Northern Virginia
Summer 1985
Freshly cut grass, blades falling off his tiny back, the familiar summer scent is like a distress signal for other lawns. If only three-year-old Seany were a blade of grass, he’d be warned. Instead, he shapes farm animals out of clouds while fiddling with his belly button. He squeezes his neck down to look past his chest, intent on his navel, but Spider-Man swinging across his briefs in red and blue ignites his imagination. He rolls over on the warm turf, calling out, “Mom, watch!”
Bounding past the tiny leaf bushes and lilac pansies, he shoots his webbing, exclaiming, “Choo-choo.”
“Jakers, I had no idea you had so much shit, Jolene-“ barks his father from behind the U-haul trailer, parked snugly against the closed garage.
“Language!” she chides from the attached Suburban.
“Christ-” he exclaims, his arms flailing as he brushes cigarette ash off his belly.
“Randy!”
His father exerts pressure on the lock until it finally clicks shut, sweat glistening on his back. “Mom, watch!” Seany repeats.
Holding his infant sister in one hand, his mother reaches into the backseat to separate Seany’s five, seven, and nine-year-old brothers. She snaps a look; the sudden attention causes shyness, but she nods to get on with it.
Seany leaps forward in a heroic half-wheel lands on his tiny knee, and once more shoots his webbing, exclaiming, “Choo, choo.”
After ensuring his mother’s safety, he turns to see if she watches, only to find his brothers’ fighting has stolen her attention back. I hate them. His father sinks into the front seat, his sweat-soaked back staining the upholstery as he flicks his cigarette to the curb. As always, his mother catches sight of him and launches into her usual tirade about how the boys would behave better if he attended church with them and set a better example. His snorting laugh in response only emphasizes the absurdity of her suggestion. The three boys in the backseat snicker while he dismisses their behavior as typical boyish antics. His mother, swallowing her resentment, turns away. “Sean, get in. We’re leaving for the new house.”
She’s upset. What did I do? Seany feels the earlier Hi-C fruit punch land in his bladder, signaling an urgent need for the bathroom. “Wait for me!”
He spins back toward the house, leaving behind the sound of his father’s curses and his mother’s yelling. The seven-year-old screams about something wet being put in his ear. His father’s yelling escalates, and his mother nags him about church again, prompting muttered curse words, “crock of shit,” from his father. The boys laugh as the roar of the Suburban’s engine fills the air.
Seany uses the bathroom in the foyer, adorned with miniature rose stripe wallpaper. Pulling down his Spider-Man undies, he realizes this is the last time he’ll use his potty train toilet. He pats the porcelain tank, expressing his gratitude as he flushes. Stepping out of the bathroom into the high ceilings of the foyer, his old house is now empty and hollow. “Thank you,” he murmurs, spreading his tiny arms and embracing the cool drywall.
Satisfied and excited for new adventures, Seany calls out, “Mom, watch!” as he leaps out of the colonial-style red brick home and into the air past the waving American flag. Landing on one knee, he rolls forward and tumbles through the grass, imagining Dr. Octopus’s menacing tentacles all over the suburban. With a flourish, he shoots his webbing, pretending to save everyone from the villain’s grasp. “Choo, choo.”
He halts mid-motion.
“Choo…choo…,” his voice trails off.
But there’s no Doc Oct because there’s no Suburban. The driveway lies empty. Seany spins toward the street, calling out again, “Choo, choo.”
They’re not there either. He walks to the curb, scanning left and right. Maybe his father is turning the caravan around. His tiny toes burn on the hot asphalt, and with a yelp, he dances back onto the grassy curb.
Seany tries to convince himself it must be a joke. They’re fake leaving and will surprise him any second. He edges closer to the lawn’s border and peers down the street. He’s too terrified to walk further than the neighbors. After all, how else will they find him when they turn around?
He leans over the edge, watching and waiting. Yet, nothing happens. His tiny mind pushes back the chilling thoughts. Did they leave me? What did I do wrong? Where is my family? I am alone. Like escaping from a dark basement convinced of attacking monsters, Seany is no match for his imagination. Dark, swirling clouds fill the sky above him, and he imagines the creature from Alien creeping behind the neighbor’s house. On the opposite side of the street, the forest behind the homes grows, and the oak trees tower over Seany, casting dark shadows. Ravens menace him from the branches, and the leaves shake and snicker at him as if he’s the joke. His Spidey sense tingles out of control.
He rushes back to the brick patio, seeking refuge. Nicking his foot on the edge, he stumbles and falls, scraping his knee and wincing. But he stifles any cry because that’s what big boys do.
Anger begins to rise: Why would they leave me?
Fear overtakes him: They left me!
Yet hope soars: No, they will come back, and Mommy will be in tears, holding me and never letting me go.
Seany scans the street, praying for their return, rubbing his foot and leg until the pain subsides. To his young mind, a minute is an eternity. The new house seems so far away, taking ten years to travel, so he tells himself to keep on the lookout. “They’re coming back,” he repeats aloud as if to ward off the scary monsters around him.
A white Cadillac, massive as a motorboat with its colossal hood, pulls up in front of the house. The Italian mother from the end of the street rolls down her window, smoke curling from her long, thin cigarette. “Ar-you okaya, Seany?” she asks.
She’s peculiar, resembling the witch from Sleeping Beauty. Always dressed in black from head to toe—hair, clothes, eyes, and even a mustache. Her daughter is Seany’s babysitter, though he never enjoys her lessons on how French frogs kiss.
She seems genuinely concerned. Seany wants to ask her for help, but he can’t bring himself to say aloud, “They left me,” as if uttering the words would make it true.
“Seany?” she prompts again.
His young mind may not grasp profound existential thoughts yet, but his body experiences a sprawling sense of unease, an instinctual recognition of something being wrong. He senses only nausea, a tingling burn in his chest, and a general feeling of discomfort, making his eyes water. The longer she stares, the more intense the sensation becomes. She parks the car and steps out. Glancing down at his undies, Seany wonders, WWSMD—What would Spider-Man do? “Where-a is tua madre?” she asks, approaching.
In his imagination, she transforms from all-black to all-red, becoming the Scarlet Witch, one of Spider-Man’s enemies. Oh no! He must escape. Launching off the patio, he speeds past her confused face and hurtles himself down the hill.
His bowling ball of a body careens to the end of the street. It’s a four-way intersection leading deeper into the neighborhood, and Seany has never ventured this far alone. Panicking, he veers, rolling through the corner neighbor’s yard at the last second. He hurries behind a giant Red Maple tree to hide from the Scarlet Witch. Peering around the trunk, he sees she’s given up and drives home. He exhales, patting the Maple tree, thanking it for its protection. But then his eyes widen in surprise. Blood is smeared across the trunk. Terrified, his childish mind races, and he scans his body, discovering blood gushing from his kneecap, the top layer of skin dangling. It must’ve happened in the crash landing. Overwhelmed, he collapses. This is when he’d normally cry for his mother or father. But they’re not there. No one is there. No one is coming. He’s alone.
Across the street, the whirring of a leaf blower halts. An older man, wearing what looks like a jet pack on his back and holding a long, black tube, observes Seany from afar. His kindly grandma-wife often treats the neighbor kids to orange creamsicles and lets them pluck Lamb’s Ear from her garden because the leaves are soft and fuzzy. The old man tilts his head and starts marching toward Seany. “Are you okay, son? Where are your parents?”
Seany springs to his feet and pedals backward. This old man is here to help him; why is he backing away? He’s reminiscent of Seany’s Grandpa—a kind man, though his mother sometimes says otherwise. Seany hesitates, wary that if he says something, his parents might get into trouble and face a lecture from Grandpa. He reaches the curb’s edge and peeks over his shoulder. The neighborhood ahead is like a forbidden, dark woods; he turns back to the old man approaching. What would Spider-Man do?
Suddenly, the old man transforms into Doctor Octopus. Oh no! “Do you want a sherbet? Maybe we can figure out where your parents are?”
His nice grandma-wife steps out from the front door. Doc Oct mumbles something about the neighbor kid being lost. But when he turns back, Seany has vanished.
His tiny, bare feet slap against the hot concrete sidewalk, leading him deeper into the “forbidden forest.” He steals a glance back to see Doc Oct has given up. Thank goodness. Sean halts, leaning forward to catch his breath. The blood is drying down his little calf. He battles the urge to collapse and cry out for his parents once more. But now he’s lost, and danger lurks everywhere. He isn’t safe. This is scarier than any dark basement Seany’s ever been in. Man-eating spiders, ugly ogres, trolls, and evil, nasty men seem to be lurking around every corner, waiting to harm Seany. The terrors close in around him, overwhelming him with fear. He doesn’t know where he is or what to do. He buries his head in his legs, desperate for it all to stop. Please, Mommy, please, Daddy, please find me.
What feels like hours pass, and it becomes increasingly difficult to move, think, or do anything. The blood on his knee mingles with his tears. Suddenly, a burst of anger and frustration propels his hand down onto the grass, sending little white fairies from dandelion seed heads swirling around him. It sparks a memory of his mother telling him that you’re supposed to make a wish and blow on the dandelion, and it carries them off to come true. Seany plucks one, “I wish my mommy and daddy would find me right now.”
The tiny pods break off, spinning into the sky, carrying Sean’s breath and hope into the future. A Lincoln Towncar rumbles by; Seany dashes behind a tree, uncertain why he’s hiding, and wraps his arms around the trunk. The older woman passes without slowing. She must’ve assumed this was his yard. But this isn’t my yard; this isn’t my tree. I don’t have one because I’ve been forgotten.
But the weight of the meaning behind his parents’ actions is only felt and not understood. Seany has no frame of reference beyond his parents, nothing to compare to; the only connection is himself. So his young mind can not understand what’s happening, but somehow knows it’s bad and must be his fault. Beyond that, his mental defenses labor to compartmentalize the feeling that he isn’t enough as he is. Otherwise, they would have remembered him.
His tears fall on his briefs, on Spidey swinging. What would Spider-Man do? He would protect those in need and fight against unfairness. An achy rage swells inside Sean. He needs a protector. His parents are supposed to do it, but now he must. He stands back up, resolute, imagining finding the new home and his parents returning to see how brave he’s become.
Seany spots a tire swing, now highlighted in a ray of sunshine, at a house corner from him. It takes him a beat, but he remembers seeing the tire swing on the multiple trips back and forth between homes. His tiny hands clap in excitement – a direction. And, so, our young hero forges onward.
What feels like many more hours later, Seany, dehydrated and boiling under the Sahara sun, gets to another four-way intersection and stops. He surveys each road to determine which way to go. But he has no idea. A young woman walks by with her giant, furry, white dog so humongous Seany can ride him. Her eyes are warm like sunbeams, and she sighs, observing Seany’s lip quivering. Her eyes grow concerned, and she stops, “Are you okay?” she says, realizing his bare body is bloodied, muddied, and bruised.
She pulls back her white dog, “Are you lost?”
Seany doesn’t answer. She kneels. Her eyes are not sad like his mother’s. Seany likes the safety of this young woman’s gaze, but he’s halfway up the street before he realizes he ran from her.
He reaches the next corner before he looks back. He doesn’t want to run from her. But she’s another villain, or perhaps she is Auntie M, Spidey’s adopted Aunt. She can adopt Seany and pretend none of this ever happened. He looks back, but she is gone.
Dejected, lost, and hopeless, Seany gives up, his shoulders slumping. He tells himself he doesn’t care about his parents getting in trouble; the next person he runs into, he will tell them and say to his mother, “Mommy, you left me!” And be so mad at her.
Sitting on the corner, pouting and sad, he looks down the turn—wait a minute. He knows this street. He knows this cul-de-sac. Jumping up, he realizes, “Wait, it’s my street, it’s my street.” Relief rinses his dread, and he is animated once again.
Savoring the thought of them, seeing how brave he is as he marches down the street, he recalls counting his house as the fourth one on the left. He almost cries, seeing the glowing golden-yellow weeping willow in his side yard peeking over the neighbor’s bushes.
Approaching the driveway, he sees the Suburban’s front end backed into the driveway and hears his brothers before spotting them. They’re chasing each other around the U-haul trailer, playing tag. That’s odd. Maybe his father is out looking for him. His father appears shirtless and sweaty from inside the house, grabbing another box from the trailer. His mother must be out looking for him. He begrudgingly tries to spot her from across his green mile. But he doesn’t. Thank goodness. Stepping onto the driveway, he determines how best to respond to his mother when she returns to find him. Maybe I promise to be good or not yell like Daddy and do what Mommy says.
But then he hears it—a nervous ahem. It’s a pitch unique to his mother. Even amidst a crowd of other mothers at church, Seany can pick her out by her distinct throat clearing. The sound mocks him, reminiscent of the cackling of Spider-Man’s arch-nemesis, The Green Goblin. Oh no! Spidey walked into a trap.
A crushing realization dawns as our young hero spots his mother behind the rear passenger door, holding his infant sister in one hand and struggling to retrieve a bag with the other…
…they hadn’t even noticed he was gone.