Everyone Sees the Invisible Kid

Jolt 1) Defibrillator

Every year at the Kaison family reunion, mom tells the story about The Disappearance.

"David and I were absolutely hysterical," she took a sip of the mysterious concoction sloshing around in her clear Solo cup between every few sentences, perpetually staining the rim with dark red lipstick. Most of the adults gathered around the benches, loading up their bellies with Twisted Tea, barbecue, onion infested potato salad, and no-bake cheesecake that I had zero chance of tasting.

I envied my younger cousins who were having the time of their lives sword fighting with popsicle sticks and flinging dead beetles at each other that they'd found floating in the swimming pool. I remember how it felt to be their age, swallowing chlorine and tooth-achingly sweet lemonade in equal measures. Things were better back then, easier. The wave of nostalgia hit like bricks, introducing a deep ache in the pit of my stomach.

I wanted to be alone, to retreat into my room that mom liked to call my cell, but there was no eject button on my seat and mom held me hostage with her hand, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. I was the star of the story, after all, and I had to be present every time she told it, to be her little visual aid, which was extremely ironic all things considered.

"I yelled at David; David yelled at me. Our precious baby boy gone from his crib. Just like that! Like magic! Poof!" She continued.

"Right from under our noses with only his little blue monkey romper, right Annie?" my dad chimed in. He wasn't in my line of sight, but his voice was coming from somewhere behind me, probably throwing more dogs on the grill.

"That's right," she placed a hand on her chest and tossed her head back, giving a delighted laugh.

"While he was phoning the police," she continued, "I suddenly heard this crying—Andy wasn't much of a crier, but it was him. I heard him so clearly, like he was right in the nursery with me. He was! Only I couldn't see him anymore and neither could Dave. No one could! We only knew he was safe for certain once we saw the onesie moving. Andy was kicking his little feet, screaming at the top of his lungs as if to say 'I'm right here mommy and daddy!'"

Mom gave a wistful sigh, caught in the emotion of what that day brought—how my disappearance changed our lives. Still, she continued with a thankful smile on her face.

"Of all the things that ran through my mind that day, I thought the worst of the worst happened to him. Maybe kidnapped or he had fallen from his crib or something, but no. He was safe. Our perfect, healthy seven-month-old baby. Oh, I still remember how he looked the last time we saw him—his chubby little face. Now look at how big he is."

"We would if we could," uncle Samm blurted out, pulling a few dry laughs from the family. For some reason mostly everything that comes out of his mouth feels like a heckle, beggary, or a backhanded compliment. I used to be terrified of him when I was a kid, but then I realized he was just loud and sweaty and simply avoided him during family visits like this.

Uncle Samm has this thing where he'll look at you real intently for a minute before slowly lifting his stubby index finger and digging it into your chest all to make some obnoxious "I want you" statement like a pink, overweight version of the real, well propaganda poster Uncle Sam. "I want you...to have a happy birthday!" I want you...to bring me another slice of that good ol' pie!" Or whatever statement fits the occasion.

Uncle Timm, his twin is almost just as bad; he's pudgy too but nowhere near Uncle Samm's size. He's usually the one that likes to joke about my appearance, or rather lack thereof. I'd already heard his little "didn't see you there," comments over five times today, and he'd only just gotten started. I've always imagined them as the ultimate eyesore and earsore package from hell—even mom not so endearingly refers to them as The Deluxe Duo.