by Lisa Tucker
“You gotta tell me why you won’t drink it,” he said. “Come on, I bought it just for you.”
She got out her ChapStick and bathed her lips. This was why she hated bars. If you didn’t drink, you were treated like there was something seriously wrong with you. Which there was, actually, but she wasn’t about to tell this stranger the truth about why she hadn’t touched alcohol in almost fifteen years, since the night her baby died.
Joshua had been asleep in his crib when she took out the bottle of scotch. The doctor had told her she couldn’t have any more pills, and she hadn’t slept for seventy-two hours. Not for one minute. She had a terrible ache inside her skull. Her eyes felt like they were bleeding. She thought if she didn’t sleep soon, her brain would explode. So she sat at the kitchen table and quickly downed one shot after another, until the noises finally stopped. The noises were part of her “postpartum psychosis,” according to the doctors at the hospital, but whatever the cause, they were unbearable. Tiny noises, like papers being blown across a room. A buzzing that seemed so real, like a bee had flown into her ear, and she dug into her ear canal until it bled, trying to get it out.
She didn’t remember bringing Joshua into bed with her, but the police said she’d passed out and rolled on top of him. Her own body had killed her baby. You should never take a child into bed with you when you’ve been drinking! The officer told her this as if there would be more children in Courtney’s future: happy, healthy children who would be saved if only she understood.
She put her ChapStick back in her pocket. Her hands were trembling, but she wrapped them under her knees and forced herself to concentrate on the present. If only she could figure out Hannah’s password, she could find out if there was somewhere else the girl might have decided to go.
The first time she’d read Hannah’s note, she thought it was clear that Hannah was taking Michael back to David and Kyra: He’s been crying and I think he needs to be with someone who loves him. Don’t worry, we’ll be home soon. But something was off. Why would Hannah say “someone who loves him” rather than “his family”? And would she really have considered her aunt’s house home, given how mad she was at Kyra?
The lowlife was still watching her. “Don’t tell me you’re in AA.”
“I am,” she said, wondering why she didn’t think of this before.
“Why are you in a bar, then?”
He sounded whiny, but he looked a little suspicious. When she didn’t offer any explanation, he stood up so quickly that he stumbled, and rushed away like she was an AA counselor about to perform an intervention on him.
Without his constant prattle, it didn’t take her long to remember what Hannah had said about her password. It was when they were just getting to know each other; Courtney had mentioned that she’d forgotten her password again, that she was so paranoid about privacy that she always used some impossible to remember combinations of letters and numbers. Hannah wrote back that her password was only six letters, and it was easy to remember because it was a word. I’m a really superstitious person. I know it probably sounds weird, but I really believe if I type this word enough, it will bring me luck.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a hint. A lot of the obvious choices—luck, lucky, happy—weren’t six letters. She tried Hannah; then she tried turtle. When those didn’t work, she just sat there, staring at the screen, because she knew if she kept putting in the wrong password, the account would lock up.
The bar was noisier than before, but at least no one was bothering her. She didn’t notice that the bartender was annoyed with her for taking up space with her laptop and drinking only Diet Coke. She watched the cursor blinking for what felt like a long time—and then she felt stupid, because the answer was so obvious. Of course Hannah’s password was the word Mother. And the girl had capitalized it because it was a tic with her, even when it wasn’t grammatically correct. Are you going to see your Mother today? She treated the word like it stood for something sacred: the good Mother who would never leave you, who would never hurt you, who would even protect you from the devastating truth that you were never good enough to be a mother yourself.
Sandra was the only person Courtney had ever met who came close to the kind of mother Hannah was dreaming of. Only Sandra had been willing, when Courtney came out of the hospital, to stand with her as she faced the blighted ruin of her life. And now, oh God, she had stupidly given Sandra and David false hope that the little boy was on his way home. Because, as it turned out, Hannah was not driving to Mt. Airy. In fact, she’d planned this part of her trip before she left Missouri. Why she hadn’t mentioned it on the phone, Courtney had no idea. But she knew exactly why the girl had taken Michael with her, even if her original kidnapping of him had been an impulse. And she knew why she’d said they were going home, though after reading all the messages, she felt almost positive that Hannah was setting herself up for another crushing blow.
Since Courtney had found out that “Amy” was really just a teenager, she’d been forced to rethink everything about their brief, intense relationship. In retrospect, there were so many signs that the person writing those emails was very young. Courtney felt a little foolish, but what bothered her more was the sense that she’d failed to be responsible. “Amy” had frequently alluded to something traumatic that had happened to her last year. She was vague about the details, but she often talked about going to a “shrink,” and she clearly needed one: A few months ago, I took a kitchen knife and cut my wrists. I hope you’re not shocked. I guess I just couldn’t take being me anymore. Courtney had thought she was doing a good thing by reassuring her that she wasn’t shocked. How could she be, given what she’d tried to do to herself after Joshua died? However, knowing that a seventeen-year-old girl had done something like this was very different and yes, shocking—and Courtney couldn’t shake the feeling that she should have known. If only she’d been the adult for a change and protected this kid. If only she hadn’t made it so much worse by killing the girl’s dream of finding her mother.
She wrote down the address where Hannah was going, put ten dollars on the bar, and headed out to the parking lot. She threw her laptop in the backseat and climbed into her car. Her jaw was aching but she couldn’t stop grinding her teeth. She was dreading calling Sandra again: dashing their hopes, having to explain all the things she’d left out the first time about why Hannah had done this, but mainly she was worried about Hannah and David’s son. She desperately wanted to believe the two of them were all right, that the little boy was safe with Hannah, but how could she be sure when Hannah might not be safe with herself?
TWENTY-SEVEN
By the time Kyra and David discovered where their son was going, the police had been gone for hours. Detective Ingle had called off the investigation after Kyra had twisted the truth to get him to believe that her niece had contacted them and Michael was absolutely fine. She had to promise to bring Hannah by the station tomorrow. “I’m going to have a talk with her about what she did,” the detective said. “Make sure she understands she’ll be in serious trouble if she ever pulls another stunt like this.” Kyra mumbled agreement, whatever it took to get him off the phone. Then she sat down with her husband and his mother, and they waited and waited until Courtney called for the second time, with the depressing news that Hannah was not bringing Michael home.
Now they were on the Pennsylvania Turnpike heading west, still at the beginning of the 180-mile trip to Maryland. David had insisted on driving, though he was just as exhausted as she was. But, as he said, Kyra had had a very rough night. She’d had multiple blows, one after another: discovering that Hannah, the first child she’d loved, had taken her baby; hearing that Hannah was very angry with her, and then hearing the reason—because Kyra hadn’t told Hannah that her mother had died.
Over the years Kyra had had many sleepless nights, worrying that something might have happened to her sister, but every time she screwed up her courage
to look in the social security database of deaths, she’d come away able to breathe again because Amy wasn’t there. Of course it had occurred to her that Amy had gotten married and changed her last name, and she’d often wondered if Amy might have changed her first name, too, to make it impossible for Kyra to find her, but it had never crossed her mind that Amy had changed her social security number. In her entire life, Kyra had never done anything illegal other than take Hannah to Amy, but that was back when she was young and dumb and incapable of believing that her friend Zach would actually have her arrested.
She’d been wrong about Zach, and apparently, she’d been wrong about David’s ex-wife. Sandra had told them how much Courtney had done to help. She’d broken into Hannah’s Facebook account and figured out where the girl was taking Michael. Another shock for Kyra, as it was the last place she would have expected to be driving. The one place she would never have voluntarily gone, if her niece hadn’t forced her to.
It was after midnight, the highway was almost empty, and David was making good time. Courtney would be there first, because she’d had a head start, but they would all be there by three or three thirty at the latest. Courtney had told Sandra that she was going for Hannah sake’s, that Hannah had confided in her about some problems she was having. Kyra had barely thought to wonder why Hannah was involved with David’s ex-wife or even to worry about her niece. She was focused on Michael, but she was also haunted by the news about her sister. All those years of thinking that Amy was punishing her, feeling that this was the worst thing that could happen, and yet the truth had turned out to be far, far worse. It was shocking and yet brutally ordinary. The reason she hadn’t seen Amy wasn’t some intricate grudge played out over time. For Amy, time had ended in 1996, the year that she died.
David was trying to distract her by talking about the historical significance of the region in Maryland where they were going, only about ten miles north of the site of the Battle of Antietam, the bloodiest battle of the Civil War. He went on about the significance of this battle for a while before he said, “This isn’t helping, is it?”
“I’m sorry.” She reached for his hand. Even in her grief, she was touched by how hard he was trying. He had to be very confused. She’d only managed to give him the basic facts about her sister and her niece, yet she felt sure now that he wouldn’t condemn her once he heard the whole story. He’d already told her that she’d been right: he did have things he needed to share with her, too. But none of it would change how they felt about each other; she knew that now. Of course it wouldn’t.
“I think you should go to sleep,” David said, gently rubbing her thumb with his. “If you can.”
Kyra looked out the window. A train was going by; it looked ghostly in the light from the moon. She closed her eyes, sure she wouldn’t be able to sleep, but then she did. In her dream, Michael was in the front yard, holding a bright orange ball, throwing it up and down. She was standing in the doorway, watching her son and smiling. But when the ball bounced into the street and Michael started after it, she realized she couldn’t move her legs. She couldn’t make her mouth form the words though her mind was screaming them: Michael, stop!
She startled awake. David was shaking her shoulder.
“You were whimpering, honey.”
She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the familiar sight of the green lights on the Subaru’s dashboard. “It was just a dream,” she said, and exhaled.
Her shoulder belt was cutting into her neck, so she sat up straighter and peered out the window. All around them was a vast emptiness. She assumed it was farmland, though she felt like they’d driven off the edge of the world. “Where are we?”
“On 81. About halfway there.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”
“I don’t mind. It’s much easier that sitting at home, doing nothing. Every mile I drive is bringing him closer.”
“Unless he’s not there,” she said, before she could stop herself. They’d already discussed this. Sandra was spending the night at the house, downstairs, with both the living room and the porch lights on, in case Hannah changed her mind, though Courtney had said it was unlikely.
“Let’s not worry about that yet,” David said, and she quickly agreed. She knew what would happen if they didn’t find Michael tonight. The police would have to broadcast Hannah’s description and license plate to every law enforcement organization across the country. Whatever it took, no matter what happened to her niece.
He urged her to go back to sleep, and she closed her eyes, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. It was so painful, thinking of Hannah being arrested for the same thing Kyra had been arrested for, though it wasn’t really the same. Hannah had apparently taken Michael on an impulse, while Kyra had planned it all out. Kyra had taken Hannah because she had to save Amy.
Her sister had been on a path of self-destruction for almost two years at that point. Gregory Todd was long gone. He’d left because he was a heartless jerk who said Amy was too depressing to be around after she lost custody of her baby. She’d been fired from her band for missing gigs; she’d had to move out of her condo. She moved in with Kyra for a while, but after they had yet another argument about what Kyra had said to Wendy Jenkins, she left one afternoon while Kyra was at work. Since then she’d drifted from one place to another, until she finally landed at what she called the “peace house,” which was actually a house full of addicts. Kyra was afraid that this might be the last stop, that her sister might not make it if she couldn’t somehow pull herself back from the abyss. She’d decided to take Amy’s daughter to show her sister that she did have another life, that Hannah was worth whatever it took to get herself clean.
It was a Saturday afternoon in October, a beautiful Indian summer day; however, that didn’t mean Zach and Terri were going to agree to let her take Hannah to Amy’s or even to a movie or the mall. They used to let her go anywhere with her niece; she’d even taken Hannah to her apartment to spend the night, but all that had changed two months ago, after they participated in a program at Terri’s church called “divorce-busting boot camp,” and Zach had ended up telling his wife that he and Kyra had slept together. Kyra had been stunned, and she didn’t feel any better when Zach insisted that Terri wouldn’t hold it against her. Instead, she felt like a fool for having ever believed that this guy was smart.
That Saturday, her plan was to get Zach alone and beg him to let her take Hannah out for a few hours, just this once. It worked, but before she made it out the door with her niece, Terri found out. She was obviously angry, but she only said, “You have to bring her back in fifteen minutes.” Kyra nodded. She assumed Zach would tell Terri it was okay when the fifteen minutes were over, and she headed off with Hannah to the bus stop.
Hannah liked the bus ride, and the little girl didn’t seem afraid as Kyra carried her down the street in the crime-ridden neighborhood. But Kyra was very afraid. Every corner had a drug dealer and guys kept stepping out of the shadows to leer at her and say “Hey, baby” and “What you up to?” She ignored them all and picked up her pace. She’d been to the peace house before, but never with Hannah. She felt so much more vulnerable, knowing she had to protect her niece.
Of course Amy must have been surprised to see her daughter, but she didn’t show it. She led them into the back room she shared with some pinched-face woman named Bonnie. The room had nothing but two mattresses, a microwave, and a few crushed boxes. Bonnie was sitting on one of the mattresses, shooting up, and Kyra turned around so that Hannah couldn’t watch.
They talked of nothing for several minutes, and Amy didn’t even really look at the little girl. Her voice was flat; Kyra wondered if she was coming down from her high. Her pupils were still dilated, but everything about her seemed slow, like she barely had the energy to stand up. After a while, Hannah was complaining that she wanted to get down, but Kyra couldn’t let her. The place was too fi
lthy. The toddler was squirming when Kyra said, “She’s getting heavy,” as casually as she could manage, as if Hannah were just some kid they were taking care of for the Callahan Child Care Company. “Want to take her for a few minutes?”
Kyra felt sure that if only Amy held Hannah, she would remember how the little girl felt and how she smelled and how her hair felt brushing against your lips—and what a gift it was to be able to know these things about a child you loved.
“Sure,” Amy said. Bonnie had flopped over, but Kyra had reassured herself that the woman wasn’t dead because her chest was still moving. The two sisters were essentially alone in the room. There was one window, and Kyra was watching the light splay across the floor, all too aware that she couldn’t stay very long or she would have to walk back to the bus in the dark.
Hannah let Amy take her, and it was just as Kyra hoped. Amy held her close and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet smell. “Oh, my baby girl,” Amy said. “You’ve gotten so big.” She smiled. “How did that happen?”
“I’m three!” Hannah smiled, too, and held up three fingers.
“I know you are.” Amy kissed the little girl and patted her bottom. “She’s already potty trained?” she said to Kyra, and she sounded upset. Kyra wasn’t sure why this particular detail bothered her sister. It wasn’t nearly as important as all the other things Amy had missed out on during the ten months she hadn’t visited her daughter: from Hannah’s birthday to her first full sentence to her obsession with her tricycle, which she loved so much she tried to drag it to bed with her.
“She basically did it herself,” Kyra said. Terri was a big believer in independence, at least when it came to little Hannah. Her own daughters were still held in her lap and carried all over the house, though they were six and seven.
When Amy just stood there without saying anything, the child started to get fussy. Still, Amy might have tried to engage Hannah again if the little girl hadn’t held her arms out and said, “Mommy, hold me”—to Kyra.
