Hide and Seek

For as long as I can remember, I have had this faded green glass duck, and my older brother has loved hiding it from me. I’m not sure where I got it from exactly. Probably from one of the thousands of garage sales our aunt had taken us to.

I used to cry every time it would disappear, screaming and wailing to our mother as my brother denied taking it. It wasn’t until I ran to Dad that he suddenly remembered where he might have seen it last.

I toted that duck to school, to church, into the woods where it stood guard against the Dragons that came to hunt us. Even as the paint chipped and crumbled into my cereal bowl, I held tight to the figurine.

When our aunt died, I took solace the first time the duck moved from my nightstand to the silverware drawer in the kitchen. It never moved too far and was much easier to find. My brother denied it, of course, but every time the duck disappeared, I smiled to myself, remembering the aunt who loved us.

Through college and the endless job hunt of my twenties, my whole family would gather once a week at the apartment my brother and I shared. As we laughed and ate, I would find the duck behind the milk in the fridge, or the next day it would be sitting in the passenger seat of my car.

Eventually, I got married and moved in with my husband. In the days before our honeymoon, we rushed to move in all of my essentials to our new house, so we didn’t have to worry about it when we got home.

In the stress of the move, I lost the duck. I cried for days, calling my brother at all hours, begging him to look around the apartment again. And when I realized who I was talking to, I would go over myself to check. As the days turned to weeks and there was no sign of its return, all hope of ever finding it again was lost.

And then, the weeks flowed into months and years; life moved on, and I had little time to consider the lost relic. My daughter was born, and two years later we welcomed our son. My husband got a fantastic job as a travel nurse as our son turned three. Since then, most nights it's just the three of us. The kids have adjusted pretty quickly as we kept their routines as consistent as possible. Bath time at 6, reading at 6:30, bed by 7.

Last night, my son was getting fussy earlier than usual. Even as my daughter played with him, trying to distract him, he would quickly fall back into fits of crying. She did her best; she enjoys her role as big sister, but as the tears continued, her resolve began to crumble. Around 5 p.m., I was reaching my limit as well.

I spooned out spaghetti onto each of their plates and went to start the bath. As the tub filled, I noticed the bubble bath was empty. I tossed the bottle into the garbage, pulling a new one from under the sink. But as I slid the cupboard door closed, a faint green glow caught my attention. I opened the door back up, dissolving the green glow in the fluorescent bathroom light.

I bent down, moving cleaning supplies aside, pulling the giant bottle of bleach from the far corner of the cupboard, whipping away cobwebs. But when everything was removed, the green glow was gone as well.

I blinked away the image, giving my head a shake, and reminding myself to call my brother after I put the kids to bed. As I shut the tap off, something shattered in the dining room, sending me sprinting back down the hall.

My daughter stood in the kitchen; ceramic shards mixed with spaghetti sat in a pile at her feet. Her eyes were wide, with tomato sauce painted from her chin to her nose. Her eyes met mine; her lip began to quiver, and her big eyes filled with tears.

Every parenting class and book I’ve read ran through my head instantly. I opened my mouth to respond when a little laugh rippled from behind us.

We both turned to see my son, with even more spaghetti sauce splashed over him, seemingly massaged into his hair, and plastered across his arms and lap. His mouth was wide open as he guffawed, revealing unchewed pasta stuffed in his cheeks.

A small, strangled laugh escaped me, and then another, tumbling over each other until tears ran down my cheeks as I cackled. Though they were confused for a moment, the kids couldn’t help but laugh as well. I laughed until I was out of breath, until my side hurt, and then I laughed some more.

Eventually, I took a deep breath and wiped my damp cheeks. I pulled my daughter from the mess in the kitchen, setting her on my hip. My son’s hands were already outstretched expectantly as I went to pull him from his highchair.

We made our way towards the bedroom where the sound of running water rippled from behind the bathroom door. My brow furrowed as I bent at an odd angle, struggling to get a firm grip on the door handle. Eventually, I sighed, set the kids down, and reached for the door.

An overwhelming ache settled in my stomach, my shoulders tense as I pushed the door open. The room was filled with steam, as water poured over the edge of the tub. I stepped inside, slipping on the wet tile. I collided with the side of the bath, my knees buckling as I sank to the floor. The thick layer of bubbles had already spread over the floor, some floating in the thick air. As the water sloshed, a faint green glow emanated from within. At the bottom of the bath sat the faded green glass duck.