Searching Lucas

A few blocks away from Sylvia's apartment was a park with a jungle gym, swing sets, a merry-go-round, a few benches, and a hiking trail down to a copse of trees that gave a view to a small, pristine lake. It was favorable from a walking distance, as it took Lucas five minutes to get there. It was Lucas's excuse to get away from the apartment—or rather Sylvia, as she hadn't taken him to the park since he was twelve. Back when Sylvia moved after Michael's untimely death, she then upgraded her status: from stepmother to Lucas's adoptive mother. But the title motherhood had borne its heavy meaning onto Sylvia. Sure, she'd been attentive to Lucas and his needs, despite not sharing the same blood as hers. Or Michael.

But as Lucas and I walked to the park, I noticed how he had become livelier. When Michael was around, Lucas—and me—became someone else. Michael's vision of the ideal child: as unnoticeable and discreet as possible. Someone who required little to no attention.

Over time we had become stagnant, complete with automatic responses when Michael asked questions. If he asked about school, it was easier to give a vague answer rather than dwell on the difficulties of having a negligent father—in Lucas's case, not having his parents.

Now Lucas swayed his noodle-like arms and straightened his posture. Without our parents—without Michael—it's like we've recovered a piece of our independence, one we didn't know we missed.

It could've been my sudden appearance. Five years is a long time away.

Being here probably made Lucas remember how overly difficult it was not to have a spokesperson, someone to look up to when the whole world brimmed with pessimism. More accurately, someone who could relate to him.

"Nobody told you?" Lucas asked. We walked side to side, never bumping into each other. Lucas's height was also a noticeable trait. I remember when he was half my size. I used to hold his hand. He'd move his small legs, catching up with my pace.

Lucas sported a yellow hoodie despite the summer heat and purple basketball shorts that showed his predictable hairy legs. He wore a pair of Jordans, white with red embellishment—I wondered if Sylvia bought them for him.

I also wondered if Sylvia allowed Lucas to grow his hair to a short afro, knowing our Mom wouldn't have allowed Lucas to grow his hair more than three inches. Lucas wasn't the only one taking advantage of Mom's absence to do what he desired.

"No," I kept my gaze straight down the sidewalk. "No one told me,"

"Why not?"

In a way, I didn't want to know.

Sylvia called one time on my apartment phone. During that time, I was progressing: I was paying my rent on time, my regimen had improved, and mentally I was in a state of tranquility. Sylvia's voice on the other line disrupted the calm waters in a ripple. She threw a rock, disturbing the calmness of the water.

"Jess?"

I didn't reply as I was stunned to hear Sylvia's voice. I wanted to hang up. I didn't care about the motive of her call, as if whatever she had to say wouldn't convince or entertain me. Michael could have found a stash of jewelry valued in thousands of dollars for all I care.

"Hello? Are you there?"

Sylvia could probably hear my breathing and the way my nostrils took a sharp inhale.

"Is Lucas OK?"

"Yes, he's fine."

"Good,"

"It's about your father—"

I hung up. That was the last I heard from Sylvia. She probably was about to break the news to me. Her voice sounded broken, took Sylvia an immense effort for her to talk. Her voice had become a distant memory: both unrecognizable and familiar.