthday, so you thought she was nervous about being the center of attention. Not genuinely ill.)
Naturally, you call her cell phone ten times. When that doesn’t work, you drive to the Crystal Cove Library.
As always, you find her nose buried in a book, hidden away in the Life Sciences section. She wipes away the tears forming in her eyes, aching at whatever is going on in her head.
“Oh, sweetie,” you murmur, wishing desperately that you could take it all away. She looks up at you, confused and vulnerable.
“Mom?”
You sit down across from her. “What’s going on, dear?” Aside from the two of you, the library’s empty.
Your daughter is quiet for a while, her fingers tracing over the words on the page in front of her. At a glance, it appears to be a textbook about quantum mechanics. She never used to be interested in physics, but after Marcie, she’s brought all sorts of books home. You pass her a tissue from your purse when she sniffles again and that motion changes something in her demeanor.
“Mom, do you… you believe in the supernatural, right?”
You smile softly, trying not to betray your confusion. “Well I wouldn’t say that The Broken Spine has much to do with my love of horses.”
She ducks her head. “Right yeah.”
That makes you frown. You expect her to launch into her practiced speech about the merits of scientific reasoning. Not contemplate your response. “Dear, tell me what's wrong.”
“It's nothing.”
“It's something.”
She smiles against her will, her eyes still wet behind her glasses. “What do you know about parallel universes?”
“Well, I know that they're the cause behind déjà vu. And that when your nose itches for seemingly no reason, another version of yourself has died.” Come to think of it… your own nose had been terribly itchy yesterday. You'd taken an allergy pill, but there'd been no relief. You wonder what might have massacred the ‘you’s from so many other timelines.
Your daughter looks sick at the thought, not annoyed like you expect. “I just… I thought that the world was supposed to make sense. That there was cause and effect and that there were reasonable explanations for everything that happened. But I was wrong. So wrong, Mom.” She sobs now and you reach across the table to place a hand on her arm.
“Oh sweetie, you were never wrong.” The words taste like acid in your mouth. “Just…” You hesitate. “Believe in yourself.” Your chest fills with a sense of impending doom, dread spreading through your limbs. “And everything will work out just fine.” It’s the sort of promise every mother tells every daughter, but to you, right now, it sounds like ‘spoke too soon’ and foreshadowing and the horrible dreams that Nan describes at book club. It sounds like something you said before, except you can’t remember when or where or why. It’s… it’s déjà vu and you feel previously unannounced tears slide down your face. You clear your throat, forcing a bright smile. “Now, why don’t we go to the museum. I’m sure your father has some ice cream stashed away in the employee’s lounge. You can tell me all about what happened with Marcie.”
She agrees, but there’s still something hollow about her. She follows you out of the library, and softly, to herself, she says, “I never got to date Marcie.”
You turn the words over and over in your head and by the time you see the shining sign reading Crystal Cove Enchantment Museum above you and your husband's first child, you decide not to say anything. After all…
How do you remind your daughter of the love she doesn’t want to remember?
What do you do when the son you taught to be normal regresses?
“Mom, Dad, be honest,” your son insists, his insolence making your jaw clench. His fiancé is sitting close to him, her fingers clutching his shirt—an ugly thing you’ve never seen before. You try to rein in your irritation as he continues. “Are you sure you two have never touched a trap in your entire lives?”
“Traps?” you spit out, disgusted. “Son, you know we’re both-”
“Obstetricians,” your wife intercedes delicately. Your son cringes at the continuation and your eyes narrow at him. You’re surprised, yet grateful, that your wife is able to smooth over this situation in front of the Blakes. Your family’s social standing is on the line and your boy has the audacity to speak about traps so plainly?
“We bring babies into the world,” she adds, a reminder of their expectations for their son. A productive member of society, not some obsessive waste of space.
This… backsliding isn’t completely new. You first noticed it after your third twelve hour shift of the week. Over the years, you’ve painstakingly taught your son every phrase you could think of that he just doesn’t get. This morning though, you encouraged him to give his English exam his best shot, only for him to look at you dumbly. To add insult to injury, he went on to bluntly tell you, “It’s not a test of marksmanship.”
Earlier this week he’d proposed to his high school sweetheart after months of coaching. How had your child slipped so far in only a few short days?
You’d hoped that maybe he was just tired. While at the hospital last night, you’d heard on K-SUN local radio that the championship game had gone into overtime. To be safe, you consulted your wife and she agreed: your son is blunt again. He’s stopped making eye contact. And now, as if his behavior isn’t bad enough, he’s asked you about traps, in your living room, in front of very important company. As if he doesn’t know that you don't tolerate that kind of talk in your house. He acts like it's his birthday or Christmas—the days where he doesn't ask for a gift, just a chance to read Traps Illustrated and point out new models to you. And not the scantily-clad kind either.
You need to give your boy a final reminder of your expectations, so you say, “Happy babies, Judy.” Happy babies that will become upstanding, normal citizens and that won’t act like defects like your son.
“Thank you, Brad,” she responds sweetly, smiling at you. Her gaze is icy when it returns to your child. “Happy babies.”
Thankfully, your company is none the wiser, and his fiancé quickly changes the subject. It’s good to know that his future wife is just as willing as you are to be strict.
Unfortunately, you’re soon proven wrong. You apologize profusely for your child’s downright offensive behavior, following the Blakes as they drag their daughter out the front door. “We’ll talk to him,” you shout after the family.
“Don’t bother,” the other father calls back.
Clenching your jaw, you refrain from slamming the door. You sweep back into the living room, where your wife is holding your child in place with a stare.
Calling off the wedding? After all of the work that you and your wife have put into this pathetic child, you deserve your reward. Marrying that girl is his ticket to social acceptance and your ticket to an early retirement.
Your son flinches when you enter the room and that’s the last straw. The look he gives you is one of absolute fear. It’s worse than when you threw away his stupid bear when he was eight. You scoff. Your kid always needed help growing up and you decide this is no different.
He wouldn't have friends like Gary and Ethan if you hadn't shown him how to share his things. He wouldn't have a Blake, the Blake, daughter as a fiancé if you hadn't taught him to control his thoughts.
Your gaze skips across the room around you, finally landing on a forgotten yardstick. You grit your teeth, but pick it up, knowing...
How else do you instill your lessons?
What do you do when your star goalie hugs you tight the day before he disappears?
You’re exhausted from a late night at the stadium when you see that Gary and Ethan have driven a van onto your practice field. You sigh, but brighten slightly when you see Gary give your elusive goalie a hug.
You’ve written enough reports about him to know that this student doesn’t receive enough love at home. It’s nice to see him receive touch that is pleasant, rather than what you expect is typically painful. You’ve written the reports, but have never been able to file them. This student doesn’t answer, clamming up instantly, when you probe about his life outside of school.
You see the duo start to walk away, leaving your goalie and his girlfriend, so you jog over. Football try-outs for next season start soon and you need the field clear.
“This, this is my van?” you hear him say.
“Galloping goalies, of course it’s your van!” You almost laugh, but this student doesn’t always understand what the joke is and you don’t see the need to exclude him from another one. You tense when he flinches at your voice. “Now, will you kindly get it off my field?”
“Mayor Dad?” he asks, sounding almost reverent. You glance at his girlfriend, but she looks just as shocked.
“You’ve called me a lot of things over the years…” you say slowly, trying to figure out where this is coming from. “Mr. Jones, Coach Jones, Principal Jones. But definitely not ‘Mayor’. And never ‘Dad.” You adjust your glasses, your grin growing. “I gotta say, I like it.” You take in a deep breath. You’ve never said this before, but it’s only a couple weeks before graduation. It’s now or never. “You know, since I never had kids of my own, I’ve always thought of the students here at my high school as all my kids, but you-” You can’t help but put a hand on his shoulder, hoping he’ll hear your words for what they are: the truth. “You were always special.” You don’t mind that he doesn’t look you in the eye as you continue. “I’ve always been extra proud of you.”
You want to say more. Say that he shouldn’t listen to what his parents tell him. That his mind and experiences and dreams are valuable. That he deserves more than this tiny town. Instead, you pull out the disc that appeared on your desk last night and hold it out to him. You haven’t had a chance to watch the video, but the letter it came with promised that your student would be taken care of, supported in a way that he’s never gotten here. That you’ve never been able to provide. You hope he takes it for what it is. “By the way, my colleague at Miskatonic University sent this for you and your friends.” You hope he and Ethan and Gary will drive far away from this cove and never come back.
You start to walk away, but you don’t get far before he catches up to you.
“Mayor Dad, sir, I-” He takes in a deep breath and you pause, wanting to give him your full attention. “I know I told you before, in the Sitting Room, but I want you to know that I really do forgive you—for everything. You were a great dad. I get that we didn’t get to be father and son here, but for what it’s worth, our family of two was the best part of my life, too.” His smile is so earnest and hopeful that you can’t deny him. You haven’t a clue what he’s talking about though. What sitting room you were both in, what you needed to be forgiven for. Well, that last one… You wonder how terrible things must truly be for him at home, if he considers you as a true father, not just the figure of one. You wonder if he’s been waiting all four years that you’ve known him for you to step in, to file those reports.
“Thank you, Mayor Dad,” he whispers, hugging you without warning. He clings tightly to you, as if afraid that this will all go away in a flash. You hug him back with just as much force, squeezing as much of your care and pride into his skin as you can.
In that moment, you feel awash with shame. You’ve acted too late, you know it, but it doesn’t seem to matter to your student. Panic builds, starting in your chest and spreading rapidly. Why is he reaching out? Why now? Why acknowledge his parents’ mistreatment after years of denying it? Why-
His girlfriend takes a few steps toward you, and the feeling vanishes.
“Anyway, I’ll go show this video to the gang.” He holds it up, a timid smile on his face. “Thanks Dad.”
They leave, his girlfriend joining their fingers together and leaning in close to whisper in his ear.
The next morning, you get a call from the sheriff. Apparently, four of your students have gone missing, driving off in the middle of the night. Your stomach churns, but you’re unsurprised when your goalie’s name is on the list. You promise to come down to the station to answer questions about their behavior the last couple of days. As you drive there, still in your pajamas, you remember the hug from the previous afternoon. The tightness you felt then translates to desperation now. But there was nothing else to do. No other way to tell your goalie just how important he is—to you, to this world. Finally, you allow yourself to feel a sense of peace. He’s getting away. You resolve to answer the sheriff’s questions, but not to mention the disc. You won’t prevent the escape because, honestly…
How else do you instill your love?
What do you do when the children you raised are stolen by the ones who saved your lives?
The Anunnaki watches the restored Mystery Machine pass under Crystal Cove’s unblemished sign.
You let them go.