Words cannot describe how awful it was the day my brother disappeared.
I loved my brother. Everyone did. It was impossible not to develop affection for the kid. The thing was, my brother was very autistic. Not only this but he was born 28 weeks early, resulting in a significant growth stunt. In layman’s terms, on top of being autistic, he was also very small for his age. His autism made it difficult for us to understand him, but the thing we all understood was his love. He loved everyone, and would often give hugs to whomever he met. Even the postman. Some people with autism don’t like physical contact, but Simon was the complete opposite. He would spread out his arms and rush toward you for a loving cuddle. If you were standing, he’d often latch onto your leg, like a koala. It was adorable. Of course, he would have his difficulties, too. He’d often eat things he shouldn’t have eaten, and get into places he shouldn’t have gotten into. As many a toddler does.
My mother would always become extremely worried whenever she couldn’t find Simon. “It’s a tough world out there. I just get so scared for him,” she would say.
We all worried for him. Our family, our friends, and our neighbors. We all kept an eye on sweet little Simon. He looked so small, a light breeze might’ve knocked him over. Nonetheless, he kept doing his own thing. I was amazed by his optimism, in all honesty. I loved my brother. We all loved my brother.
This is why it was so devastating when, on a Sunday in 1989, at the age of 4, my brother vanished. I remember the day distinctly. I was clearing objects away from the floor and loading them onto my bed when my mother peered in through the doorway.
“Have you seen your brother?” she asked.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked this question. I said I hadn’t. My mother muttered thanks, walking away hurriedly. Trying to put off any concerns, I began to vacuum my room, reasoning that Simon was probably hiding somewhere in the backyard. However, my fears quickly got the better of me. Stopping mid-vacuuming, I listened to my mother’s voice from the kitchen. She sounded on the verge of tears. From the scraps of conversation I heard, it seemed she was now calling the police.
The police came by. They did a quick sweep of the property, with no results. Apparently, the front door had been left open. It was a possibility that Simon had wandered into the street. My neighbors sadly admitted they hadn’t seen Simon around the area. No one had seen him. No one had heard him. Upon learning about Simon’s condition, the police amplified their search. Simon couldn’t have gotten far, they reasoned. Still, it was very unsafe for a little kid like Simon to be out there on his own.
The search continued into the night. It expanded. Volunteers quickly joined, my mother, father and I included. Our neighbors helped, our friends helped, everyone pitched in. We searched the suburbs, the woods, the lakes. We called for him. Pleaded for him to give us a sign that he was there. That he was okay. Of course, even if he heard us, it was unlikely he would respond. Eventually, I was so tired, I simply couldn’t keep walking. My stress and anxiety sapped all my energy. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I needed sleep.
That night was the beginning of some of the worst nights of sleep in my life. My anxiety had heightened my senses. My eyes darted toward every movement in the shadows. My ears concentrated on every noise. I wasn’t scared. I was looking for Simon. The springs of my mattress seemed to press into my body harder than usual, as I broke into a cold sweat. Every sense was amplified. My body was on high alert. Trying to find Simon. Trying to find a sign of where he’d gone. I lay there on my bed, convincing myself that he would be found. That he was closer than we thought. But for the next 6 days, Simon would remain missing.
By the second day, the police were determining Simon’s last known whereabouts. What they ascertained was this: Simon was last seen drawing a picture in the kitchen by my father. My father left to shave in the bathroom, and somewhere during that time, my mother and I came home. I went to clean my bedroom, while my mother went to the kitchen with some groceries. She found Simon’s drawing, which was an indecipherable bunch of scribbles. Simon had clearly gotten bored and cut the drawing with a pair of scissors. However, neither Simon nor these scissors could be found. Worried that Simon would hurt himself with this implement, my mother quickly searched the house for him. She asked my father and I where he was. Neither of us knew. Soon, it seemed evident my brother wasn’t home at all. Ten minutes later, my mother was contacting the police.
My father and I backed up this story. The police thanked us and went on their way. But now, my anxiety was worse than ever. Where was Simon? Was he hurt? Scared? Alone? These questions plagued me all day long. As did the terrible ‘ifs.’ Everyone had them. The moment something had gone wrong, the moment a person disappeared or died in a tragic accident, we all thought to ourselves: If I had done this thing, would they still be alive? If I had just paid more attention, would my loved one still be here? Those terrible ‘ifs’ tormented my family. All throughout the days, the bags under our eyes deepened, and the distance in our behavior grew. Regret latched onto us like a parasite.
Sometimes, my mother and father would argue. “If you hadn’t gone to the bathroom…” she would say.
And he would respond, “If you hadn’t left the front door open…”
And all the while, I would think to myself, “If I had just gone to check on him…”
We were determined to find something to blame. Even if that thing was ourselves. My father, typically a strong man, would burst into tears at any point in the day. My mother would try to comfort him, but her eyes would look onwards, her consoling monotonous and empty. She would try to take care of me, too, but the last thing I wanted was comforting. I wanted answers. I wanted an explanation. I wanted to know where my brother was. It made me miserable that I couldn’t answer these questions. That not even the police could. I would lay there, trying to sleep, queries whirling restlessly around in my head. My family barely slept during the night. And we were barely present during the day.
I stopped taking care of myself. I wouldn’t shower, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t go to school. My bedroom was quickly in shambles, coke bottles and dust littering the floor. I would just frequent my uncomfortable mattress, all throughout the days and nights. The springs seemed to dig into my back, keeping me up even if I actually wanted to sleep. The mattress became filthier and greyer by the day, while I continued not to shower, not to clean. I would just ruminate, wallowing in my grief and regret. It was ironic. That mattress was like a big, ugly metaphor. A metaphor for how we felt. For how rotten this conundrum was. For how shattered my family was. While we were once a fresh apple, we were now decaying from the very center. It didn’t help that summer was rolling in, and the flies were taking a fancy as I lay there.
We put up ‘MISSING’ posters. We asked anyone we could think of. We contacted the police, day in and day out, to no revelations. The police were being called by dozens of people who thought they had seen this or heard that. But these calls all led nowhere. We did everything we could to find my brother. To find little Simon. As my mother said, it was a tough world out there. Simon was 4, for god’s sake. 4! He wouldn’t last on his own. By the time the 5th day had passed, my parents were losing hope.
That night, as we sat together on the couch, my father looked at Simon’s favorite spot, an area on the carpet where he would lay on his stomach and watch us with innocent eyes. My father stared at that spot, which now remained empty, and finally, he broke. He’d been crying all through these awful days, these days without Simon. He’d cried so much I thought he would pass out from dehydration. But this time, he didn’t cry. He wailed. He screamed in anguish, and my mother tried to comfort him again, but then she just snapped, too. She began to sob as well, with tears that were held back by trauma and fear breaking free. I couldn’t bear to watch. I couldn’t bear to see my parents like this. Choking back tears of my own, I fled the room, my thoughts so loud it was like a chainsaw in my head:
Where the hell is Simon? Where did he go? Did someone kidnap him? Did he wander off? Is he hiding in some crevice, never to be found? Is he hurt? Dear god, is he hurt? If only I’d gone to check on him. If only I’d closed the front door behind mom. If only.
If.
Traversing through my mess of a room, I lay down on my bed and cried. I cried my damn heart out. I just wanted to know where my brother was. I was so, so, so fucking scared for him. So scared of what might’ve happened. Those bed springs seemed to press harder into my ribs than ever, like the fluff in my bed was deflating. The heat crept in through the window, as did the flies. Even mosquitoes joined the fun. I just lay there, as the critters made themselves at home, wishing that Simon would be found. Praying that Simon would be found.
On the 6th day, I awoke. I knew I smelled bad. I knew I just needed a shower, just needed to pick myself up. I couldn’t stay down forever. I needed to keep pressing forwards. To finally cry, in all honesty, did me a great service. I felt better. A lot better. I didn’t feel happy, and I don’t know how I ever could again, but emotionally I felt… cleansed. I went to the bathroom, and for the first time in almost a whole week, I actually took a damn shower. I know, it’s gross to read a sentence like that. But it felt good. The water felt like another metaphor, as it washed away my thin layer of filth. I stepped out of the shower and decided my next trick would be to tidy up that damn bedroom.
I stepped into my room and surveyed the mess. God, it was depressing to look at. I bent down to start picking up the coke bottles on the floor and looked at the mattress next to me. I paused. Christ, how much more metaphorical could this mattress get? There was a split in the side. Just like how this family was splitting apart.
Or splitting at the seams, I thought.
I groaned, leaning forward, then paused. My mattress really did smell awful. It was getting worse by the day. Was I sweating too much, or what? I bent down by the split in the bed, fingering the corners of it. It was a long split and looked like it’d been here for days. I wondered what could’ve caused it. Probably those awful springs in the mattress. Yet, the more I looked at this split… It looked wrong. It looked too… wonky. Not like a natural, physical split. This looked more like a tear. A tear created by a human hand. No, not even that. It looked like an implement had been guided across the side of my mattress by a human hand. Like someone had gone at it with a boxcutter, or a knife, or hell, even a pair of…
…scissors.
I stopped. I leaned closer still. The flies, still apparently increasing in numbers with the ramping summer heat, buzzed around me. But now I realized, it wasn’t me they were interested in. It was the mattress. The mattress that I had been lying on for days. What the fuck would they want with my mattress? I grabbed the upper lip of the tear and lifted it. I was met with a revolting smell - and as I looked closer, I registered what I was looking at.
I began to gag. I retched and before I knew it, I was stumbling towards the bathroom, emptying my dinner into the toilet. I let it all out, and then I began to scream. My fingers were shaking, my whole body was shaking, and as I was later told, I was paler than a sheet. My mother hurried into the bathroom, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Through horrified tears, I stammered incoherent sentences. Barely understanding, she proceeded to my bedroom. Soon, my mother began screaming too. She screamed so hard it was like her vocal cords were going to shatter. I’ve never heard anything like it. That scream came from somewhere primal.
15 minutes later, the police were back at our home. I sat at the kitchen table, not responding to any of their questions. Just staring at the table. Remembering my restless nights on that mattress. Remembering the awkward bulges beneath the fabric. The bulges that I thought were springs. I could hear them in my bedroom. Talking. Remarking on the smell. The flies. I heard terminology that’s haunted me for years. Terms like, “immobilized.” Terms like, “smothered.” Terms like, “mechanical asphyxia.” Terms like, “decomposition.”
At one point, officers walked past me, carrying evidence bags full of mattress stuffing. “…kicked under the bed,” I overheard one of them saying. “Excavated a whole lot of it to make room. I can’t even figure out how he got past the springs. He was damn small, though. Really wriggled himself in there.”
Words cannot describe how awful it was the day my brother was found.