Little Girl Gone

by Alexandra Burt

  I don’t remember much after. I later hear that I screamed, that I scratched my face, my nails digging deep, leaving bloody trails, like an infant who has no control over her hands. They stab a needle in my arm and then I just sit in an office and stare at the clock above the door. That’s when I remember the photograph in my father’s study, the Riverside Church, built the same year as Creedmoor. I imagine how Riverside ascended brick by brick, Lego-like, towards the heavens while Creedmoor’s magnificent castle-like building, wrought of brick and stone, slithered its way across the meadows on a magnificent estate here at the Upper New York Bay. Creedmoor is my life now and I suddenly panic. I can’t turn around, walk away. No more choices. I’m here for Mia. Consequences beyond her don’t concern me. When I take the first step towards my room I can almost feel my bones shift.

  One hour later, I sit on a leather couch opposite a large glass window. From the couch, I can see the smokestacks of an old factory assembled of bricks the color of coagulated blood.

  I swear that one of the stacks – the one located slightly off to the left – is leaning, like the Tower of Pisa. Even though it does not draw any tourists – no one takes family photographs in front of it, and no one sips coffee in a nearby café – it is my favorite smokestack.

  The crooked stack seems like an intruder in a landscape of otherwise right angles and manmade harmony. Its wretchedness is familiar to me and I imagine myself extending a hand through the window, up the hill, tilting the warped stack back to its precise vertical existence. I want to make everything all right for the stack; I want to save it from its troubled life, want to deliver it from its outcast status among the other stacks pointing straight into the sky.

  A man enters the office and introduces himself as Dr Solska Ari. He is of Pakistani descent and a balding man in his fifties with rosy cheeks and perfectly capped teeth, impeccably groomed, smelling of starch and shoe polish. His glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose. It’s not until we shake hands that I realize he’s a man of average height yet he has the aura of a giant.

  Our first session is filled with small talk and educational memory lessons. He doesn’t take notes, but runs a digital recorder.

  ‘Let me tell you about my first case as a psychiatrist,’ he says and stares off into the distance. ‘A woman ate an egg and suddenly, out of the blue, her memory was erased. I couldn’t get what happened to her out of my mind. What caused her memory to not function properly?

  ‘Short of brain damage, nothing is lost, the brain doesn’t forget. Your memories are tucked away in drawers, and sometimes those drawers are locked. Locked by emotional distress, stress hormones. Historically, people who suffered from amnesia were believed to not want to remember. Brain researchers who are hung up on the hardware portion of the brain believe they can’t remember. I’m somewhere in between; I believe it’s a combination of both.’

  As I listen, I realize that his most striking characteristic is his placid nature. Tireless in patience and attention, he’s a reverse gravedigger of some sort, unearthing what is underground. I want to believe he can help me find my daughter, I want to one day look back on this moment and remember him as the man who gave me back my memory, my child, my life.

  At the end of the session, he asks me what went through my mind when I was told I had amnesia.

  ‘Confusion,’ I say, ‘a lot of confusion. The implications were endless.’

  ‘I understand your daughter’s life is potentially at stake. Time is of the essence and I need you to understand that there’s a lot of work ahead of us,’ he says and adds, ‘and I have to ask you for your trust.’

  I raise my eyebrows. Trust. Just trust me and everything is going to be all right, is that what he’s asking me? Is it as simple and as uncomplicated as that?

  ‘On one hand I need you to trust me that everything you say is safe with me,’ Dr Ari continues. ‘There is the physician–patient privilege. It’s a legal concept and it protects all communications between you and me. The police are aware of that. Nothing you say here can be used against you in court.’

  ‘You said on one hand.’

  ‘The other hand is a bit more complicated.’ He looks down as if he’s studying my file. ‘The circumstances of your case put me in a peculiar place. I call it the ultimate psychiatrist’s dilemma but I have to ask you to waive the physician–patient privilege.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Anything I say can and will be used against me.

  ‘I am asking you to agree to the fact that I alone will make the determination as to when we disclose our findings to the police. And what we disclose.’

  ‘I don’t care what happens to me,’ I say.

  ‘I care for the both of us.’

  ‘How much time do we have?’

  ‘I’d like to say we have until but that would be a lie. It’s not a matter of a deadline as in a date. It’s more about us making progress. It could be a week, it could be a month or more.’

  ‘I see. But what if …’ What is it I’m not asking? What if I don’t remember? What if the memory of the blood is all there is? What if … I don’t dare finish the thought.

  ‘I don’t want you to think about the police and the investigation at all. I am in contact with the detective in charge and I will keep him informed with what I deem necessary. Your worries would only interfere with our work,’ Dr Ari says and leans back in his chair as if the subject is no longer open for discussion. ‘Let me handle the police,’ he adds.

  ‘Did the egg lady ever remember? It couldn’t have been about the egg, right?’ I ask and offer an ironic smile.

  ‘Of course it wasn’t,’ he says and adjusts his impeccably knotted tie. ‘Nothing is that simple and it was never about the egg. I’ll make you a deal; we find out what happened to your daughter and I tell you all about the lady who ate the egg.’

  The next day, at the beginning of our second session, Dr Ari asks me about the most peaceful place I can imagine. ‘Like a refuge, a hiding place, where you feel safe.’

  ‘I’m not sure …’ I say and look at him puzzled.

  ‘Have you ever paid attention to your breathing when you feel relaxed?’

  His question seems silly to me. ‘Can’t say I have,’ I answer and wonder if imagining myself on a beach is what he’s looking for.

  ‘In the middle of a very stressful situation we usually wish for a safe place,’ he says. ‘Have you ever wished to be somewhere else during such a moment?’

  Every day I want to be somewhere else, I think but don’t say anything.

  ‘Imagine a safe place. Give it a try.’

  I know what he wants to hear and immediately I come up with several options: ‘A beach, a park bench, beside a waterfall, something like that?’

  ‘No good,’ he says and bounces a pen on his desk, ‘those are no good.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, ‘you asked. That’s what I came up with. Why’s it no good?’

  ‘Stereotypes, nothing but stereotypes. Like wanting to travel around the world. Who wants to travel and never belong? Always on the move. That’s just something people say. No one really means that. I want you to think about this.’ He pauses and throws the pen on the desk. ‘You’ve never been to a safe place then.’

  I shrug my shoulders.

  His eyes light up. ‘How about getting there? Think of a mode of transportation that takes you to a safe and peaceful place. You don’t need to know the specific place, let’s imagine your journey there. Nothing you anticipated, something that just happened, a voyage of sorts. Let me give you an example.’ He takes off his glasses and leans back in his chair. ‘Long time ago, in a country far from here, as a young boy, I used to spend the weekends at my grandmother’s house. I remember her bed being high above the ground, I seemed to sleep almost up in the clouds. Of course, I was young and short and Daadi’s bed was just high, but it seemed high up in the clouds to me. I had a lot of nightmares as a young boy but whenever I slept as Daadi’s house, I didn’t wake
up at night, there were no monsters. Her bed was magic, in a kid sort of way, but magic nevertheless.’

  ‘I thought you said a mode of transportation. I don’t get it.’

  ‘It transported me to my good dreams. I don’t remember the dreams anymore, but I had a lot of them in that bed. It seemed nothing on earth could touch me there, nothing could hold me back. And every morning I woke up to the smell of nashta. And she was singing while preparing it.’ His eyes turn glassy, as if he’s far away. But just as quickly he snaps out of it, furrows his brows, and his eyes demand my own little memory of childhood peace.

  ‘Your peaceful place is your grandmother’s bed, I get it. Unfortunately I can’t compete with that,’ I say. ‘No grandma and no nashta in my past.’ I think about his story and try to remember all the places I’ve been as a child. But all I remember is getting sick in cars, on boats, even in buses.

  ‘I love to ride elevators.’ I’m surprised when I hear the words coming out of my mouth. Then I realize it’s actually true, there’s something about the humming, the feeling in my stomach, the door opening and closing.

  Dr Ari’s eyebrows relax, he looks pleased. ‘An elevator it is. Describe your favorite elevator. Then enter.’

  I close my eyes and imagine feeling the gravity and the rotation of the earth. It’s as easy as imagining the warmth of the sun on my skin. ‘Two shiny panels meet in the middle, silver panels. The doors slide open and I get in.’

  Dr Ari’s voice is soothing. ‘It’s comfortable and spacious. The lights are low, it’s almost dark. You can go anywhere you want to go. No one controls the elevator but you. Walk in, turn around and face the panel by the side of the door. The panel is rectangular. The buttons are round, lit, and embedded in the panel. They start at number ten and go all the way to number one.’

  I imagine the door closing. I push a button. The doors close silently. I’m safe and contained in this dark box. As the elevator descends, I have a moving sensation in my stomach, then the forces balance themselves, and right before the elevator stops, the force lessens and, again, I experience a floating feeling.

  ‘Perfect,’ Dr Ari says and smiles. ‘I want this elevator to be a place of peace and control. Anytime you feel anxious, I want you to step in and go to a lower floor. The further down you go, the more relaxed you’ll become.’

  ‘And what’s it for? The exercise, I mean?’

  ‘When humans get stressed or experience fear, our bodies exhibit something that is called the fight-or-flight response. When facing a threat our bodies respond with very distinct signs; a change in blood pressure, breathing, heart rate, temperature, muscle tension, just to name a few.’

  ‘Right,’ I say and imagine saber-toothed tigers pursuing a zebra.

  ‘Our body is basically getting ready to fight or run away,’ Dr Ari continues. ‘I want you to face your fears, and force your body into a “relaxation response.” Once you manage to relax, over time, you will develop a heightened state of awareness. That’s what we’re after, being aware.’

  ‘Sounds easy enough,’ I say.

  ‘Not quite. Combating primal responses requires practice. A trained nurse will instruct you later on today.’

  The more I think about this concept, the less I can imagine any possible scenario that is positive for the zebra. ‘That means while I’m trying to remember, I won’t be afraid and I won’t run. I’ll tell my body to relax and be alert.’ Fighting makes no sense when confronted with a saber-toothed tiger and I don’t think a zebra can outrun a tiger. And yet staying put seems like certain death to me.

  ‘That’s the plan. You won’t avoid, and you won’t struggle against it.’

  ‘It being …?’

  ‘The past.’

  ‘Right,’ I say but I can’t help thinking of a tiger sinking its teeth into my neck.

  On the morning of our third session, a damp blanket of fog has spread over the East River and the familiar smokestacks in the distance have all but disappeared behind its dense layer. I am mesmerized by the fog wrapping itself around every building and every tree, eradicating what once was into something that’s not. It hangs heavy over the hills, suffocating everything in its wake.

  First I hear Dr Ari’s voice coming from afar, and then I comprehend the words. ‘Tell me about Mia.’ His voice is low, yet urgent.

  I wanted truth serums and potent pills, forcing my memories to the surface. I expected to be hypnotized, I imagined a chemical manipulation of my mind. But after two sessions with Dr Ari I’ve figured out that I am all there is. Just me, my clouded mind, and Dr Ari urging me on.

  ‘Tell you about Mia?’ I repeat his question to buy some time. I focus on the vague and ghostly smokestacks outside the window, looming a safe distance from this office within the thick cloud of water droplets. I wish the layers of skin that he is trying to peel away were just as safe from him as that old decrepit factory in the distance.

  I don’t know what happened to my daughter Mia. I opened drawers, old shoeboxes, and unlocked doors that led to storage spaces under stairs. I climbed into Dumpsters, looked under beds. I searched for her. A daughter is not something one misplaces like a set of keys or a take-out menu. What I know for sure is that one morning I woke up and she had vanished as if she had been swallowed by a hole in the universe. Not so much as an impression of her tiny body left on the sheet-covered mattress. Someone took her without picking the locks or prying the hinges off the doorjambs. She’s left a silence behind, a silence so loud it keeps me awake at night.

  On a good day, after I’ve been able to sleep three continuous hours, I imagine her with a nice couple in Arizona, tucked away in loving arms. When I imagine this scene long enough, it feels almost real. On a bad day I see her mutilated and lifeless under a mountain of dirt and pine-needled soil, next to acorn caps and deer droppings somewhere in the woods of upstate New York. The worst days are the ones when I can feel a sticky substance between my fingers and I wonder if I’m the one to blame.

  But good days and bad days are not conducive to the truth. What I need is a clear day. A day so clear and pristine, so sparkling and new, that I dare to explore what happened to Mia.

  For now, I have to take solace in imagining the abandoned factory with the crooked stack. I envision homeless people sleeping on top of cardboard, junkies passed out in dark corners under colorful graffiti – their very own billboards on the edge of human society. Old, battered shoes, their counterparts lost forever, with all the missing socks we never seem to find. I can hear feet kicking cheap plastic gin bottles. They take off into the dark like shooting stars, hit the walls and bounce back just to end up again in the middle of the long shadowy halls with their windows nailed shut decades ago.

  After self-inflicted prodding, digging, turning over stones that resisted turning like boulders in front of caves, somewhere between mandatory journaling and lights-out, I am ready. I will hunt her last images; I will try to catch the coattails of the truth and hang on to them, even if they pull me straight into hell.

  My eyes focus on Dr Ari’s hands. We have both been waiting for this moment. He wants to solve the mystery not even New York’s top cops have been able to crack. His legendary status for restoring the forgetful is at stake. As for myself, if I can’t come up with a logical explanation, I will face life in prison. I am lucky in a way – for there is something resembling luck in my position – New York abolished the death penalty years ago. I can always plead insanity, for what mother in her right mind kills her infant daughter? And if I didn’t kill her, what woman in her right mind does not know where her daughter is? Either way, my end of the stick is shitty.

  ‘Tell you about Mia?’ I can hear my own voice as if it was prerecorded. It sounds nothing like me. It’s more than that; I feel as if I’m not inside my own body. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  Dr Ari’s Adam’s apple is bobbing as he swallows. He pushes the chair off his desk and rolls back a couple of feet. He glances at the digital recorder to make su
re it is on.

  ‘Start wherever you want.’

  Tell him about Mia? I’m trying to make a connection; I’m reaching for a marker, longing to connect the dots. I look down and avoid his eyes. I fold my hands in my lap.

  ‘I remember …’ I hear my own voice trembling. I feel shaky, my stomach muscles are tight. I am trying to sit straight, keep my composure. I choose my words wisely, for they have the power to set my world on fire.

  My thoughts remain unstructured and unorganized, like half-truths concealed as memories. It’s hard to talk about her. Because there’s all that blood. It just won’t go away. Sometimes, for a little while, I indulge, I remain in the moment, just because I need to. It doesn’t mean I will talk about it. But I hope that one day soon I’ll take aim at the memory. One bullet, one shot, and it’ll be done. But I have to be honest, candor has never been my thing. Why not just tell him? It is in every corner of my mind but there are other things, too. Things we should talk about first.

  ‘Go on,’ he says.

  I know, I know, I’d go to the ends of the earth to protect Mia and keep her safe but please don’t ask to see what’s really inside of me. There is a part of myself I keep in a steel cage. It’s the part that doesn’t want to know what I’m capable of. It’s almost as if I built brick walls so strong they keep me from touching the vulnerable part of me, the part that doesn’t even care if I take another breath. The part of me that believes I did what I’m accused of.

  Chapter 12

  During the day, thousands of coal-black crows spread out over the Creedmoor estate, but in the afternoons they flock together in smaller groups to gather in their communal roost once dusk nears. Their calls create a tremendous noise level, then suddenly they settle down and remain quiet during the night.