***
Four days after the funeral, Caleb shuffled into the kitchen while I was making scrambled eggs.
“Mom, my back hurts,” he said.
I glanced over. “From yesterday’s baseball practice?”
“Maybe. It started last night.”
I checked his back, but there were no bruises or swelling. “You probably pulled something.”
I found the ointment the doctor once prescribed and rubbed it into his lower back. “You’ll be fine. Try to stretch before bed.”
“Mom, my back hurts.”
***
The following morning, Caleb stood in my doorway, pale and frustrated.
“Mom, I can’t sleep in my bed. It hurts to lie on the mattress.”
That caught my attention. So I went into his room, but the bed looked normal. I pressed down on the mattress. It felt firm but not broken. I checked the frame and the slats underneath.
“Maybe it’s the box spring,” I muttered.
Caleb crossed his arms, uncertain.
I pressed down on the mattress.
I ran my palm slowly across the center of the mattress, and it felt normal. But then, beneath the padding, I felt something solid and rectangular.
I flipped the mattress over.
At first glance, everything looked fine. Then I noticed faint stitching near the middle, small seams that didn’t match the factory pattern. The thread was slightly darker, as if someone had resewn it by hand.
A chill crept up my spine.
At first glance, everything looked fine.
“Caleb, did you cut this?”
His eyes widened. “No! I swear, Mom.”
I believed him.
My fingers trembled as I traced the seam. It had been done intentionally.
“Go watch TV,” I told him.
“Why?”
“Just go. Please.”
“No! I swear, Mom.”
Once he left, I grabbed a pair of scissors.
I hesitated for a second.
Part of me didn’t want to know. But if I did nothing, the mysterious object would remain there.
I cut through the stitching. When I reached inside the mattress, my hand brushed against cold metal. I pulled out a small metal box. I carried the box to the bedroom I once shared with Daniel and shut the door.
