Won't Not

I scan the room for Charlie’s blue overalls, waiting for him to pop from behind a bookshelf or from within the play kitchen. A group of two-year-olds tumbles over one another on the story mat, none of them Charlie. More dance along with animated creatures on the television. Usually, I find Charlie there: gazing at the screen, mouth hanging open, entranced. Every couple of weeks, he disappears like this, and I find him under a pile of toddlers or turning the pages of a book behind the changing table.

I search the room again and imagine approaching his teacher, asking, “Where’s Charlie?”

She’ll turn, put on her teacher smile, say, “Charlie?”

“Charlie,” I’ll repeat. “My boy.”

Her smile will turn quizzical. She’ll glance behind her, then say, “You didn’t bring him in today.”

The snack cup will drop from my fingers. I’ll break out in a sweat. I’ll stumble, and the teacher will grab my elbow. She’ll lower me to the ground. The world will close in around me, but I’ll fight my way back, will insist on calling the police.

The daycare will change its story. They’ll insist they don’t know me, that they have no children named Charlie.

“Then why do I have this?” I’ll ask, shaking a snack cup of goldfish crackers in the director’s face.

The police will encourage me to go home, to get my life together. They’ll use those words: get your life together. I’ll be offended. I’ll stamp my foot, scream, ignore the nervous glances from other parents. I’ll yell, “Don’t trust them! They’ll lose your kid and pretend you’re the crazy one.” An officer will try to grab my arm, lead me to my car, but I’ll pull away, scream, “Don’t touch me, pig,” which will win me no friends.

Then, another mom will approach, say, “You’re Charlie’s mom, right?” and I’ll relax even though I don’t know her.

“Yes,” I’ll say. “I am. I’m Charlie’s mom.”

Relief will flood my entire body. The police will look at me differently then—I won’t be the crazy lady. I’ll be a victim. They’ll forget about the pig comment. The daycare teacher will back away slowly, a new look on her face. The director will go pale, and someone will stop her before she can sneak out a side door. The police will say, “Let’s start over,” and there will be searches, interrogations. The whole town will rally around me. They’ll wear shirts that say, “Justice for Charlie.”

For the first week, there will be a flurry of activity, groups searching empty buildings, open fields, banks of trees. Dogs will sniff Charlie’s dirty clothes and scramble after his scent. I’ll stand in front of television cameras and hold pictures of Charlie’s smiling face. I’ll beg people to come forward with information, no matter how small. I’ll tell the world how Charlie likes chocolate ice cream but not vanilla, how he says beow instead of meow, how I sing him to sleep with Beatles songs. Weeks into the search, once all but the local news has forgotten us, when the posters on telephone poles are wilted and I’m the only one still wearing my t-shirt, they’ll find a body. I’ll shake and cry when I hear the news, but it won’t be Charlie. Too old, they’ll say. Not the right clothing. That’s when I’ll know deep in my bones that no one will ever find my little boy, that I’ll become a cautionary tale people tell expectant parents. They’ll whisper about daycare research, about trusting your kids with strangers. They won’t blame me, but they won’t not either.

I shake myself, realize I’m sweating, that my heart is beating too hard. I scan the room, scrutinize every brown-haired boy. I peek behind the bookshelf, into the play kitchen, behind the changing table. I pick through a pile of toddlers.

Finally, I touch the teacher’s arm, say, “Where’s Charlie?”

She turns, puts on her teacher smile, says, “Charlie?”

Laura Leigh Morris (she/her/hers) is the author of The Stone Catchers: A Novel (UP Kentucky, August 2024) and Jaws of Life: Stories (West Virginia UP, 2018). “Won’t Not” is part of a series of stories she thinks of as uncanny domestics. Others have been published at Redivider, JMWW, Laurel Review, and other journals. She teaches writing at Furman University in Greenville, SC.