Vanishing Acts

by Jodi Picoult

  Eric sits on the trailer steps, answering their questions. He has taken off his tie, but he is still sporting the suit he wore in court. I am aware of the other neighbors, watching us from their porches and trailer windows. I wonder if they know who we are; if they are aware of the irony.

  The detective speaking to Eric puts his notepad away. "Sit tight, Mr. Talcott," he says. "We'll put out an Amber alert immediately. The best thing you can do is stay right here, just in case Sophie finds her way back."

  I watch him radio in the information we have given him, I hear distant sirens. Was this how my mother felt, when she realized I was missing? As if the entire core of her had been removed; as if this planet suddenly seemed much larger than it had ever been before?

  I can't trust the police to find my child. I can't trust anyone.

  I wait until the detective has gone to speak to the neighbors; and then I whistle for Greta. "You ready to work, girl?" I croon, and I rub her between the ears.

  Eric stands up. "Delia," he says. "What do you think you're doing?"

  Instead of answering him, I slip on Greta's harness. I don't care about stepping on the toes of a police administration I do not know; I don't care about the detective's instructions to stay put. All I know is that I was the one who screwed up, by falling asleep. This is the seminal difference between my own mother and myself: I will search for my daughter longer, and harder, than anyone else.

  At the promise of a search, Greta's whole body starts to quiver. "I'm her mother," I say to Eric, because in any perfect world, that ought to be explanation enough.

  If Sophie was taken away in a car, I am not going to get very far. A scent will only carry if, by chance, the window was rolled down. But when I find Sophie's pillow and scent Greta off it, she takes off immediately. She circles around the front yard, where Sophie has played for a month. She sniffs the cacti Sophie painted under Ruthann's direction. She casts in widening circles, and then she finds a path that takes us out of the trailer park.

  As Greta works, her nose pressed to the pavement, I think about everything that might go wrong: the desert wind, scattering the scent cones; the spongy, scorching asphalt that might mask Sophie's smell with its own bitter black one; the onrushing cars and exhaust that might interrupt Greta's careful track. The dog is heading toward the highway, the same way we came home from court today, and although I am trying hard not to think about it, I'm wondering if Greta is picking up that old scent instead.

  I try to remember all the statistics: how many kids disappear every day in America; how, exponentially, the chance of finding a missing child decreases after a certain amount of time missing; how long a person can survive in the desert without water.

  Greta and I have been searching for only a half hour when she cuts behind a shopping center and then doubles back. She takes off at a run, and I race after her. "Sophie?" I start yelling at the top of my lungs. "Sophie!?"

  And then I hear it: "Mommy?"

  In utter disbelief, I let go of Greta's leash. She rounds the concrete corner of the building and jumps up, her front paws nearly reaching Sophie's shoulders.

  I fall to my knees before Sophie, sobbing, grabbing for every inch of her that I can. She is holding an ice cream cone in her left hand, and she doesn't seem to understand why I have been reduced to a puddle in front of her. "I thought you were lost," I gasp into the sweet skin of her neck. "I didn't know where you'd gone."

  "But we left you a note," Sophie says, and that's when I realize she is not alone.

  In front of the ice cream parlor stand Eric, the detective, and Victor Vasquez. "I would have called you," Eric says, "but you left so fast you didn't take your phone."

  Victor steps forward, an embarrassed flush covering his face. "You were sleeping, and after all that happened today, I didn't want to wake you up. So Sophie and me, we left you a message."

  The detective holds it up--crayoned, on one of the pieces of paper Sophie had been using for her pictures. TOOK SOPHIE FOR AN ICE CREAM--BACK IN 1/2 HOUR!--VICTOR. "It was caught behind the couch," the detective says. "The fan must have blown it off the table."

  Mortified, I take it from his hand. "I'm so, so sorry," I murmur. "I guess I overreacted ..."

  The detective shakes his head. "That's what we're here for," he says. "And believe me, we love it when it works out like this."

  As Eric thanks the detective, Sophie slides her hand into mine. "You told me I can't go anywhere with strangers," she says, "but I already met Victor."

  Victor turns to me. "I should have realized--"

  "No," I say. "Really. It's my fault."

  "Look at what Victor brought me!" Sophie tugs me toward one of the wrought-iron tables outside the ice cream parlor, on which sits a bird's nest. Inside are the remains of several speckled eggs. "He said that the babies aren't living there anymore, so I could have it."

  Victor puts his hand on the crown of Sophie's head. "I thought, with everything that's going on right now, she might need an extra friend."

  I nod at him, trying to smile in gratitude. I can feel the heat of Eric's gaze on me, wondering why I wasn't more thorough, wondering, like me, if this trial is taking a toll on me in ways I hadn't even expected. To avoid that discussion, I turn my attention to Sophie's prize. I listen to her chatter about the hatchlings, and where they've flown off to by now. When she carefully places an eggshell in my hand, I feign excitement, even though all I can see is something that's been broken.

  *

  A hostile witness is someone who is going to be unsympathetic to a lawyer, or the lawyer's client. In my father's case, the prosecution is going to have to be the one to call me to the stand, presumably to show the jury the damage that was done to me. But I'm more likely to stand up for my father than incriminate him, which means that it's in the prosecutor's best interests to ask me leading questions, something she normally wouldn't be allowed to do with a witness she's called to the stand. To that end, she's asked the judge to consider me hostile.

  It makes me wonder if I am. Has this whole fiasco made me unreceptive? Aggressive? Angry? Will I come out of this trial more changed than I was, even, by my father's actions?

  Eric has given me a pep talk this morning, reminding me that no matter what Emma Wasserstein does, she cannot put words in my mouth. In the wake of Sophie's disappearance last night, I am focused and centered--so intent on thinking before I act or speak that I can't imagine this prosecutor getting the best of me.

  "Good morning," she says.

  A cool wall of cross-purpose separates us. I am careful not to look her in the eye. "Hello."

  "You're not very happy about being here today, are you, Ms. Hopkins."

  "No," I admit.

  "You realize you're under oath."

  "Yes."

  "And you realize your father does stand accused of kidnapping you."

  Eric stands. "Objection, Your Honor. It's not for her to make the legal conclusion."

  "Sustained," Judge Noble says.

  Emma doesn't flinch. "You must have a very strong bond with your father, after all those years."

  I hold my answer between my teeth, sure this is a trap I am walking into. "Yes. He was the only parent I knew."

  "You're a parent, too, aren't you?" Emma asks.

  Inside, I freeze: Could she have found out already about Sophie's disappearance last night? Is she going to discredit me with my own mistakes? "I have a daughter. Sophie."

  "How old is she?"

  "Five."

  "What do you like to do with Sophie?"

  Immediately, an image of her rises in my mind, like the sweetest cream. We go looking for bugs--caterpillars and snails--and then build them houses out of grass and twigs. We tattoo each other with Magic Markers. We do puppet shows with the extra socks in the laundry basket. Just thinking these things is reassuring, makes me remember that sooner or later, I get to leave this witness stand and go home with her.

  "Do you tuck her in every night?" Emma asks.
/>   "When I'm not working."

  "And in the morning?"

  "She wakes me," I say.

  "Would it be fair to say that Sophie relies on the fact that you'll be there in the morning, when she comes looking for you?"

  Emma Wasserstein has looped this noose so slyly that I haven't even felt the rope being placed around my neck. "Sophie is lucky enough to have two very responsible parents she can depend on," I answer coolly.

  "You've never been married to Sophie's father, have you."

  I steadfastly refuse to glance at Eric. "No. We're engaged."

  "Why don't you tell the jury who Sophie's father is?"

  Eric is out of his seat like a shot. "Objection. Irrelevant."

  The judge folds his arms. "You're the one who said you could handle this case, no matter how close to home it got, Mr. Talcott. Overruled."

  "Who is Sophie's father, Ms. Hopkins?" Emma repeats.

  "Eric Talcott," I say.

  "The attorney in this courtroom right now? The one defending your father?"

  At her words, the jury stops staring at me, and scrutinizes Eric. "That would be the one," I reply.

  "Does Mr. Talcott ever go out with Sophie alone, just father-daughter?"

  I think back to last night; how I'd immediately assumed, hoped, that it had been Eric who'd taken Sophie somewhere. "Yes."

  "So you've been in a position before where you've been waiting for them to come home."

  "Yes."

  "Have they ever been late?"

  I press my lips together in a firm line. "Ms. Hopkins," the judge says, "you have to answer her."

  "Once or twice."

  "When they were late, did you call the police?"

  I wouldn't have called the police, if I knew Eric was with her. I wouldn't have called the police if I'd known that Victor was with her, either. It was when I thought Sophie was alone, or with a stranger, that I'd panicked. "No, I didn't."

  "Because you trusted Mr. Talcott to bring her back, isn't that right?"

  "Yes."

  "Just like your mother did, the day you were taken by your father?"

  "Objection," Eric calls, but Emma is already speaking again.

  "You don't remember anything specific about your mother's drinking, isn't that true?"

  I look up at the prosecutor. "Actually, I do," I say. Eric is surprised; I haven't had a chance to tell him any of this. "She left home once. Back then, I didn't know where she was going. I just assumed it was my fault. I spent a lot of time trying to keep out of her way, and I figured she finally found a way to get around me."

  "Did your father ever tell you where she went?"

  "No," I say. "But she did. Rehab."

  Emma smiles, delighted. "Your one memory of your mother, then, is of when she was actively trying to get help with her drinking?"

  And your father still took you? I shake my head to clear the words she hasn't said, and maybe that is what dislodges it--another memory, with its pin already pulled and its smoke billowing history. Something is blinding--a mirror, maybe, that keeps catching the sun. My mother is holding it. Come on, Beth, this was your idea, she says, but it's taking me longer to walk up the hill. She sits down on it--not a mirror, but a silver tray. I crawl between her legs and her arms fold around me tight. Who needs snow? she says, and then we are bouncing down the rocky red slope with our matching hair flying out behind us.

  In the gallery, I find my mother's face. I wish I could explain the feeling when a piece of you suddenly reattaches, a piece you weren't even aware was gone. You are afraid to speak, because you don't know what might come out of your own mouth. You begin to question whether you're making this up, whether everything you've thought to this point is just a lie.

  You want more, and you're terrified to have it.

  Was she drunk, when we went sledding on the sand? Was I so glad to have her with me, holding on tight, that it didn't even matter?

  "Is it true, Ms. Hopkins, that your father told you your mother was dead?" Emma asks.

  "He said she had died in a car accident."

  "And you believed him?"

  "I had no reason not to," I say.

  "When you found out your mother was alive, you were very curious to meet her, weren't you."

  I can feel the prick of my mother's eyes on me. "Yes."

  "You wanted to see if she was at all like the mother you'd imagined all those years."

  "Yes."

  "But then your father told you that, in fact, this mother, the one you'd built to mythic proportions in your mind, was an alcoholic. That she had put you in danger, as a child, and that's why he'd abducted you."

  I nod.

  "You didn't want to believe your father, did you?"

  "No," I admit.

  "But you had to," Emma insists. "Because if you didn't, then you were right back where you started: with your father lying."

  "That's not the way--"

  "You can't deny, Ms. Hopkins, that your father is a liar. Why, by your own testimony--"

  "Yes!" I interrupt. "He's a liar. He lied to me for twenty-eight years, is that what you want me to admit? But the alternative was the truth, and no one ever wants to hear that. I can tell you for a fact that I didn't want to. It was much easier to think my mother was dead, believe me, than to find out she was an alcoholic who couldn't take care of me." I turn to the jury. "Just like it's much easier to think that someone who breaks the law deserves to be punished--"

  "Your Honor!" Emma says.

  "--especially when it's what you hear from the prosecutor and on television and every time you open up a newspaper, even when you know, deep down, he was right to do it."

  "Judge, I'd like the court to strike the surplus testimony as non-responsive," Emma insists.

  "You're the one who led her there," the judge replies, shrugging.

  Eric catches my eye and winks at me, proud.

  I have managed to rattle the prosecutor, and that makes me sit a little taller. "Ms. Hopkins," Emma says, smoothly changing her line of questioning, "you do search and rescue for a living, is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you explain what that is, for the jury?"

  "My bloodhound, Greta, and I work with law enforcement agencies, cooperating with them to help find missing people."

  "How do you find a child who's wandered off?" Emma asks.

  "I give my bloodhound, Greta, a scent article--something un-contaminated, that last touched the child. Usually it's a pillowcase or pajamas or sheets, something that was as close to the skin as you can get. But if I don't even have that, a footprint is enough. I'll get Greta to sniff it, and then I follow her lead."

  "You've met parents whose children are lost, right?"

  "Yes," I say.

  "How do they act?"

  "Most of them are frantic," I say. Like me. Last night.

  "Have you ever had to tell anyone that you can't locate the child?"

  "Yes," I admit. "Sometimes the trail just ends. Sometimes the weather conditions affect the search."

  "Have you ever had to stop looking?"

  I can feel my mother's eyes on me. "You try not to," I say, "but sometimes you don't have a choice."

  "Ms. Hopkins, have you ever been sent after a runaway ...or a suicidal person?"

  "Yes."

  "They don't always want to come back with you, I imagine."

  I am thinking of a cliff on a mesa; a woman who stepped off the edge of the world. "No."

  "When you find these particular people, you bring them back, even though they're reluctant, don't you," Emma says.

  I had wondered, in the days since Ruthann's death, why she hadn't protested harder when I told her I wanted to come to Shipaulovi. She must have known what she was planning to do there; having Sophie and me tagging along must have weighed heavily on her conscience. Unless ... she had wanted someone there to bear witness. And she'd wanted that someone to be me.

  Maybe she believed that because of what I'd been t
hrough, I knew that what was expected and what was right are rarely the same set of footsteps. Because of what I'd been through, I understood that sometimes you lie because you have to.

  "Yes," I say to Emma. "I bring them back."

  Emma Wasserstein's eyes light in triumph. "Because you know you should," she clarifies.

  But I shake my head. "No," I say. "Although I know I shouldn't."

  Maybe every couple should have a judgment day like this: a witness stand, a wooden chair. A stack of invisible questions set between them like fruit that they will peel raw and feed to each other, each hoping the other will admit what brought them to this point. As Eric comes toward me to begin the cross-examination, the room falls away from us, and we might as well be nine again: lying on our backs in a field of black-eyed Susans; pretending we had landed on an orange planet, that we were the only inhabitants.

  "So," he says simply. "How're you doing?"

  It makes me smile. "I'm holding up."

  "Delia, I haven't discussed this case with you, have I?"

  We have rehearsed these questions; I know what he is going to say, and what I am supposed to. "No."

  "You weren't too thrilled with me because of that, were you?"

  I think about the fight we had, after the visit to the hospital. Of my flight to Hopiland. "No. I thought you were hiding information from me that I deserved to have."

  "But you didn't hire me to represent your father because you thought I'd discuss the case with you, did you?"

  "No. I hired you because I know you love my father as much as I do."

  Eric passes by me, stands in front of the jury. "What does your father do for a living?"

  "He runs a senior center in Wexton, New Hampshire."

  "Did he make enough money to provide for you as a child?"

  "We didn't live in luxury or anything," I admit, "but we certainly had enough."

  "Your father provided for you emotionally, too, didn't he?"

  Is there a right answer to this question? Can you quantify love? "He was always there for me. No matter what I needed to talk about."

  "Did you talk about your mother with him?"

  "He knew I missed her. But I knew it hurt him to talk about her, and I didn't really bring it up all that often. Nobody likes to talk about the things they've lost."

  "As it turns out, though, he'd never really lost your mother, had he?"

  I can still hear her voice in the restroom, telling me that she really did love my father. "She never died in a car crash," I say slowly, "but he lost her long before that, I think."