If I Disappear, Will She Notice? / Chapter 5: Love That Never Was
If I Disappear, Will She Notice?

If I Disappear, Will She Notice?

Author: Randall Conrad

Chapter 5: Love That Never Was

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"Help! Mom! Help me! Mom!"

My mind spun—my mom's face, my dad's, my familiar home.

All of it folded in an instant.

I was back on that ten-below-zero winter night.

Headlights flashed as a dusty white van sped past me.

The glare made it hard to see.

The van drove past, then backed up.

It stopped next to me.

A heavyset man and several others got out.

They blocked my way, dragged me into the van.

It all happened in seconds.

On that empty street, nobody saw a thing.

Of course.

That street wasn't where the soup cart lady set up shop.

How could she have been there, really?

And how could an old lady have saved me, anyway?

"Help! Help me!"

Inside the pitch-black van, the men's sweat and cigarette smoke mixed in the air as the van bumped along.

I struggled and screamed for help.

But they knocked me out with some kind of drug.

Before I passed out, I saw the van drive past my apartment complex.

The place where the lights were warm.

When I woke up, all I could hear was the sound of surgical tools.

The ceiling was stained and warped, mold and water damage everywhere, ready to fall in.

I couldn't move, my mind foggy.

But I knew—I was about to die.

I really was about to die.

Would my mom be sad?

Would she regret it?

The "doctor" injected something into my arm, making me more alert.

But I didn't want to be awake.

I was so scared.

Scared of the instruments, scared of this terrifying place!

Mom, help me!

I don't want to die!

My struggle caught the "doctor's" attention.

She spoke in a language I couldn't understand.

Why wouldn't my mom come? Why wouldn't she ever believe me?

Was it just because I was ugly?

I grabbed the "doctor's" sleeve.

Half-conscious, I asked her one question.

"Ma'am, am I really that ugly?"

So ugly my mom hated me. So ugly, nobody ever loved me.

But I never hurt anyone—why was everything always my fault?

The "doctor" seemed to understand. She laughed, her English rough and broken.

"As long as you're healthy, that's all that matters."

How ironic.

Only at a moment like this did my looks not matter.

It hurt so much.

It hurt, Mom.

I was so scared, so, so scared.

But why?

Even at the edge of death, I still called for "Mom."

I wish I'd never cared about her, never sought her love.

Then I wouldn't have felt so wronged, wouldn't have had so many questions.

If only I’d stopped caring.

But right up to the very end,

I still wondered—

Why didn't my mom love me?

Would she be sad?

Three days after I died.

I hadn't been to school for two days, so my homeroom teacher called home.

"Hello, Ellie's mom? What's going on? Is she sick?"

"Oh, she's just being rebellious. Ran away from home."

"She hasn't come home? You haven't looked for her?"

"She's probably at Grandma's. It's not the first time—she's spoiled."

"Have you called her grandma to check?"

...

"Hello, Mom? Ellie's with you, right?"

"Our girl? She hasn't come here—what's wrong? Did something happen?"

"...Oh, it's nothing. She stole from her sister, I scolded her, and she ran away. Probably at a friend's. Always causing trouble! She just makes my life harder."

"You'd better call around and ask. When did she leave? Honestly, how do you argue with a child and not even look for her? Where's her dad? Go find her!"

...

"Hello, homeroom teacher."

"Hey, Ellie's mom. So, is she at Grandma's?"

"She's just running around. I called to ask—does she have any close friends? Do you have their numbers?"

"You're her parent—you don't know who her friends are? Ellie is an excellent student. We all like her. But lately, the kids have been calling her names. Did you know?"

"I know, they're just playing. It's nothing..."

"That's not right. If I called you names, would you be okay with it? And then say it's just for fun? Anyway, you should probably call the police. Do it now!"

...

"Eleanor Thompson's guardian? Please sign here."

When the police called, my dad was sitting on the curb outside the station, smoking. His hands shook as he flicked ash onto the concrete.

The cigarette butt hit the ground. The wind scattered the ashes.

"You go."

"You go."

My mom went in and signed.

No hesitation, no tears, no questions for the police.

She just wanted it over. Her face was blank.

My death was just a sudden accident to her.

Blame me for being immature.

Blame the criminals for their evil.

But not herself.

Just like she never admitted she treated me badly.

"So what if I'm biased? People are biased by nature."

That night, when they got home, Savannah started crying the moment she opened the door.

"Mom, I'm scared."

She tried to hug my mom.

"Stay back," my mom said, pulling her away. "Bring me the sage bundle I set up."

Savannah brought the sage bundle to the door.

My mom bent down and lit it.

"Walk through the smoke—let the bad luck burn off."

She wafted the smoke toward us, then hugged Savannah. "Don't be scared. It's okay, Mommy's here."

My dad stayed outside.

"What are you doing? Get in here!"

"Wait, let me finish my cigarette."

"Stop smoking! Get in! Can't you see Savannah's crying?"

He gave in, stubbed out his cigarette, walked through the smoke, and went inside.

"Walk through the smoke—let the bad luck burn off."

Yeah—if they didn't love me when I was alive, why would they feel guilty after I died?

To her, my death was just the consequence of me not listening.

She'd always been that way.

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