The kid’s name is Thomas, Tom for short.
I know this, as does the entire grocery store, because he is wandering around, tugging on the sleeves of strangers, and introducing himself as such, cracker crumbs dropping from his mouth. Nobody asked where his mother is, or what he is doing, toddling around by himself, which was surprising, considering he looks just days over five years old.
It didn’t take long before it was my purse strap he was yanking.
“My name is Thomas, Tom for short!” he spittles, looking up at me with giant, round eyes. I can almost see my reflection in them.
“Hello, Tom! My name is Annie.”
“Hi, Annie!” he beams up at me.
Crouching down, I ask him where his parents are. The smile that was radiating from his face milliseconds ago vanishes in an instant.
“My parents?” I almost wish I hadn’t asked the question, if only to prevent the look of despair growing on his face. He says somberly, “I don’t know where they are.”
“That’s okay, I can help you find them. What do they look like?”
He describes them as a lady with a large hat with a feather, and a man with a mustache that curls into a half moon. We spend the next half hour hand in hand, roaming the small grocery store looking for people who match his description.
When it became evident that there were no such people in the store anymore, no one knew what to do with Tom.
“We can call the police. They’d know what to do,” Bert, the store owner, suggested.
A murmur of customers around agreed.
Of course, this is always the first solution to pop into people’s minds in this situation. It makes sense. But I know how it will turn out. I was once a lost child myself, and I know it is not a pleasurable experience, to be lost and afraid, giant men with guns transporting you around like cargo.
“No. Let me take him for the day. If his parents come back looking for him, you have my phone number, Bert.” He was an old friend of mine.
It took some persuasion, but eventually, I bought some more crackers for Tom, and we were walking out of the store and towards the town park.
We spent the day together, getting ice cream and going to a toy museum. He seemed immensely fascinated by the ice cream, and pointed out toys from a hundred years ago, exclaiming, “I’ve played with that one!” or “I remember this one!” I brushed off his statements, knowing that toy horses and trains has been around for centuries. When the day turned towards night and Tom’s parents still hadn’t shown up, I became concerned. What if they purposefully left him there? What will happen if no one claims him as their son? Where will he go? What will happen to him?
My thoughts were interrupted as Tom tugged my sleeve. We were walking on the riverfront road in the dusk, guided by the glowing lamps scattered along the path. Ice cream stains the corners of his mouth and his shirt.
“Annie, I’m tired. Can I go to bed now?”
“Thomas—”
“Tom.”
“Tom, your parents haven’t shown up to come get you yet. Once they come get you, you can rest.”
“What if they don’t show up?”
I think for a moment. The silence drags on for eternity.
“I don’t know.”
I notice his shoes are untied, so I stoop down to tie them.
“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll go home now.”
It takes a moment for his words to process in my mind. Why hasn’t it crossed my mind to ask him where his home is?
“Tom, where? Where is your home?” I ask, exasperated as my head whips up to look at him.
But he didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, and his skin was…glowing?
“What—”
In the span of a second, he dissipates, the shoelaces in my hands disappearing until my fingers are holding nothing but air.
And where a little boy stood a moment ago, there was nothing. Nothing at all.
It takes my mind much too long to understand.
Thomas was a ghost.
I know this, as does the entire grocery store, because he is wandering around, tugging on the sleeves of strangers, and introducing himself as such, cracker crumbs dropping from his mouth. Nobody asked where his mother is, or what he is doing, toddling around by himself, which was surprising, considering he looks just days over five years old.
It didn’t take long before it was my purse strap he was yanking.
“My name is Thomas, Tom for short!” he spittles, looking up at me with giant, round eyes. I can almost see my reflection in them.
“Hello, Tom! My name is Annie.”
“Hi, Annie!” he beams up at me.
Crouching down, I ask him where his parents are. The smile that was radiating from his face milliseconds ago vanishes in an instant.
“My parents?” I almost wish I hadn’t asked the question, if only to prevent the look of despair growing on his face. He says somberly, “I don’t know where they are.”
“That’s okay, I can help you find them. What do they look like?”
He describes them as a lady with a large hat with a feather, and a man with a mustache that curls into a half moon. We spend the next half hour hand in hand, roaming the small grocery store looking for people who match his description.
When it became evident that there were no such people in the store anymore, no one knew what to do with Tom.
“We can call the police. They’d know what to do,” Bert, the store owner, suggested.
A murmur of customers around agreed.
Of course, this is always the first solution to pop into people’s minds in this situation. It makes sense. But I know how it will turn out. I was once a lost child myself, and I know it is not a pleasurable experience, to be lost and afraid, giant men with guns transporting you around like cargo.
“No. Let me take him for the day. If his parents come back looking for him, you have my phone number, Bert.” He was an old friend of mine.
It took some persuasion, but eventually, I bought some more crackers for Tom, and we were walking out of the store and towards the town park.
We spent the day together, getting ice cream and going to a toy museum. He seemed immensely fascinated by the ice cream, and pointed out toys from a hundred years ago, exclaiming, “I’ve played with that one!” or “I remember this one!” I brushed off his statements, knowing that toy horses and trains has been around for centuries. When the day turned towards night and Tom’s parents still hadn’t shown up, I became concerned. What if they purposefully left him there? What will happen if no one claims him as their son? Where will he go? What will happen to him?
My thoughts were interrupted as Tom tugged my sleeve. We were walking on the riverfront road in the dusk, guided by the glowing lamps scattered along the path. Ice cream stains the corners of his mouth and his shirt.
“Annie, I’m tired. Can I go to bed now?”
“Thomas—”
“Tom.”
“Tom, your parents haven’t shown up to come get you yet. Once they come get you, you can rest.”
“What if they don’t show up?”
I think for a moment. The silence drags on for eternity.
“I don’t know.”
I notice his shoes are untied, so I stoop down to tie them.
“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll go home now.”
It takes a moment for his words to process in my mind. Why hasn’t it crossed my mind to ask him where his home is?
“Tom, where? Where is your home?” I ask, exasperated as my head whips up to look at him.
But he didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, and his skin was…glowing?
“What—”
In the span of a second, he dissipates, the shoelaces in my hands disappearing until my fingers are holding nothing but air.
And where a little boy stood a moment ago, there was nothing. Nothing at all.
It takes my mind much too long to understand.
Thomas was a ghost.
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