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Sunsets

Brian Hawkins

    Since my sister’s disappearance, I’ve taken to sitting in the living room with the lights off until mom gets home.
    In late summer, the room stays bright as the sun creeps toward the horizon in a line that bisects our bay window almost perfectly. With the curtains open, the house fills with oranges and reds - pretty in a sad kind of way, but not healthy. Colors more suitable for paintings in cheap hotel rooms than homes where people live. These sunsets shadow everything until darkness swallows the room from the bottom up, eating the last of the sickly light.
    Winter’s different. The darkness comes fast, so suddenly I don’t even know how it happens. Or when. If the cloud cover is not too heavy, I can see the sun drop from the sky like a pool ball into the corner pocket. This all feels much cleaner to me. No lingering light making me want to yearn for the day I’m losing. No false hope. In winter, the day gives way to night quickly and quietly, as it should.
    Tonight, mom’s a little early getting home, but the sun has already set and I’m sitting in almost complete darkness. As soon as she opens the door, she flips on the ceiling fan light, a harsh compact florescent, and looks at me with surprise, probably feigned.
    She tells me I scared her then asks if I have eaten; I say that I have not. She goes to the kitchen, I to my room.
    Don’t be too hard on her. Three months ago, dad left, too. At least we know where he is.
    In my room, I put on a Billy Joel tape and lie back on my bed to listen to “The Stranger” and a couple other songs until dinner. I keep the lights off here, as well.
    Soon, a soft knock on the door precedes a tray with a pickle loaf sandwich, some green beans, and a small bowl of applesauce. She says I need to eat, that I need to stay healthy, that she doesn’t want to lose me. She hardly ever cries when she says this. Not these days.
    I give her a hard look that she probably can’t see. I’ll eat, I say.
    She turns to leave, then stops. We’ll probably find Sara soon, she mumbles. Then dad will come back and everything will be better.
    I don’t answer. She closes the door behind her.
    Before I turn on the small table lamp so that I can see to nibble on my dinner, I reach my hand under the bed to feel if the note is still there. The note from Sara addressed to me, to Jake. Her brother. The note I found on the kitchen table the night she never came home. I have to slide down a bit to reach deep enough into the space between the mattress and the box springs, and, for a moment, I can’t find it. My heart almost explodes with equal parts fear and relief. Maybe there is no note. Maybe there never was.
    Soon, however, my fingers brush the edges of the paper, and I know it is still there. That it is still mine to hold onto.
    I do not take it out from under the bed, nor do I read it. I don’t have to.
    I turn on the light, the soft incandescent bulb doing little more than illuminating my immediate area. I can see my applesauce, and I could read the note if I wanted.
    But I already know what it says.
    And what would it matter anyway?

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