Little Girl Gone

by Alexandra Burt

  I look at Anthony. He looks away. The video continues.

  Liza: ‘Thanks for having me, Cate, glad to be on your show. First of all, no one believes the kidnapper story. Legal experts agree that the circumstances are suspicious, to put it mildly. There are more questions than answers about what happened to the infant. She wasn’t reported missing until the mother was found severely injured in a car upstate, roughly three hours from her home in Brooklyn, N.Y. What mother does not alert the authorities when her child goes missing? Let me answer that for you; a guilty one.’

  Infant. Mother. Severely injured. Upstate. Missing. Guilty.

  Cate: ‘Authorities say that little evidence has turned up, and according to the Police Chief, there are no indications that they had problems with custodial issues. The parents have been cooperative but the mother needs to answer some questions, and there are questions galore, I have to agree. Liza, give us your take on the fact that the mother didn’t report the disappearance.’

  Liza: ‘Well, first of all, the more time goes by, the harder it is to remain positive. But the actions of the mother bother me. And no, eventually reporting the crime is not the same as screaming bloody murder when your kid’s gone. But come on, Cate, let’s get real. I’ll break it down for you and your viewers.’

  Cate: ‘Go ahead, Liza, Break it down for us.’

  Liza: ‘Let me tell you about mounting evidence that leads to the killer, that’s what this case is about. Evidence. Mom doesn’t report her daughter missing. That in itself is suspicious, but there’s more. Supposedly she doesn’t show up for her daughter’s doctor’s appointment. Why not, I ask? I believe by the time the appointment came around, the deed had been done. Then there’s the convenience store incident. According to my source she goes to a local convenience store and attempts to buy water—’

  Cate: ‘Just to let our viewers know, the tapes have been released to the public in an ongoing effort to find additional witnesses who can account for the mother’s actions the days before the disappearance of her daughter. Go ahead, Liza.’

  Liza: ‘Thanks for explaining that, Cate. So she goes to a local convenience store to buy water. But she doesn’t pay for it, leaves it sitting on the counter! No word, nothing. And mind you, the stroller was covered in a blanket! The clerk never even saw the infant. For a baby that was supposedly colicky she’s asleep peacefully in her stroller? She pretended to buy water so the clerk would remember her later on, another part of her devilish plan to fool everybody around her into thinking the baby was still alive. And that’s not conjecture, the clerk has spoken out publicly. And the store has CCTV, there’s proof, I’m not making this up. It’s all over, see for yourself. All this is in evidence, Cate.’

  Cate: ‘I tell you how a defense attorney will explain that. If I were the defense attorney, I’d say maybe she changed her mind. That’s not a crime, right? Maybe she forgot her purse or didn’t have any money on her. Covering a stroller with a blanket? Cold weather? Too many people gawking at the kid? The infant was sleeping? There are many logical reasons. Not a crime, Liza, not by a long shot.’

  Liza: ‘Let me play devil’s advocate, Cate. Let me tell you why I have no doubt that she’s the perpetrator. She disregards the appointment because the baby is already dead! And she knows that, because she killed her! And she panics, doesn’t know what to do with the body. She drives around not knowing what to do or where to go and she ends up upstate New York. That’s when she decides it’s time to look for a place to dump this little innocent angel. Finally she has the courage to pull over and I’d bet my life on the fact that somewhere between her home and the accident site is a little grave in the woods with the remains of the child. But then, let me not go overboard here.’

  Cate: ‘Going overboard? In what way?’

  Liza: ‘I’m giving this mother too much credit. She may not have buried her. Maybe she just dumped her in a river or a lake. I’m not going out on a limb here when I say that we will never recover the body. And last but not least, she walks into the police station, waits around for a while, throws up, and then leaves without talking to anybody. Again, on CCTV. Do we really have any doubts who killed the child? I don’t!’

  Cate: ‘There are sources, unconfirmed sources, which tell us that the mother suffers from amnesia. What do you make of the amnesia claim? And she did have pretty serious injuries, none of them considered self-inflicted, am I correct?’

  Liza: ‘What do I make of it? Of course she has amnesia. Wouldn’t you? Don’t they all? Please! I’m convinced she killed that baby. As to the injuries, as far as I know there’s no proof either way, she was just banged up pretty bad from the accident. Driving in a ravine will leave some marks.’

  Cate: ‘But is the media to blame for the fact that people’s opinions are swayed when it comes to the accused being innocent until proven guilty? Especially in a case like this, where a baby is involved, such innocence and such deep-seated hatred for mothers who hurt their own children. It’s just an overall very emotionally charged case and don’t we have to be vigilant not to draw unsubstantiated conclusions?’

  Liza: ‘I don’t want to speculate on what I don’t know about the case, I’d rather stick with what I do know. And I know I don’t give much credence to the mother’s claims of suffering from amnesia. How convenient, how useful. I don’t know what happened is not going to fly when your baby is missing. At least some mothers try to elude authorities, just ask yourself how many mothers have we seen, in tears, describing some elusive abductor, a black man, a Spanish-speaking hooded man in dark clothing? A carjacking or a masked intruder, whatever they decide to make up. Just check the records, there’s more than one case. And in the end we find out they killed their children! But not her, no ma’am, she just doesn’t remember.

  But back to the facts of the case, it gets even better. Supposedly, according to a source close to the case, there are a couple of witnesses who saw her on the day the baby disappeared.’

  Cate: ‘Emphasis on allegedly. That’s unconfirmed at this point, Liza, which is my point exactly. Are you, and the media as a whole, going too far putting this on the air with an array of unconfirmed allegations?’

  Liza: ‘Let me finish first. According to my sources, she was seen discarding a baby seat on a heap of garbage on her street. How do you explain that away, Mrs Defense Attorney?’

  Cate: ‘I see no need to explain unconfirmed witness reports, so-called witness reports, I might add. And I don’t think that—’

  Liza: ‘How about the homeless woman? There’s a witness who claims she handed a suitcase to a homeless woman, around the time the baby disappeared. The same morning she discarded the baby seat. Really, what else do we need to know? The evidence keeps mounting against her. What was in that suitcase? And how do you locate a homeless woman? I hope they do. And where is that monster of a mom? In a cozy psychiatric ward.’

  Cate: ‘She’s been in a horrible accident, she has the injuries to prove it. She suffers from amnesia and was committed to a psychiatric ward and we—’

  Liza: ‘In hiding is where she is. Because decent mothers and concerned citizens are lining up in front of the city courthouse to demand justice. How come she’s not in jail? This is outrageous!’

  Cate: ‘I was going to say, I don’t think we need to rush to judgment here. We could argue that while you are crucifying her, she is trying to figure out what happened to her precious little girl.’

  Liza: ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute, Cate, that’s not all. A neighbor of hers has spoken out as to her odd behavior. Not wanting anyone in her house, hearing the baby cry all hours of the day and night, even leaving her baby in the car unattended. Does that sound like a caring mother to you? It will all come out at trial. I’m not sure how a defense lawyer can explain all of that away.’

  Cate: ‘But Liza, babies cry! And they do so all hours of the day and night. And she lived alone, her husband worked out of town. I’d be careful who I let in my house, too. Haven’t we all been
less than perfect as mothers? All I’m trying to say is that the media plays a huge role in the public’s opinion of a defendant, and she is innocent until proven guilty.’

  Liza: ‘Even if you don’t believe a word I just told you, be honest with yourself, the timeframe is all we need. She waited too long to report the disappearance, actually didn’t report it at all until she was found and questioned. Something’s just not right. That’s common sense, not an assumption.’

  Cate: ‘But is it fair to dub the mother ‘Amnesia Mom’ in the press?’

  Liza: ‘That’s what she claims, right? She claims to have amnesia and therefore it is a fair description of her, don’t you think? When it comes down to it, Cate, I only say what 90% of people are thinking.’

  Cate: ‘I don’t know about that. I hope not, I hope people use their own judgment, or rather withhold judgment until there’s definite proof of guilt. I hope the jury is of her peers, as the law requires.

  Thanks for being on our show, Liza. Razor-tongued, as always. We have to go to a commercial. After the break we’ll have the local news. Be right back.’

  The video halts, freezing the host’s face in a grimace. There’s more video links but I click on the image tab. Photos of me, one of Mia. She’s swaddled in a blanket, her eyes are closed. The likeness of her takes my breath away. I swipe the screen because it hurts to look at her. There are images of news stations. I recognize North Dandry. Further down, images of women I’ve never seen, no makeup, staring straight in the camera. Mug shots, orange tops. Some hold up a small board with letters. Name, number, Police department. I am everywhere, in every living room, Laundromat, gym, and radio station. At every doctor’s office, every car showroom.

  ‘Amnesia Mom,’ I say and fight back the tears. I’ve been reduced to a mother without a memory, a guilty caretaker with a missing daughter. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Stella. So sorry.’ His eyes darken, tear up. Then they turn into slits.

  ‘She’s nothing but a ratings whore, everyone knows that.’ Anthony slides the phone back in his pocket. ‘I’m sorry, I told you it wasn’t a good idea. They are relentless and most of what they’re saying has nothing to do with the facts. People know that, Stella. Every psychologist and psychiatrist is weighing in, everybody has something to say, is suddenly an expert on the subject matter. No one is interested in the facts. Reporters have called my house for weeks.’

  Pause.

  ‘They asked me if I thought you did this.’

  I want to ask ‘Do you think I did this?’ but I know better. ‘Of course not,’ he’d answer, smoothly. So smooth that I’d know he had thought about it before, rehearsed his answer.

  Anthony keeps his eyes on me, then he shivers as if shaking off a thought that’s making him uncomfortable. It takes me a moment to make sense of it. How is anyone supposed to know what I did when I don’t even know?

  ‘Nell told me you left and she never heard from you again …’

  ‘I’ve never forgotten how she wore Mom’s brooch and her dress to the funeral. Who does that? Who wears her dead sister’s clothes on the day of her funeral?’

  Anthony shakes his head. ‘I remember the brooch. But it was Nell’s brooch, I think, Mom had borrowed it and never returned it. I don’t remember all the details, but the dress, I don’t know, Stella, Nell was three inches taller than Mom and twenty pounds heavier. I don’t think she would’ve fit in Mom’s dress.’

  I feel anger inside of me. ‘That’s what I remember. Are you telling me I made it all up?’

  ‘I’m not saying you made it up. That’s how you remember it.’

  ‘It’s what happened, Anthony. There’s nothing more to it.’

  ‘Don’t be angry at me. I couldn’t be responsible for you … I was eighteen. I was a kid. I couldn’t have raised you. I love you, Stella, but I had to leave.’

  ‘It was just so hard. I had nothing left. I was alone. I—’

  ‘We had nothing, Stella. We had nothing. It was unfortunate, but what was I supposed to do? It happened to both of us … the accident, Mom, Dad, our sister. It happened to both of us, not just you. It was what it was. It wasn’t going to be easy.’

  ‘I needed you, Anthony.’

  ‘I know you did and I should’ve been there. I was a kid. I wish I could do it all over again.’

  I don’t know what to think. Did I expect too much, or did he give too little? I don’t know anything anymore. I’ve believed so many things for so long. Believing something else now is hard. Maybe he’s right. Maybe going down all these roads, of what could have been, was a lost cause. A treacherous road. We get the life we get and that’s all.

  ‘I brought you something,’ he says and reaches inside his coat and retrieves a shabby-looking book with worn edges. I immediately recall a book I used to read obsessively as a child, asking Anthony the meaning of words I didn’t know. I finally realized that the words meant nothing and were just made-up for a fantasy world on a nonexistent continent. I can’t remember the title nor the cover of the book, only that it was about a girl pickpocketing,

  ‘Do you remember this?’

  It’s not the book I long for, but a paperback, familiar, like a toy from my childhood, yet I can’t make a connection. Looking at the book feels like a person you know but cannot place. I read the title, The 365 Funniest Jokes Ever. I turn the book over, and I flip through its pages. There are jokes, riddles, and a collection of funny stories. I see cartoons of elephants sitting on small chairs, men dressed up as women in wigs and aprons, puppies pulling diapers off babies, and the outline of a cat busting through a brick wall. Corny, funny, childlike, silly pictures.

  ‘I bought this book for you when you were about nine. You were always so sad and I wanted to cheer you up. I knew every single joke in this book … every single one. Just couldn’t cheer you up. Not even the funniest jokes.’

  I feel as if I’ve let him down, back then and now.

  ‘I read you one joke a day for an entire year. While I was rolling on the floor, laughing, you never even cracked a smile. Don’t you remember?’

  I just shake my head. I was nine; I should remember something. I just stare at him and my eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Knock, knock.’ Anthony’s voice is soft now.

  When I don’t say anything, he repeats it. ‘Knock, knock,’ he says, looking at me with anticipation.

  ‘Anthony …’

  ‘Knock, knock.’

  ‘Anthony, stop …’

  ‘Knock, knock.’

  ‘Anthony, it wasn’t funny then, it’s not funny now.’

  ‘Just try, Stella. Just once.’

  I close my eyes and try to imagine something else. But it’s not working. I give up because I know he won’t. ‘Who’s there?’ I say.

  ‘Boo.’

  ‘Boo who?’

  ‘Oh, boo hoo. Don’t cry. It’s just a joke.’

  I smile. Boo hoo, don’t cry, it’s just a joke.

  ‘It finally worked.’ He pauses. ‘Don’t cry, Stella, everything will be all right.’

  ‘Right,’ I say but I know nothing will be all right. Anthony has a wife, a dog, a life. I love him and I don’t doubt for a second that he feels the same about me. Under different circumstances we’d probably say something like let’s spend Christmas together this year or I’ll call you next week. But here we are, on a bench at Creedmoor. You’re not alone, Anthony says, but it sure feels that way. I’ll be in touch, Stella, I promise, he says. I believe him and I love him, there’s not much more to it. But for now this here is my life. Mothers all over the country are outraged. I’m Amnesia Mom, a news cycle amusement. That’s all I am in everybody’s eyes. Guilty.

  That night, as I flip through the pages of the book, like a rush of water, I remember a moment long past. Legs pulled up, I melted into the leather tufted wing chair in my father’s study, reading my favorite book, The Thief of Peace, a fantasy novel about a town full of upstanding people turning out to be liars, a
nd a truth-speaking thief.

  I could never be sure if my dad knew I was in his study or not, he just continued to brood over contracts, building codes, or historic preservation guidelines.

  There were corrupt guards and a conspiracy exposing an evil Lord set on suppressing a civil war looming over the land. The plot, even though I must have read the book a dozen times when I was young, now remains elusive. But I remember the map in the front of the book.

  With almost photographic memory I recall the wood-cut-style village cabins, the river merely a black line separating the crowded settlement from the vast Lord’s estate. A mountain chain behind the castle, separating the flatlands from the rolling hills of the Lord’s hunting grounds. The village was surrounded by a hedge, adjacent to a pine forest. If you looked really close you could see the wolves lurking under the shrubs and twisted plants below the piney trees. The compass, instead of the four cardinal directions, was made up of the four elements.

  Then my head starts spinning and my tongue feels as if it is too big for my mouth. A memory visits me, a map I bought at the newsstand. I close my eyes and hang on, stay in the moment. Images pile up like heaps of leaves.

  Newspapers, magazines. Cigarettes, candy, flowers. A soda dispenser. Chinking coins as a man with a turban dropped the change in an ashtray atop the New York Times.

  The next day, during our session, I curl up on the couch in Dr Ari’s office, a pillow propped under my arm. What a peculiar point we’ve come to. The file in front of us has no more secrets to give away, it is on me now to solve the rest of the puzzle.

  ‘I remembered something last night,’ I say.

  Dr Ari sits quietly, his fingers interlaced, elbows propped up on his desk.

  ‘Is there a map?’ I ask and point at the folder in front of him.

  Dr Ari opens the folder and pulls out a thick piece of paper, folded numerous times. Its edges are bent and worn like a favorite childhood book. He shoves it over the glass surface of his desk towards me and pushes the button of the digital recorder.