Shibusa

It's been 8,423 minutes since my son has spoken to me. Everyone tells me it’s normal, common even, for fourteen-year-olds to lock themselves in their rooms and ignore their parents, but I don’t believe it. This can’t be normal.

Go away.

I don’t want to eat.

These are the only words he ever says to me these days. When I first heard them, it was like an arrow to the chest, sharp, precise, and barbed. But now…now, I’m just thankful to hear his voice. There are some days where there’s nothing at all. I treasure his denials in this barren wasteland where every little movement is hoarded and memorized for reference, a reminder of life.

The church bells are about to strike twelve noon, the most important hour of the week. I stare at the pristine brown door. Every little detail is familiar: where the lines of the wood are just slightly slanted, where the rings are curved and where they start, where the pruned circles look back at me like eyes, staring, watching, guarding his door like a knight for his king.

Right on schedule, the guard moves aside, and a basket of laundry is delivered from the palace, my only clue to what is happening inside. I jump on the gift like a wild animal, pulling it away before they disappear. The sentinel is back into place, watching me with something close to pity. I ignore it and carry my prize away.

Time seems to slow down as I admire my collection: Clothes, bedsheets, pillow covers, and comforters. Everything is here, carrying with it the hint of all the secrets locked behind that well-defended palace. I start with comforter. The heavy dark quilt is warm to the touch. It’s possible he was using it just this morning, but he shouldn’t need it with the early spring weather.

A comforting barrage of warmth dances on my back as the sun streams through the windows. A few birds chirp a sweet melody outside. It’s a perfect day for gardening or a nice walk through the neighborhood. Maybe the world is dark and colder behind the oak sentinel. I turn to the thermostat and turn the heater on.

The pillow covers and bed sheets are next. These normally have very little to offer but I shake them down all the same. Sometimes I’ll find a pen or pencil stain somewhere, but there’s nothing like it today. The white silk slides through my fingers like water, trickling out of reach just like a colorful dream at the break of dawn. I put it off to the side. Those will go in the other load.

The last thing in the basket are the clothes, crowned jewels in this whole trove. They sparkle and shine, calling to be taken and investigated, picked apart and digested. I start with his sweaters. There are only two, one grey and the other a darker shade of grey. Both are larger than he is, but it’s the size he consistently picks to wear despite my suggestion he gets something smaller. There are holes in the sleeve by the cuffs. They’re not new, but they grow in number and magnitude every time I see them, multiplying like an infectious disease. Perhaps it’s time to buy him a fresh set. I put it on my to-do list. Surely, he won’t notice if it’s one size smaller.

His shirts are next. They’re the same size as the sweaters, but with intricate artwork splashed all over it. I recognize a few of the characters from games he used to play, but most are unfamiliar: A knight in full metal armor, one eye glowing red and leaving a trail behind him, a top hat over a fiery mask, a yellow motorcycle helmet with a scythe behind it.

I inspect them closely, but they’re old like the sweaters, though in much better conditions. The sleeves are short and perfectly in-tact. A bit of purple thread sticks out around the curve of the underarm. It’s not from the original threading and clashes with the black fabric. A mending. When did he learn to do that? How much time did it take? With a little more pride, I turn the shirts inside out before throwing them in the machine.

His jeans are last, my favorite of the cache. I pull each one out carefully, turning out the pockets first. An assortment of knickknacks litters the top of the dryer: a small bottle of hand sanitizer, pencils, an eraser, a small acorn and a wad of crumpled napkins.

I place them all neatly onto a tray, writing a little story in my mind. Has he been climbing trees? Or is there someone sick at school? There’s a dense forest surrounding the neighborhood. Maybe he’s been exploring and exercising while he walked home. The thought fills me with a sense of relief.

I turn back to the jeans itself. The bottom is run a little ragged, the thread coming undone and stained with both dirt and grass, old battle wounds that never healed. Like everything else, it was a size too large, but I’d hoped he would grow into them. Perhaps the lack of any new damage to the hem is an indication he had.

I start the machine and my clues disappears into a whirlwind of water and bubbles. They were my son now. His life, his hobbies, his interests. The things he used, wore, and slept on. I run my hand over the machine, but it is cold and unresponsive, just like the boy hidden inside his castle.

When everything is clean and neatly folded, I bring my treasures back to stoic warden. I return its empty gaze with one of my own. What did it know? What could it tell me if only it could speak? I place the basket on the floor, knocking softly on the polished wood.

A thin, pale arm quickly drags the basket inside, like a dragon amassing his gold. There is only a mere glimpse of my son’s face, withered and pale. Deep bags hang under his eyes, giving him the impression of a skeleton in spite of his strong cheekbones. His lips are dry and cracking, a violent maroon garden asking to be watered. All at once, the fantasy is broken, and the pieces are laid on the floor for all to see.

Then the door closes and all is quiet except for the ticking of the clock as time resumes, counting out the minutes until it opens once more.