I carefully went through each one. Those that followed a logical trail from California to Phoenix and then to Texas, turning slightly north in Louisiana, I copied into a document.
Brittany had been seen wearing fashionably torn jeans and a top that showed her midriff at a quick stop near the border of Arizona and New Mexico. She was barefoot and appeared to be limping. She was seen again in Santa Fe, also wearing jeans and barefoot, although the person reporting didn’t recall if the jeans were shredded and hadn’t noticed a limp, but she’d been standing beside a luxury SUV, not moving around much.
I sent a private message to each person, asking the questions I thought Officer Carter might pose.
The reports that had the appearance of scattershot—the unhinged or the attention-seekers—were collected in the second half of the document with a note at the top characterizing them as less reliable. It was reassuring because the scattershot sightings, in Alaska, London, and South Dakota, were light on details, giving weight to the others. The more solid information followed a route that could easily be traced on a map, a route for which the times of the sightings more or less fit the length of time required to travel from the last identified spot.
After highlighting the times and exact locations in bright yellow, I called Officer Carter. The cop who answered the phone announced that Officer Carter was off duty. So was Officer Mae. I asked if they would get a message to her, telling her to call me right away, and was told I could talk to a cop who was on duty. When I insisted that I needed to talk to either Carter or Mae, preferably Carter, I was told it wasn’t possible.
Sleep took a long time coming. I kept seeing that list of reported sightings slide across the backs of my eyelids, the yellow highlighter flashing bright, the letters sure and confident with specific information. I felt a whisper of relief that Brittany might be home soon. I was gratified to see how I’d helped.
At five the next morning I got up and put in two solid hours of work, waiting for the start of Morgan’s shift. By seven, Duncan would have left for the gym, so I didn’t have to be concerned about him overhearing and giving his opinion on my overinvolvement. I was excited to talk to Morgan, eager to find out how long it would take them to follow up on the leads.
Even if she decreed some of the good leads to be dead ends, at least one of them had to be accurate. There was no way all these people were playing games with something so serious, and no way they could all be unbalanced or confused or making up stories out of a desire for attention and association with a crime.
She picked up on the first ring. “Morgan Carter.”
“This is Taylor Stanwick.
“Hi, Taylor. What can I do for you?”
“Have you seen the Facebook page?”
“I’m just looking at it now.”
“There are twenty-nine reports from people who have seen Brittany.”
“That’s quite a lot. Please don’t forget what I said about attention-seekers and the like.”
“Twenty-nine can’t all be attention-seekers. They sound quite sure. Quite a few of them provided solid details. I’ve followed up with messages, and I’ll send you the information when they respond.”
“You need to leave the follow-up to us.”
“Well, you didn’t see the page last night, and that’s when they came in.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“I put them into a document so it’s easier to sort them out.”
“Again, thank you. It wasn’t necessary, but we appreciate your work.”
“How long will it take to check into them?”
“It depends. Probably a day or so.”
“But she’s on the move. She’s long past some of these places already. Some are from Arizona and New Mexico, and the latest is Louisiana.”
“Okay. Settle down.”
“It’s taking so long. Moira is falling apart, and—”
“How is Alan?”
“He’s as well as can be expected.”
“You made a point of saying Moira is falling apart. Does he seem to be lacking emotion?”
“Men keep things inside. A lot of men. I mentioned Moira because I talk to her more.”
“Okay. Well, email the list to me and we’ll start verifying.”
I didn’t have a good feeling when I hung up. She seemed so calm about it. A child was being taken across the United States. Shouldn’t she be calling the FBI? Shouldn’t she have every available person, even the clerks at the police station, making phone calls to verify the sightings and get more information? It seemed as if they were so far behind. Brittany was alive, which was good, but she was still in a lot of danger. And who knew how long she would remain alive? Why was Morgan so plodding about everything she did?
I didn’t think I was naïve to believe the sightings. Even though the first one hadn’t come to anything, it didn’t mean Sheryl hadn’t seen her. It was just that the cashiers at Taco Bell hadn’t recognized Brittany or noticed anything off. Besides, how did the police know those clerks were telling the truth? Maybe they didn’t want to get involved. So many people don’t, attention-seekers aside.
I managed to keep myself busy with work. Shortly before lunch, I called Morgan. The call went to voicemail. She’d said it might take a day or so, but I’d honestly hoped she would call back within a few hours. It didn’t seem like it should take that long to follow up with twelve serious reports.
Duncan returned from the gym, showered, and went out to run errands, undeterred by the heat. I curled up on the living room couch and opened Facebook. There were four more reports of sightings. Officer Carter had posted “thank you for your help” on each one. Two were from Hawaii. I sighed.
I picked up my glass of sparkling water. As I placed the phone beside me, a private message popped up.
Brittany Cushing is not that girl’s name. Her name is Brittany Green. She’s my daughter.
15
Crystal
It had been a bad day. I had to work out an issue with my disability check, which meant driving to the employment center and waiting for someone to help me, and then explaining the details. I couldn’t be medicated for that because I needed to make sure I got my check that day. If they picked up on me being high, there would probably be more issues.
I was climbing the walls the whole time. The woman helping me seemed to pride herself on her patience, tapping each computer key with one long sky-blue nail as if she didn’t possess any other fingers. She kept stopping her slow typing to smile at me, saying, “We’ll get it figured out, hon.” I didn’t like anyone calling me hon, certainly not her, and I hate it when people who have a piece of your life in their hands keep talking about we as if you’re part of some fucking team.
There was no we. The nurses did it; government people did it. All people who have the power to screw you over any time they choose can do it. You might not think nurses can screw you over, and most of them probably don’t. They’re nice people. They go into nursing because they care about people, and they stay in nursing because they can put up with people’s shit. But trust me, some are not so nice. Regular sadists. Telling the doctor you look like you’ve been taking more than the prescribed dose of your oxy. Like they can fucking tell by looking at you. And like it’s any of their business. They don’t prescribe, the doctor does. They should shut their traps.
It turned out my check hadn’t been delivered because of some bullshit at the post office. It was after one thirty when I finally got home. I was starving, but my hands were a wreck, my legs were shaking, and sweat was dripping off me with wanting my Apache.
For some reason, it didn’t help like it usually does. I felt weak and tired and nervous.
I lay on the couch with a blanket over me, even though it was muggy and ninety degrees. My feet were like ice cubes and my knees felt cold, which was really weird and made me worry something was seriously wrong. My scalp was on fire though, so I kept refilling my glass with Coke and ice. So much ice there was only room for ha
lf a can of Coke. But it was cold and sweet and so good. That Coke was the only thing keeping me sane.
I opened Facebook and started scrolling through missing kid pages. It wasn’t as satisfying as usual. One of the kids I’d been following had been found dead. When I saw that, the phone fell out of my hand and knocked over my glass of Coke. Sticky soda all over the fucking rug.
For the next two hours, I just cried. For the mess on the rug, for that poor dead girl, for her mother, and for how shitty I felt.
It was dark when I managed to pull myself together. I was feeling a little better. I folded the blanket and put a towel on the carpet to soak up the Coke and melted ice. I made a cheese quesadilla and opened a fresh can of Coke.
Instead of looking at the other missing kids I’d been following, I did a search for new kids who had gone missing. I couldn’t take any more updates like that last one.
I checked each page, reading the comments and the reports of sightings. It took me about an hour. By then, I was ready for a bit more Apache. This hit took like a dream and I was in a super good mood. My back didn’t hurt at all and I felt like my life was turning around. If my back kept feeling this good, maybe I could start looking for another job. I would start looking. I would get my act together. Maybe I could find a new doctor who would give me something to get me off this other shit that took away the pain but kind of kept me half out of it a lot of the time.
I clicked on a page for a girl named Brittany Cushing. Her name pinched at my heart. I loved that name. It was such a…I stared at the pictures. There were three. I enlarged the photos, staring, feeling my lips part.
I knew that girl. I knew her like she was my own flesh and blood. She was my own flesh and blood.
She might be older, a lot older, but there was not an ounce of doubt, she was my sweet little baby girl.
I started crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. All this time. All the searching and looking at all these pages, hundreds of pages, thousands of pages and comments, hunting for one face. It had been so long, and with the foggy fuzzy world of oxy and Apache, a lot of times I’d forgotten that’s who I was looking for.
My nightmares had merged with my real life, and all I knew was that I was always looking. I couldn’t stop myself, and now I knew why.
My little girl was four when she disappeared right out from under my nose. It was six or seven months after the accident. Maybe more, maybe less. That was such a bad time; I really couldn’t remember. All I knew was that my sweet baby was playing in the front yard, and when I woke up from my nap and went out there, she was gone.
I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. It was maybe eight o’clock at night when I woke. I think I fell asleep right after I brought her home from preschool. She was a smart girl, I always reminded her of that, old enough to play outside without her mommy. She was proud of herself for that, even though she was scared a lot of the time. I told her not to be scared, that she was tough, and she believed me. I think she believed me.
The police sort of believed me, but they were so cruel. They were worse than the doctors, worse than that nurse. They called me negligent, and this one cop acted all upset as if she were more heartbroken than I was. She just kept saying it was so sad that my sweetie was neglected, she kept telling me I should have gotten help for my addiction, I should have had one of my relatives help care for my daughter.
I wanted to slap her face, but that would have caused a lot more trouble. She would not shut up about what a sad situation it was, how maybe I didn’t deserve to have a kid. Like it was her call! My little girl was all I had after that accident, wrecking my back, and Barry dying. Brittany slept with me at night, and her warm little body and her soft hair were all that kept me from completely losing my mind.
After she’d been gone for a month, maybe less or more, I’ve forgotten, the cops basically quit looking for her. It’s their fucking job to keep people safe, to investigate crimes, and they just flat out gave up. If I quit doing my job like that, if any normal person did, they’d be fired. But no, the cops get to say, sorry, no more leads. Sorry, it’s so unfortunate. Sorry, so many cases like this. If we get a lead, we’ll let you know. Please stop calling us. Please get some help for your hallucinations so you don’t think every kid belongs to you.
I honestly wanted to get a gun and shoot that one cop the next time she showed up at my door to ask more questions about how many boyfriends I had and who they were and if they had access to my daughter.
The whole thing was disgusting. Acting as if the victim was the criminal.
And then, when I went down to the station because I thought I’d seen Brittany on one of those pages for missing children, they were downright rude. When I walked into the police station, they gave me condescending smiles and told me I was making nuisance reports. They told me to stop coming in, that I could make a phone call if it was necessary. After a while, they would put me on hold for half an hour before they’d talk to me.
Ten years is a long time. Ten years since she disappeared, and now this older girl is smiling out at me from her very own Facebook page. She was absolutely my daughter. There was no doubt in my mind. I’d recognize her anywhere.
I knew her eyes, and that little hitch at the corner of her mouth when she smiled. You don’t grow out of those sorts of features and expressions. They stay forever, like the way one of my ears is kind of pressed flatter against my head. That doesn’t change. It wouldn’t have mattered if my girl was two when she disappeared and this girl was twenty. I would still know her.
A mother knows her own daughter. Everything about your baby is tattooed on your soul. You recognize her anywhere. You recognize her smell and the sound of her voice. Most of all you recognize the essence of her. It’s right there in every photograph.
I was staring at my daughter. Ten years into the future.
I would give up my Apache. I’d find a way to deal with the back pain to get my baby home again with me. Half the pain, all that pain inside my heart, would be gone for good.
I typed a message to the page owner and tapped send.
Brittany Cushing is not that girl’s name. Her name is Brittany Green. She’s my daughter.
There was no answer. It’s funny to call yourself Mrs. Green on Facebook, but it always made me feel better. It reminded me that I had a family once, that people loved me. That I had a husband. I had a daughter! There was no response.
Mrs. Green: You have to talk to me. That girl is my daughter. She went missing TEN years ago.
Mrs. Green: You need to answer me! I can see you’re online right NOW!!!
Mrs. Green: I’m waiting. I’ve already been patient. I can’t believe I’ve found her after all these years! I’m so happy I’m sitting here crying right now.
The bubbles moved to show the page owner was typing, then they popped and died.
Mrs. Green: You need to answer me. I’ll post this on the public page if you don’t answer soon. Don’t make me wait. After all these years, I can’t wait another second.
Mrs. Green: I could call the police, but I’d rather talk to you first.
Nothing. That part was a lie. The police wouldn’t listen to me, I knew that for sure.
Mrs. Green: I know you’re there. You can’t hide on Facebook. It shows your fucking FACE, that’s why it’s called FACEbook.
It was twenty minutes before the bubbles began to float at the bottom of the screen. A message appeared.
Taylor Stanwick: I’m so sorry for your loss. Unfortunately, you’ve made a mistake. I know Brittany’s parents quite well.
Mrs. Green: I bet you didn’t know them before their “daughter” was four.
Taylor Stanwick: Brittany’s mother is heartbroken. She sleeps in her daughter’s bed. She won’t wash the sheets…It’s so sad.
Mrs. Green: Did you? Did you know Brittany when she was a baby? I know you didn’t. So don’t lie. I don’t even need you to answer that. You did not know them when their “daugh
ter” was a baby, or one, or two, or three years old. She’s my baby girl. Those people stole her.
Taylor Stanwick: Do you live in Silicon Valley?
Mrs. Green: What the fuck is that?
Taylor Stanwick: Near San Francisco. In California.
Mrs. Green: No.
Taylor Stanwick: Do you live in California?
Mrs. Green: You don’t need to know where I live. Someone snatched my baby, and now they’re getting payback because she was snatched again. But if I found her after all these years, I can find her again.
Taylor Stanwick: Let me think about what you’re saying. I’ll get back to you.
Mrs. Green: No. Talk to those people. I can tell you don’t believe me. You check into them and then we’ll talk. But it better be soon.
My mind cycled back through all my encounters with the police, imagining what they’d say now that I’d found her for real. I heard their voices; I remembered being on hold, and voicemail, and waiting for a callback that took ages to come, or never came.
16
Brittany: Before
The internet has a lot of bad stuff on it. I knew that. Not just from my parents. My friends talked about it a lot, about bullying, porn, people pretending to be someone they aren’t, pedophiles luring teenagers to meet them. But I wasn’t a little kid anymore, and I didn’t think I should have to go online with my mom sitting right beside me every second.
Some of the pages she didn’t want me to look at didn’t appear that terrible to me. I wanted to look at music videos and funny animal clips, or watch some of the kids who had their own YouTube channels. I wanted to check out social media. I wasn’t going to go crazy. I was curious and I didn’t like being treated like I was eight years old when I was fourteen. But it was not up for discussion. My parents said they knew what was best for me and they were just trying to keep me safe. They said they were the adults and it was their job to watch out for me. They cared about me more than I’d ever know, and parents who didn’t restrict their children and guide their development didn’t truly love them.
The Good Neighbor Page 8
