Please Tell Me

by Mike Omer

Kathy’s feet hurt. She was barefoot. She remembered that once, long ago, she’d used to have shoes. She’d wear her shoes when she went outside to play. But those shoes were a distant memory, hazy and confusing. She remembered she sometimes didn’t like to put her shoes on. She’d argue with Mommy about it. Which now seemed strange. Kathy would have loved to have shoes.

“Hello? Yes. My name is Ian, and I just found a girl walking alone in the middle of the road? She’s really young . . . I don’t know what age. Six, I guess, or seven?” She was nine years old. She wanted to tell him that. But she didn’t have the words.

It’s bad enough they did another active shooter drill in school last week. And the kids keep talking about COVID all the time.” “Well, it’s part of their life,” Robin said. “Still . . . they should be talking about cartoons and birthday parties at this age. Not about social distancing and school shootings.

but still, that mermaid. Just left there, her face touching the ground. Kathy wasn’t one of those kids who left their toys behind for their parents to pick up. And definitely not her favorite mermaid.

This was another thing the pandemic had killed, along with millions of people. It had killed spontaneity.

In the beginning, she’d call Kathy’s name every thirty seconds or so, a hopeful, desperate shout. She’d hear others calling the girl’s name too. Now, her voice hoarse, she hardly ever called out anymore. And when she did, her voice no longer sounded hopeful. Hope had been replaced by fear.

“I always thought it was someone close to the family who took her,” Glenda said. “You know, because they say there was no struggle.”

Men shouldn’t be allowed to go shopping in the supermarket. They should be shot on sight if they walked in. Robin hated everyone.

There were no dolls in Mom’s dollhouse. She had never purchased dolls to live in it. As a child, it drove Robin crazy. Why would she work so hard to create this perfect mansion for dolls and then keep it empty?

He didn’t know why it was always underwear and socks that were chosen to hide dark secrets. No one ever hid their stash of cocaine among their shirts or pants.

A single armchair in front of the television screen.