Little Girl Gone

by Alexandra Burt

  Child after child make their way down the steps, towards the playground. I watch them intently and when my cell vibrates in my jacket pocket I completely ignore it. The children have taken over the playground equipment; girls’ legs swing like pendulums in unison to gain momentum on the swings while the rest of the kids climb up a ladder to go down the slide. A young woman in a bright red wool coat sits on the bench, shielding her eyes with her hands from the sun.

  Then I see what Wilczek saw. The blue Pontiac sits on the opposite side of the road facing north. The driver’s door opens and a woman in jeans and a black parka emerges, pushing a mass of red hair under her parka hood. As the woman crosses the street she scans the sidewalk, then the playground.

  My heart no longer reacts to fateful moments. Maybe I have become accustomed to being tested, maybe I’m so shocked my brain can’t conceive the relevance of this moment. Anna and I make eye contact. Before I can move, Anna runs across the street, disappears into the Pontiac. She takes off northbound.

  As I stand paralyzed under the oak, I watch Wilczek trailing the blue Pontiac. He stares straight ahead while his hands are glued to the steering wheel. He lifts one finger and ever so slightly points towards Anna in the car in front of him when I appear in his field if vision. I nod at him.

  When both cars have disappeared around the corner, I step out of the shadow of the oak tree and towards the front door of the shelter.

  ‘Excuse me.’ A woman’s voice. The same woman who minutes earlier sat on the bench supervising the children in the playground. Her hands awkwardly clasp her coat in the front as if she didn’t find the time to zip it. She smells of coffee.

  ‘You are one of the officers? I saw you with the detective earlier, outside, in the car. He told us to be on the lookout for a woman and gave us her description.’

  I nod in agreement and pull up my shoulders. My nerves are catching up with me. I try not to shake but I do. I am close, so close. ‘There was an emergency and my colleague had to take off.’

  ‘I’m Dr Wallace, staff child psychologist.’ She hesitates, then points towards the gate. ‘You’re so cold you’re shaking. Please come inside and warm up.’

  She unlatches the playground gate and I enter the yard. I just now realize that the children have left the playground. It lies deserted, void of laughter and scuffling boots. A couple of mittens are covered in wood chips on the walkway. The gate closes by itself behind me with a clang. When we get to the backdoor her fingers run over an electronic lock display.

  ‘I see you’re prepared,’ I say and hide my hands in my coat pockets.

  ‘We take in battered women with children sometimes,’ Dr Wallace explains and after the electronic buzzer sounds she turns the door handle.

  I no longer care about Anna and what happens to her. Her fate is her business, I’m here for my daughter. The fact that Anna did show up is proof enough that Mia is in this building. The world around me, the psychiatrist, the door in front of me, everything seems to be shifting, folding in on itself. I decide to surrender myself completely, something Dr Ari has taught me. I no longer need to imagine an elevator, I am able to conjure up my mantra at a moment’s notice; allow the universe to unfold. Fate. What befalls me couldn’t have missed me, and what misses me could not have befallen me, Dr Ari’s voice echoes in my head.

  We stand in a long narrow hallway with shiny linoleum floors. There’s a faint odor of soap and something sharp and lemony. A cube shelving unit holds coats, bags, and gloves. To the left of us is a large tiled room with miniature sinks and shiny faucets with oversized knobs. A large poster says Hush, Rush, Flush.

  As we pass by the bathroom Dr Wallace turns around. ‘I didn’t get your name,’ she says and hangs her coat on a hook next to the shelf.

  I tell her a fake name and thank her for allowing me to wait inside.

  ‘We were just about to do our afternoon group activities,’ she says and points at the reception seating area. ‘You can wait here if you want.’

  I nod and take my seat on the couch. Dr Wallace enters a room across from me. A large round table sits in the middle of the room surrounded by colorful chairs with a hook for an apron. There’s a stack of paper in the middle of the table and a lazy Susan-style revolving tray with an array of paint tubs filled in bright primary colors.

  Dr Wallace claps her hands and from the far side of the room a group of children storm the table and squabble over the chairs.

  I count twelve children, seven boys and five girls. I wonder how far I can go, how far I’ll be able to intrude without causing suspicion.

  Three of the girls have long blond hair and wear identical clothes. They favor each other yet differ in height. Their demeanor is guarded, focused on each other instead of the world around them. They sit next to each other and seem to wait for a clue from the middle girl, the tallest of the three. When she ties the apron around her waist and reaches for the paper, the other two follow suit.

  The two other girls, one with a brown ponytail and fringe covering her eyes, are more subdued, almost aloof. The girl with the ponytail keeps swiping her fringe to one side. The other girl’s hair looks like she’s had an unfortunate encounter with a pair of scissors.

  I walk down the hallway, look at a set of photographs hanging by the door. The photos of people shaking hands at a ribbon-cutting ceremony and a plaque with donor names hardly register.

  I watch the children finger painting and when Dr Wallace looks up, I check my wristwatch. The children dip their fingers in the paint tubs and I scan their faces, quickly. I don’t know what I expected, some sort of powerful reaction yet I feel no connection, no pull, no recognition. My hands continue to shake as I scan their faces, over and over. There weren’t any birthmarks on her, no scraped knee scar that would help me identify her. I imagine Mia’s baby face elongating, straightening the dip between her nose and her brows. On the inside I can feel the rotation of the earth, the slow turning on its axis. I want to grab each girl in this room and press her against me for my blood, my heart, my soul, will surely react. I feel tears on my cheeks and I wipe them away. I must remain strong now, I’m closer, but not there yet.

  I discount the three blond girls with their cornflower eyes. Mia’s eyes were brown, like Jack’s. Her hair used to be blond but children’s hair darkens over the years.

  Two high-pitched voices erupt and two of the boys argue over a tub of paint. One of the boys, his apron has become loose, guides the boy back to his chair by firmly placing a hand on his back. The boy starts crying and the girl with the ponytail says something to him. I wonder if I’d get away with taking a seat in the far corner of the room when I hear Dr Wallace tell the children that I’m a police officer. I never confirmed I was. There was an emergency, I’d told her. My colleague had to take off.

  The children turn and stare at me. The crying boy is inconsolable and when he realizes that everybody’s attention has drifted away from him, he dips his entire hand in the tub of red finger paint. He is immediately annoyed by his sticky hands and tries to get the paint off by violently shaking his fingers. Then he turns to his left and wipes his hands on the shirt of the boy sitting next to him.

  The three blond girls start screaming and attempt to save their pictures from paint spatters by snatching them off the table.

  Dr Wallace’s ‘everybody listen up’ goes unnoticed. Now the other boys also dip their hands into the paint tubs. The doctor’s face is visibly tense and she pulls the entire turntable towards her in order to claim the paint. The children are now amused and smear paint over each other’s shirts. Someone is laughing uncontrollably, then numerous loud bursts erupt that turn into giggles.

  Dr Wallace is frantically screwing the lids back on the tubs. ‘Everybody listen. We are going to wipe our hands and settle down.’ She looks at and gestures me into the room. ‘Give me a hand, will you?’ she says and stuffs a handful of wet wipes into my hands. ‘I’ll handle the boys,’ she adds and directs them to individual chairs along th
e wall.

  I hand the girl with the ponytail and the fringe a wet wipe. She looks at me puzzled and doesn’t move. I gently wipe the red paint globs on her fingertips. She wiggles her hands out of mine and checks the stickiness of whatever is left by rubbing her hands together.

  Her eyes fill with tears. Her painting on the table is covered in paint splashes, torn at the edges. The picture is of a stick figure in a yellow dress with large green dots for the eyes.

  ‘That’s my mommy,’ she says and points at the scribbles, ‘but now it’s all ruined,’ she adds, her lips pouting. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, swiping her bangs to the side.

  ‘Maybe we can fix it,’ I say. I want to save this picture for her, want to make everything all right. I want to tell her that we can cut out mommy and glue her to a clean sheet of paper. That sometimes you can start over and nothing is ruined after all. I stare at the stick figure’s crown of red hair, a color that adds an odd sense of clarity to my perception.

  When she makes eye contact with me, her eyes swallow my words. Those are Jack’s eyes, one raised eyebrow, scrutinizing the world.

  A spark suddenly births a memory, long forgotten underneath countless folds of days, months, and years; the blood that haunted me in the days after waking up in the hospital. The memory of little hands covered in a layer of sticky crimson, a trail of bloody feet disturbing the surface of a white sheet. The dome lamp, the shards, the moment I had learned to tuck away for so many years. My ultimate betrayal as a mother when it so clearly stated Keep Out of Reach of Children. In a twisted impossible way the memory of the blood merges with a sense of sheer euphoria. I’m here, Mia. I’ve found you. I would never give up on you. Going on without you was never an option.

  I fold a wet wipe and encase her hand. Her thumb emerges, clean and shiny. The very tip is covered in round white bumps as if ice is trapped under her skin.

  My stomach drops and my entire body starts vibrating. I gently take both of her wrists in my hands. I flip over her hands and wipe one finger at a time with a broad sweep. Countless white lines emerge, covering her fingertips like icicles, remnants of a night long time ago, a turtle lamp and a mother who was fallible. I hold on to her hands, want to erase everything that’s not right, and I hope her trust won’t evaporate.

  ‘All clean,’ she says and hides her hands behind her back. ‘What about my picture?’

  I don’t cry, something almost unachievable, yet I succeed. I don’t want to scare her, don’t want her first memory of me to be one of tears.

  ‘The picture,’ I say and manage a crooked smile, ‘how about we draw a new one?’

  Wilczek appears some time later. Maybe an hour, maybe longer. His eyes are vacant but his tightly clasped jaws speak volumes.

  ‘She knew I was after her. She tried to get away, but in the end she couldn’t,’ he says and punches keys on his phone. His hands are shaking. Finally he gives up. ‘I called for backup but she had wrapped her car around a pole on Woodside Avenue before backup even showed up. Anna’s dead.’

  Anna’s dead. A mere echo of what’s important.

  ‘Do you remember the lamp? The broken dome lamp from North Dandry?’ I don’t wait for his answer, I can hardly catch my breath. ‘Mia cut her hands on the shards and she has scars on her hands and she looks like Jack,’ I say and wonder if I will ever stop shaking.

  ‘God,’ he says. Just God. Nothing else. His jawline relaxes yet his emotions seem confined within a narrow range. Then something breaks through in his eyes. They widen and look moist. He’s no longer the mere curator of his feelings. ‘God,’ he says again, over and over. He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply.

  His phone rings. Before I can say anything else, he takes the call and walks away, leaving behind a trail of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Wait,’ I call after him.

  He turns around, shutting off his phone.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ I say and step closer. Everything that moves stands still. I feel the bizarre need to know the state of the body of the woman who took my child and kept her from me all these years. In a twisted impossible way I must know exactly how her life ended.

  ‘I trailed her and by the time we get to the first light she knows she’s being followed. She starts panicking. She’s looking left and right, weaving through traffic, then just steps on the—’

  ‘No, not that. Describe her to me.’

  ‘She didn’t take the time to strap herself in. The pole cut her car in half, the front of her car was basically nonexistent. Her knees were touching her chest, they were mangled. Her forehead had a long horizontal gash.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to her.’

  I don’t know what I would have asked her. Why didn’t you just give her back? Why did you keep her? Did you take good care of her? Does she know she was taken?

  The questions humming around in my head are vast in numbers, yet Anna’s death has robbed me of any answers, any conclusion, any closure. Therefore any further thought about her is of little consequence. This moment is bittersweet if there ever was one; I’m leaving without Mia yet again, but this time I know she’s alive, and soon I’ll hold her in my arms. Taking her by force is not an option for I don’t want to inflict any more trauma on her.

  ‘I guess I can’t have it all,’ I say, my mind already occupied. There’s someone else who owes me something.

  Chapter 28

  The very next morning I enter the glass temple of the Donner Broadcasting building, a symbol of its economic power, defining the city of New York as much as the identity of the company itself.

  As I sit on the black leather couch with shiny steel legs, I gaze through the horizontal stripes that interrupt the etched glass doors. I tell her assistant that Amnesia Mom is wanting to speak to her.

  Before the assistant can even announce me, I enter the office of Liza Overton, host of Current Crimes, the woman who dubbed me Amnesia Mom. Her cell phone clutched between shoulder and ear, she points at a chair in front of her desk. Her facial expression is that of a blank sheet of paper. It’s been five years and it takes her a few seconds – I patiently watch her scanning my face – but then she recognizes me. Her jugular on her neck begins to protrude.

  ‘We have to talk,’ I say and lean back in the leather chair and cross my legs. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘My help?’ Now her face moves. Her eyes get smaller, her lips thinner. ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘You have a way of swaying the public, right?’

  ‘I’d like to think so.’

  ‘How about the police?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand. If you want a public apology from the police you’re in the wrong place.’

  ‘I am not looking for an apology from anybody. Certainly not from you or the police. You have made my life hell, you have crucified me in the eyes of the public. You know that. And for that you owe me.’

  ‘I owe you?’ her hand jerks towards the phone, but then she pulls back.

  ‘There’s two things I need from you. One, I want you to do a follow-up show tonight. Two, with that show I want you to put pressure on the cops to initiate an investigation. Call the Police Chief live on the air if you want.’

  She throws her head back and laughs. Deeply, from the gut.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I’ve found my daughter. And I need you to get the police to do a DNA test. So I can get her back.’

  ‘You’ve found her? Where?’

  ‘First things first. Is that a yes?’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Imagine the ratings.’

  Liza Overton pushes a button on the phone, and tells her assistant to hold all calls.

  I tell her about the raid, the children and adults, hundreds altogether, whose DNA tests will take months. After all, a crooked brow and tiny cuts on fingertips don’t prove anything. It’s true, I don’t need apologies from anybody. I need a DNA test. Nothing more and nothing less. Tonight.

  That s
ame day, as I watch the evening news, I dial Jack’s number. At some point in time Jack became increasingly hostile towards me as if my existence was a sheer reminder of his shortcomings. He picks up the phone immediately. He fears the worst, I’m sure.

  ‘Are you at home?’ I ask.

  ‘What the hell? What’s going on?’ His voice is sharp yet I detect trepidation behind his harsh words. We haven’t spoken in years and there’s only one reason for me to call.

  ‘I need you to turn the channel to Current Crimes.’

  ‘What’s going on, Estelle? What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Just do it,’ I say. I don’t know why I make him wait to hear the news. It would be easy to just say I’ve found her, she’s alive, she’s safe. My cruelty claws at me – after all he’s Mia’s father – but then I step beside myself. It all comes back to me, the weeks after the police started looking for Anna Lieberman. I spent every single day explaining myself; why I bleached the house – I wanted to give my daughter a proper home – why I put locks on the doors – Jack left me there by myself, I was afraid – why I gave the suitcase away – a son in the form of a hollowed squirrel needed a home. I spent countless hours answering questions about the search history on my computer and why I looked up how to fire a gun. I waited months for the police to recover guns and match the bullets, months for them to check into David and Anna Lieberman’s background, precious time that wasn’t spent looking for them. And now, even now, after I found Mia – I found her – the police cites a conflicting investigation and unlikely coincidences. Their refusal – their sheer apathy – to hurry along a DNA test is just another stab into a wound that has never healed.