The middle-aged woman in an outfit that I didn’t know still existed—pink stretch pants and a pink shirt with embroidered flowers—is on the verge of tears. “I’m Regina,” she says and dabs her eyes with a cloth handkerchief. “My son suffers from a mental disease. I haven’t seen him in five years.”
The other couple, Kristy and Dave, wear sweatpants, flannel shirts, and crosses around their necks. “Our son was killed in Afghanistan,” Kristy says, clutching the cross in her fist.
And then it’s my turn to introduce myself. I practiced at home, went over my words dozens of times, expecting the inescapable and obligatory introduction of my loss, and I faltered every time. I haven’t lost anyone. At least not yet. I believe Mia is alive but I don’t know where. I feel out of place, even more than I imagined when this moment played out in my mind.
“My name’s Estelle,” I say and take in a deep breath. I’m not sure what to say. My loss is unique, I’m in some elusive limbo state, not quite circle of life, yet all-encompassing.
“Hi, Estelle,” Eric says. “Welcome to Healing Hearts. Who have you lost?”
I remain silent. The young very large woman to my left takes pity on me.
“I’m Mary,” she says. “The first time can be difficult. This is only my second time here and last week I told the group about my sister Lilly. One day, in third grade, she didn’t come home after school.”
Mary pauses and I scrutinize her profile, want to see exactly what grief looks like on such a young face. Mary must be close to five hundred pounds, her thighs reach beyond the metal chair’s seat. She can’t be older than nineteen or so. She wears stretch pants and a large black T-shirt. There’s a velvety, light brown ring around her neck, indicating an advanced state of diabetes. I wonder if she knows. Her fingers are stubby knobs, her nails are bitten to the quick. Her face seems unaware of her loss, her porcelain skin is plumb and subtle, her eyes bright, surrounded by long lashes. Nothing about her speaks of pain but her shaky voice. I don’t notice any tears but Mary wipes her eyes with the back of her hand nonetheless. Maybe people run out of tears eventually, I think.
“May Christ hold her forever,” Kristy chimes in, and crosses herself. “God’s love is eternal.”
Mary stares at her and, after a brief pause, says, “Amen.”
I stick around, watch their chins quiver, hear their voices shake, watch them struggle as they attempt to reach beyond their pain, and I know I have to make a decision. I see myself, weeks from now, accepting invitations for coffee and a cheap King James Bible, partaking in grief retreats where I’ll be resting, hiking, and talking my pain away. And I know I can’t go there. All I can do is acknowledge the fact that my life has veered off into a direction I never could have imagined and that I can either succumb or withstand. And I choose the latter.
“Excuse me, I think I left my car lights on,” I say and get up and leave.
—
When Dr. Langston asks me about the group, I tell her it’s not for me.
“Different priorities, is all.”
“I know it’s not easy to speak in public about Mia. Each parent’s expression of pain is unique,” Dr. Langston says.
“I’d rather talk about finding her.”
“I’m worried about you, Estelle.”
“Why?” I can feel myself getting angry. Dr. Langston watches my emotions intently and she knows she’s hit the mark. Challenge is part of the manual.
“We’ve talked about this before, Estelle.”
“Are you telling me to stop looking?”
“No, I’m not. I want you to dedicate a part of each day to finding Mia. And the rest of the day I want dedicated to you. And maybe allow yourself to consider the other possibility.”
She’s been trying to get me to say it for weeks now but she must know she’ll never hear those words from me.
“She might not come back.” Dr. Langston’s voice trembles ever so slightly.
“You know what?”
“What?” She scoots to the front of her chair and listens intently.
“I think I left my car lights on,” I say.
CHAPTER 28
The air is sharp. Liquid ice stings my nostrils and seeps into my lungs. The first ten minutes of running in the cold sucks, but then I get warm and cozy. My legs loosen up, my breath settles into a steady rhythm, and I go on autopilot. Three miles later the cold air has dried out my airways and, after another mile, my lungs start to burn and a hacking cough forces me to stop every few minutes. The cold pavement crawls through the bottom of my running shoes up into my legs. Three layers of clothes, a thermal cap, and tights are no match for New York’s arctic air.
I finally give up and surrender to the cough. I spot a Starbucks down the street and decide to stop running for the day. I cut across Second Avenue and pause in front of an electronics store. Hot air blows up a shaft and through a grate, warming my feet. There’re numerous flat screens mounted on the walls of the store, all of them tuned to CNN. Silent pictures move across the screens when another coughing fit rips through me. I cup my hands around the coffee cup and the news ticker on the bottom of the screen catches my attention.
Breaking News.
My breath mingles with the steaming coffee and I jerk back as the hot liquid scalds my lips. I watch the headlines pass by.
Fundamentalist church raid under way.
Compound under investigation of child abuse.
84 children taken into custody.
I watch dozens of children in a neat line hold hands as they enter white buses parked by the side of the road. Behind them a group of women emerge from a building, shielding their eyes from the cameras. Some of them step off the porch as if to follow the children being carted off, others remain on the porch, crying, holding on to each other. Their pastel-colored dresses are buttoned up to the neck, reaching all the way to the ground. Their every step kicks up the dress seams, offering a glimpse at stocking-covered legs and dusty orthopedic shoes. Their hair is pinned into tall waves high above their foreheads, their faces are scrubbed clean. Red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks complete the picture of utter despair.
Another news flash creeps over the screen.
Children to remain in state custody while authorities investigate allegations of abuse.
One of the women’s braids has loosened and her red hair is reaching all the way to her lower back. She screams at the men escorting the children into the bus while the other women stand in silence, wiping their tears. A state trooper is motioning the woman to get back on the porch. The woman’s red hair floods around her as she raises a hand toward him as if to curse his very existence. Then the camera zooms in on her. Her lavender dress and her poufy strawberry hair can’t distract me from her hand. Deformed, covered in burn marks.
My intestines turn into a corkscrew, then my body surrenders. A flash, followed by a star falling toward the dark ground, illuminated, shining bright. A recollection, then a memory. Anna, the teenager, the aunt. Laura Dembry, member of the Church of Appointed Dominion.
My mind stills and the world around me turns fuzzy.
The haystack. I’ve found the haystack.
—
I reach for my phone. “Detective, this is Estelle. Estelle Paradise.” I have trouble catching my breath.
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line.
“Mrs. Paradise, how are you?”
“I’m calling you because I need your help.” I have trouble talking and breathing at the same time.
A pause. Then, “I’m no longer working with the same department. I’ve been reassigned. I can give you a number to call if you—”
“Are you watching the news?” I interrupt him when I finally catch my breath.
“What?”
“Police raided a compound. They took all the children.”
“I’m not watching, but I’m aware.”
“This is it.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Can we meet somewhere?”
A long silence. “Mrs. Paradise, I don’t—”
“In one hour. The Starbucks on Second Avenue and 50th.”
“There’s nothing I can do for you. Like I said, I’m no longer—”
“In one hour. I’ll be waiting.”
“Hold on a minute, I still don’t understand . . . what’s the raid got to do with anything?”
“I’ll be waiting,” I repeat and hang up the phone.
—
One hour later the words pour out of me. The raid. The children. Anna Lieberman, the woman with red hair is one of the mothers from the Dominion Compound in Plainview, New York. And maybe, just maybe, one of the children I watched on live TV boarding the buses is Mia. And no one at the precinct is willing to hear me out because any information on the minor children recovered from the compound will not be discussed until DNA analysis has been completed. And then they hung up the phone.
“One hour, Detective, one hour from here. She’s been this close all along.”
“How can you be sure the woman is Anna Lieberman?” Wilczek’s voice is intense, almost sharp.
“I think I’d recognize the woman who took my daughter. I also understand this is an ongoing investigation, but I need some information from you.”
“I checked the official list of names. There’s no Anna Lieberman. They won’t release any information until the investigation is complete. It’s not really out of the ordinary that they don’t want to talk about the case.”
“That’s why I called you.”
“I don’t think I’m the right man for you, I don’t have access to any information. Besides, I don’t know what you’re looking for.” He raises his hands, palms up. There’s a change in his demeanor suddenly, like a cloud’s shadow overhead. “I can’t do anything that’s against the law.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything illegal,” I say, but I don’t really know the legalities, and I don’t really care, which is just about the same thing to me.
“You don’t understand, I’ve had a lot going on lately, there were some problems at work, and I don’t need to get caught up in something . . .” His large thumb presses down on the domed plastic coffee cup lid. “Look”—he says and hesitates ever so slightly—“not that it makes any difference to you, but I’m going through a divorce. New York State maintenance is not exactly cheap. And I have a son. I can’t risk my job right now.”
I ignore his comment. I have no interest in his problems. I swallow, tell myself this doesn’t mean no, it means nothing. There’s a way, there’s always a way.
“One girl, Wilczek.” I study the dark circles under his eyes and his wrinkled shirt. His eyes are empty holes, lifeless. But I don’t care about any of this. “There’s one girl whose DNA doesn’t match any of the women from the compound. That girl, five years old, is my daughter. And I need to find her.” I imagine nurses with cotton swabs swiping the cheeks of children with large and frightened eyes. “I know there’s lengthy backlogs in every crime lab in the state and it could take months to get it all sorted out but—”
“Do you have any idea what kind of circus you’re dealing with? There are hundreds of DNA tests to be done. Figuring out who belongs to who will take months. And let’s not even take into consideration that they probably gave wrong names and ages. Everybody is someone’s mommy, every man’s someone’s uncle or daddy. It’s like untangling hundreds of fucking miles of Christmas lights.”
“But if she’s one of them, we’ll find her.” He cringes when I say we.
“Yes, I don’t doubt that but you’ll have to wait. The DNA testing will take some time.”
There’s too much frozen anger inside of me and I’ve been waiting for too long. “Hear me out, okay?” I fold my hands as if I’m about to pray. Did he grimace or did I imagine that?
“Five minutes,” he says and leans back. He swirls what’s left in the bottom of the cup and then downs it. “And I’m not promising anything.”
—
That night, I lie awake. I have kicked off the covers and I’m cold. I must have forgotten to close the blinds because the light of the moon spills into my room, its unforgiving brilliance restraining my breathing like a giant cat sitting on my chest. Reality seeps in slowly. When the pressure becomes unbearable, I sit up.
At night, when my mind drops its guard, the extent of what is my reality becomes too much. My thoughts turn daunting, unscalable. I close my eyes, allow fright to wash over me. I lie still as the panicky wave pounds me, crashes against me, shaking and weakening my foundation like waves eroding the base of a cliff.
I remain silent, patient. My fists are knotted, pushed against my stomach, where the fear originates. I give in, offer myself like a token, and I feel the pain subside. It pearls off me like water off an oily surface, unable to hold on.
Fear is no longer permanent, it passed and so did the doubts. Tomorrow is the day.
—
I hear a faint chime above the gallery door, its announcement so timid I almost miss it. Detective Wilczek is wearing a suit, a coat on top, and his eyes are wearier than I remember them. He has something to tell me, but I can’t read him just yet. He nods and we both stare at each other.
“Do you think you could take a break?” His demeanor lacks urgency. “Maybe we could go for a walk.”
I turn toward the framing room behind me. It’s filled with sounds of hammering nails, and the shellac wafting toward me is making my temples pound. I grab my coat from the hanger and lead the way.
New York in January is like stepping into a freezer. We stick our hands in our coat pockets as we pass naked winter trees lining the street. Temperatures are in the low twenties, spring is still months away, and warmth is so far removed from people’s minds that it almost sounds like a fairy tale no one can believe in. We turn to the right, toward a park. The cast-iron fence near the entrance is covered in ice. Our breaths mingle as we walk.
“She gave the authorities a different name. But it’s her. I talked to her aunt.” He allows it to sink in and waits patiently. “Anna’s gone,” he adds.
“When?” I ask, and my heartbeat accelerates rapidly.
“This morning. Her aunt told me she left days after the raid. Took all her belongings and a car from the compound, a blue Pontiac. Aunt wasn’t forthcoming with the plates.”
“Where are the children?” I ask.
“In state custody.”
“Are they all in one place or split up?”
Wilczek cocks his head and his eyes narrow. “I have a feeling you are about to do something really stupid.”
“Do you know where they are or don’t you?”
“I’m not sure, they usually end up in foster care or shelters, depending on their ages.”
“Can you find out?”
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t tell you. Don’t you get it? All you have to do is wait.”
I don’t have the patience to wait, I don’t even have the patience to respond to the possibility of waiting. “What if Anna takes her again?”
Wilczek inhales sharply. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the fact I didn’t die in the ravine messed up her plans. No one wanted a baby the entire country is looking for. Anna didn’t keep Mia all this time just to leave her behind now.”
“If Mia is one of the children . . . if.”
“If she takes her again, it’ll be too late. And where will I look then? How likely is it that I find her again?” I’ve raised my voice and stare back at a couple who’re eyeing us, wondering if we’re having an insignificant lover’s quarrel. “Tell me where the children are and leave the rest to me.”
“That’s a frighte
ning thought. You can’t possibly expect me to do that.”
“You can’t possibly expect me not to ask.” I won’t give up—he must know this. “How long do you think until she finds out where Mia is? She’ll try to abduct her again. She’s smart, she’s been under the radar for almost five years and never got caught.”
Days, we have merely days to act. And I have no clue how to convince him to help me.
As we walk on, we pass a little girl with sleek hair dancing on her head. She’s skipping up and down the sidewalk while her mother rocks a stroller back and forth.
I take in a deep breath, then I slow down my steps, peek at the kid in the stroller. Wrapped up in a pink blanket, hat, and mittens, is a toddler with a round face and rosy cheeks.
“What a beautiful baby,” I say. “She looks so happy.”
Mom goes on and on about how Emma, that’s her name, cries a lot and is difficult overall, “drama queen” she calls her, but calms down when she’s being rocked. I just nod when appropriate and manage an occasional smile.
“You have kids?” Mom asks me.
I stare at her for a second. “No,” I say and I feel the words vibrate in my throat, as if my body recognizes the lie I just told. It’s complicated, nothing you discuss on the street in passing.
Mom looks back and forth between me and Wilczek. I assume she’s torn between Are you trying, Maybe one day, or some other friendly token of sympathy for a still-childless couple.
I nod and manage a “Stay warm now” comment and Wilczek and I silently continue our walk.
“Do I have kids? That’s a hard question to answer, isn’t it?”
Wilczek’s eyes narrow. Then he looks away. He knows what’s coming but he can’t escape me.
“You said you had a son?”
“Yes.” Hesitantly, his eyes move around as if he wants to make sure no one is watching us.
“You see him a lot?”
“Every Sunday.”
“How old is he?”
“Two.”
“What does he like?”
Remember Mia Page 29
