by Rea Frey
All of the mistakes I’d made gathered in a sloppy bundle: the red dress, the red bow, the hotel, all of the store runs, the public outings in small towns, Ethan, the cashier, the cop at the cabin, the license plate, the car, the stops, the fireworks, the waitress, the paper trail of receipts, and the two of us, heading across the country, east.
Emma had become too important to me to be so careless. We were too far in to climb our way out. I only cared about what happened to us now; the us that had formed in the last month and transformed everything I knew about myself into someone else.
It was too late to pretend we were ever going back. Something had been decided on that phone call with Brad, with Hal, and here, with this officer, who had taken a singular look at my life and tried to make sense of a two-minute scene in his day. To him, I was a mother driving her daughter to see her grandparents in Illinois. If he looked a little closer, he could have seen the truth. How our features didn’t quite add up; how our car supplies suggested too much time on the road. How the descriptions of the vehicle, the woman, and the missing girl matched us here, on this trajectory from west to east.
The miles fell away as the thoughts plagued me. That officer could still wake in the dead of night, in an attempt to scratch an itch, when he realized the real reason that child’s face looked so damn familiar. Because she was someone else too.
But by then we’d be too far. If I had to ditch my car and get another, I’d do it. If I had to disappear to the other side of the country with lies in my heart, fine. Whatever it took to get us out of the public eye in these small, nondescript, but highly observant towns. I wanted a new, more anonymous reality. No more clumsy attempts to hide out. No more sneaking in and out of hotels and rentals. We had to shrug on our new identities like familiar overcoats and believe in who we were becoming. Emma was no longer the girl in the red dress with the red bow. She was the blonde in a jumper with a round belly and stories from the road. I was the woman who’d changed her and given her another choice.
I knew, from my own past, that if I’d been offered a hand in the woods—to stay put or to take a new, uncertain path—I would have run. Because girls like us didn’t have much to lose. Emma had a whole world to gain, and I wanted to be the one to give it to her. I wanted to give her a second chance at a life I wanted to live.
after
We bumped along I-90 East. Traffic was thick as we crossed into the city, slowing almost to a crawl as the “L” rocketed past us—the blue line, if I remembered correctly. We’d stopped on the outskirts of town to get a bulb for my taillight, and I’d looked up a video on how to install it myself. As long as I didn’t speed, there should be no reason to be pulled over, especially not here.
“See that Emma? That’s called the L train.”
“Why is it called the L? Is it like the letter L?”
“Yes, it is like the letter L.”
“Maybe because it’s really l-l-loud?”
I laughed. “That would make sense, wouldn’t it?” I switched lanes. “It’s actually short for the word elevated, which sounds like the letter L. Do you know what elevated means?”
Emma stabbed the air with her index finger. “Like up?”
“That’s right. It’s aboveground. Most of the trains run on top of the ground here instead of underneath the ground. Isn’t that cool?”
I pointed out the skyline. The buildings rose up and down in a straight line like uneven Legos, black and reflective. I missed the dissected view of Portland mountains, how they outlined the buildings but never detracted from them, how they were an enhancement to all the shops and people happily meandering about. Here, it was just rows and rows of buildings clustered in a neat little grid.
I’d checked the temperature on the way into Chicago. They were in the middle of a cool week—a mere sixty-five degrees—which was a welcome reprieve from the recent summer humidity. I realized I had no appropriate clothes for cooler weather, other than a few pairs of leggings and cardigans.
We eased forward, closer to downtown. We were going to stay at the Sofitel, which was right in the thick of it, just off the edge of the famed Magnificent Mile. I’d stayed there once with Lisa and had almost died from happiness. It was quiet and walkable to much of the city. The valet service would be an expensive nightmare, but I didn’t care. It was time to relax in a bit of luxury.
We’d have to go shopping—maybe on Michigan Avenue—or perhaps even to that horrible American Girl place Lisa had dragged me to on our last girls’ weekend so she could buy overpriced dolls for her daughter.
My gut clenched thinking of Lisa. I’d communicated with her via text only, telling her I was busy with work. She was used to my insane travel schedule. We often went weeks without speaking. I could have concocted the same story about finding my mother, but I knew if she heard my voice, she’d figure something out, and I wasn’t ready to blatantly lie to my best friend.
I pointed out the Willis Tower—I still thought of it as the Sears—and the John Hancock Building. I told Emma about Millennium Park, the new Maggie Daley Park, and the outdoor ice rink. Chicago was one of my favorite target markets for TACK. I’d spent the last few years here on business trips, and I never tired of the city.
“Can we go to that park? Can we go there now? Please?”
The thought of finding parking and not losing her in the sea of children and props made me nervous. Here, I’d have to make sure she held my hand and looked both ways before crossing the street.
This child had been in the car more the last month than she’d probably ever been in her entire life. I felt guilty. She needed to run, jump, stretch her limbs, study the skyline, and think of nothing but being a child and playing with other children.
“You know what? Sure. Why not?”
I knew how to get downtown, but I had no clue where to park. As we inched along with the late afternoon traffic, I let myself relax into the anonymity of all of these faceless people.
We found parking five blocks away for an exorbitant hourly rate, and I pulled a sweater from her bag and helped her shrug it on. I was kicking myself for not having one with a hood, but she insisted she was fine.
“Why is it chilly here when it’s summer?”
I took her hand as we began walking toward the lake, the wind biting into our cheeks and ruffling our hair. “Chicago sometimes gets really cool weather out of nowhere.”
“It’s so windy,” she said, and I had to lean down to hear her soft voice over all the noise. Her breath smelled like apples—she’d been obsessed with saying, “Smell my breath!” lately after she ate anything—and I nodded at her observation.
“Chicago gets very windy. Do you know why it’s called the Windy City?”
“Because it’s windy?”
“That’s what I thought too! But it’s actually because Chicago was famous for some of the bad people who used to live here. They blew a lot of hot air from their mouths, which means—”
“How do you blow hot air?” She exhaled. “My breath isn’t hot.”
“It’s just an expression, like ‘it’s raining cats and dogs.’”
“But it doesn’t rain cats and dogs.”
“I know! And that’s like these bad people. They told a lot of lies, and the city’s nickname just kind of stuck.”
“Do they get tornadoes here?”
“Not in the city. There are too many buildings.”
“What about earthquakes?”
“Not that I know of.” I ruffled the top of her hair, hoping to ease her mind.
We came to Michigan Avenue, and I smiled. It felt good to be in a city again and out of the sticks. I reveled in the chatter of passersby, in the hiss of buses and cabs weaving in and out of traffic.
We waited to cross and then fell into step with all the locals and tourists. I could see the giant silver bean gleaming a hundred feet away, and I pointed it out to her.
“Is that a real bean? Can you eat it?”
“We could try!” I said, a
nd we jogged toward it, my hand glued to hers. I will not lose her.
Emma pushed through the small gaggle of children to stand in front of the sculpture, her fingers instantly abandoning mine. I tried to stay calm, to keep sight of her as she stared up at her own reflection in the enormous metal exterior. She pressed her palms to it, as though she were going to give it a hug.
“You try, Sarah!”
I joined her and extended my arms against the shiny surface. Our magnified reflections bounced and curved in the afternoon light.
“We’re giants!” she screamed.
We traipsed toward Maggie Daley Park, stepping onto a curvy bridge that twisted over the street.
“This looks like a snake, Sarah. Look!” She ran ahead and hoisted herself up the side of the walkway. Cars zipped below. I placed my hands on her hips and soaked in the scaly metal beast dissecting the park from downtown.
“Do you see the lake over there? That’s Lake Michigan.” Straight ahead, off the bridge and across Lakeshore Drive, the twinkling teal water jerked with hundreds of boats and passengers all fighting for summer space.
“The park! There it is!” Emma took off running. I trotted behind her as we arced around the last few feet of the walkway and spilled onto the perimeter of the park.
Fake boats, cargo nets, ladders, oversized swings, bridges, winding gardens, and massive steel slides huddled in their own contained cocoon against the city skyline. An ice ribbon snaked around a segment of the park; children squealed, shouted, and climbed on wooden towers joined by a rope bridge. Colorful rubber matting gave beneath our shoes like a sponge. Everywhere I looked, I could see the tinkling glass and various mid- and high-level skyscrapers erected around us.
“Holy moly,” Emma exclaimed. Her body tensed, preparing to run, but I caught her by the shoulders.
“Emma, you have to stay where I can see you, okay? It would be very easy for you to get lost here.”
She nodded, her mind already on the man-made paradise that awaited her.
“Can I do the slides?”
I’d never seen Emma so excited. I nodded and followed her up a tiny hill, elbowing my way past a small child to hop on the slide next to hers. We raced each other down, and I kept pace with her, jogging, climbing, and playing until beads of sweat erupted at my hairline. She begged to take her sweater off, but I said no.
Kids were running everywhere, frantic parents trying to keep step, to not lose sight, to just hold on. In my bag, my phone vibrated. I made sure to keep my eyes on Emma and grabbed it, noticing my dad’s number. My father never called during the day—what if something had happened? “Hello?”
“Sarah. Sarah, is that you?”
I moved forward to keep up with Emma. “Of course it’s me, Dad. Is everything okay?”
“It’s loud. Where are you?”
This was just like my father to call me for something and then get caught up in the minutiae. He had the attention span of a fly. “I’m … I’m at a school playground. Research for my next kit. What’s going on?”
“Well, I have some news I need to share with you. It’s about your mother.”
I felt as though I’d been punched. He had not said “your mother” in years. Had I somehow willed my mother into existence by making up a story of looking for her? I turned my back—it was only for a moment—to register what he was saying. It was three seconds, tops, but when I turned back around, realizing my mistake, I’d lost sight of her. I dropped the phone, my heart seizing. Should I call her name? Did that expose me? I panned my eyes—left to right, right to left—but I couldn’t see her. No. No, no, no. I picked up the phone. “Dad, let me call you back.”
I hung up and began racing toward the drawbridge, doubling back to where we’d last been. The hysteria bubbled and swirled. I wanted to laugh at the irony and cry from fear. This couldn’t be happening. Would she run away? The thought was as devastating as being forced to give her up. After all this time, did she want to get away from me?
I made continuous circles, looking for her cropped hair, her pink sweater, her tight red pants, her ankle boots that were just a little too big. Her name was in my throat, fighting a desperate bid to keep my mouth shut—but I couldn’t. This was too much; it would be too much if I lost her.
I gathered all the air in my belly and swallowed the fear clogging my throat. I opened my mouth and screamed her name as loud as I could. I refrained from using her middle name—how stupid could I be?—but a couple of parents looked my way and then started looking with me, for me, searching for her.
“Emma? Emma!” The mania seized my voice. What if I couldn’t find her? What if I had to report her missing? It was so large here. Anyone could snatch her and disappear into the mass of bodies without a trace. There was too much ground to cover. What did I do? Where did I go? I summoned every spiritual part of my being and prayed to anyone or anything that was listening.
Just bring her back. I will take her home. I will do the right thing. But please, please God. Just bring her back to me.
amy
after
“This means something. This has to mean something.” Richard paced the living room, the furniture cleared weeks ago to tack up possible leads on a corkboard. He’d morphed into a crazy person, becoming more manic as Amy became more resigned to the fact that she wasn’t coming back.
“It doesn’t mean anything.” She sighed. What it meant was the reins on them would loosen; the authorities, grasping at accusatory straws, would actually start looking into someone else besides them. They’d questioned her at length about her hypnotherapy tapes. Why had she gone? What did it mean? Was she having murderous feelings toward her child? Her privacy to her own thoughts, feelings, and past lives had been incinerated, along with the truth. She’d tried to point them toward possible suspects in their own lives—the teachers at the school, the parents, even Aunt Sally, because she thought Amy was a terrible mother—but they had all led to dead ends.
She worked out different scenarios—kidnapping, torture, murder—but she couldn’t shake one lone thought from her head: what if Emma chose to run away and never wanted to be found? She was only five, but it was still possible.
“Of course it means something. Why would you even say that? She was spotted with a woman in Montana! That could only mean they are heading east, because where else would they go? It also means she’s not with some lunatic rapist, thank God. Maybe this woman is trying to help! Maybe she’s trying to get her home but has no way of knowing the news in Washington. Emma knows your cell, doesn’t she? Didn’t you quiz her on that? And she knows our address. Or at least the street number. She’s probably just so scared and confused. Would she know how to get home? Oh God, oh God, my poor baby. She must feel so lost.”
He’d become so addicted to feeling. He’d grown a beard and stopped eating. The more he refused to eat, the more she ate for the both of them. She’d put on twenty pounds in the last month. She didn’t even know weight gain like that was possible. “Richard, even if she is with a woman, that doesn’t mean a woman can’t hurt her too.” Exhibit A.
“Well, it’s a hell of a lot more likely that a man would … oh Jesus, oh no, I can’t even think about it. This is good. This is so good. She’s going to make her way back to us. Montana authorities have been warned. She’s coming back, Amy. I can feel it.”
She looked at the time line tacked to the wall. He’d bought two cheap maps from Dollar General and had markers and notes pinned on multiple states. Emma had been gone for thirty-two days. Thirty-two days, and still no results.
Over the past month, she’d made every sort of bargain with the universe. She’d stop eating so much. She’d get back to hypnotherapy (but stash the tapes). She’d go on medication if that helped with her mood swings or depression. She’d find a better job. She’d be at home more. She’d join a moms’ group. But nothing had worked. The police had given countless press conferences, contacted the media, and organized search parties. They’d turned their n
eighborhood upside down, night and day, for weeks.
There had been false sightings—so many girls looked like Emma—and Amy had to believe this was a false sighting too. She’d had to detach from all emotion, which caused everyone to think she was a horrible mother. (She was.) Some websites said she’d buried her daughter in the woods, that this was all planned, that she was a murderer. She’d read all of this with a sick fascination that this is what people would forever think about her. Didn’t they know she already thought so little about herself?
Richard walked back and forth, dragging his finger across the time line from the night of her disappearance to now. “We’ve missed something, Amy. We have, I know it.”
This ordeal had forced them together, had thrown the daily grievances out the window and helped them focus on keeping Robbie alive, safe, and shielded from all this nonsense. Amy let Richard take over, mostly. She was afraid to get too close to Robert, as if that meant something, as if that would determine the outcome of Emma’s return.
“Richard, we’ve done everything we can.” She looked at the time line to confirm—they had done everything. They’d gone over personal calendars, community events, and even searched newspapers to see who might have been in the vicinity on the night of her disappearance. They’d each taken a polygraph (inconclusive), requested the NCMEC to issue a broadcast fax to law enforcement agencies around the country (pointless), scheduled press releases and media events, hired a media spokesperson, issued a reward ($50,000—more than they could afford), reported extortion attempts (three), had a second line installed with a trap-and-trace feature in case the suspect called (they wouldn’t; they didn’t), worked with volunteers, made exhaustive lists, called Emma’s doctor and dentist for medical records and X-rays … just in case.
She’d forked over the entire history of Emma’s life and gotten nothing in return. They’d even issued a land, sea, and air search, and Amy and Richard had prayed for the very first time together, right here, on their hardwood floors, that they would not pull Emma’s clammy, blue body from a river or lake (they hadn’t). There were tracking dogs and investigators, and the further they got into it, the more removed she felt.
