flowers from
friends and strangers, toys for Bailey, gifts of potted plants, and
from someone they didn’t know a dreadful pink plaster statue of a
cherub that Dana put out in the garden hoping it would only last a
season. Occasionally strangers knocked at the front door. Dana
thought there was something ghoulish in their eagerness to see
Bailey, and she learned to ignore the doorbell unless she recognized
the car at the curb. Once or twice a white van drove by slowly.
Behind the smoked windows she thought she saw two heads but
could not be sure. Nor could she tell if there was a bumper sticker
on the back driver’s side. She told Lieutenant Gary anyway.
The policeman wanted Bailey to be examined by a doctor to determine if she had been molested.
“I’ll find out myself,” Dana said.
“Begging your pardon, but you’re not a professional, Dana. You
won’t be able to tell.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m her mother.”
Gary also wanted Bailey to speak with a psychologist to get her to
name her abductor and describe him or the place where she was taken.
Dana was opposed to this too, and at first David supported her.
At night they lay in bed, their faces inches apart, and whispered
that they wanted to put the whole nightmare as far behind them as
possible.
One evening after supper Dana took Bailey into the bath with
her. In a tub full of warm water and clouds of grapefruit-scented
suds, she soaped her daughter’s body, pausing to enjoy the pleasure
of her silken skin, the feel of slender arms and legs under her hands.
Dana had feared she would never see her again, and when she
touched her now, it was as if the world had been made new. Bailey
was bony and straight, with valiant little squared-off shoulders, and
her skin was the warm, dark color of eucalyptus honey except
where her bottom had been covered by shorts or underwear.
Though she had not lost weight during her months away-had, in
fact, gained a pound-she had grown taller, causing her knees and
elbows to lose their pillows of flesh, and when Dana ran her hands
up Bailey’s side, her daughter’s ribs felt like a xylophone.
“Stand up, Bailey.”
She was a water sprite with two new teeth, huge, unblinking
brown eyes, and hair made dark by the water, plastered against her
head, dripping down her face.
“I need to look at you, Bailey. I need to touch your private
places.” The moment was delicate as old parchment. One careless
touch and all would crumble. “May I do that, Bailey?”
Bailey blinked and nodded once.
“And you must tell me, just nod your head, did anyone hurt you,
Bailey, while you were gone?” It was not a matter of being gentle;
the question itself was an assault.
Bailey blinked and looked at Moby standing guard at the bathroom door.
Dana rested her hands at her daughter’s waist, the butterfly
bones where her hips would be. She smoothed a hand across the
pout of her tummy and kissed her belly button, this place where
they had been connected for nine months. Bailey had swum in the
waters of Dana’s womb, rocked and jollied there like a dolphin
baby. She had been warm and secure in the dark one moment and
then expelled into the glare of an electric sun, hung by her heels and
slammed by sound. And then in May it had happened again. Someone
had ripped her from the home where she knew only warmth and
love. She had been dragged off and forced into a strange van. It was
too easy to imagine Bailey’s fear. If her kidnapper had done more
than steal her, Dana almost did not want to know.
But she had to know.
At eye level Bailey’s labia was innocent and tender as a folded
rose, as sweet as anything Dana had ever seen. She thought of a
man’s hands resting where hers did now, the heel of her hand on the
small mons, and a sob choked her and she forced it to the back of
her throat.
A man with bright white hair and starched black eyebrows had
lived alone three houses down from
friends and strangers, toys for Bailey, gifts of potted plants, and
from someone they didn’t know a dreadful pink plaster statue of a
cherub that Dana put out in the garden hoping it would only last a
season. Occasionally strangers knocked at the front door. Dana
thought there was something ghoulish in their eagerness to see
Bailey, and she learned to ignore the doorbell unless she recognized
the car at the curb. Once or twice a white van drove by slowly.
Behind the smoked windows she thought she saw two heads but
could not be sure. Nor could she tell if there was a bumper sticker
on the back driver’s side. She told Lieutenant Gary anyway.
The policeman wanted Bailey to be examined by a doctor to determine if she had been molested.
“I’ll find out myself,” Dana said.
“Begging your pardon, but you’re not a professional, Dana. You
won’t be able to tell.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m her mother.”
Gary also wanted Bailey to speak with a psychologist to get her to
name her abductor and describe him or the place where she was taken.
Dana was opposed to this too, and at first David supported her.
At night they lay in bed, their faces inches apart, and whispered
that they wanted to put the whole nightmare as far behind them as
possible.
One evening after supper Dana took Bailey into the bath with
her. In a tub full of warm water and clouds of grapefruit-scented
suds, she soaped her daughter’s body, pausing to enjoy the pleasure
of her silken skin, the feel of slender arms and legs under her hands.
Dana had feared she would never see her again, and when she
touched her now, it was as if the world had been made new. Bailey
was bony and straight, with valiant little squared-off shoulders, and
her skin was the warm, dark color of eucalyptus honey except
where her bottom had been covered by shorts or underwear.
Though she had not lost weight during her months away-had, in
fact, gained a pound-she had grown taller, causing her knees and
elbows to lose their pillows of flesh, and when Dana ran her hands
up Bailey’s side, her daughter’s ribs felt like a xylophone.
“Stand up, Bailey.”
She was a water sprite with two new teeth, huge, unblinking
brown eyes, and hair made dark by the water, plastered against her
head, dripping down her face.
“I need to look at you, Bailey. I need to touch your private
places.” The moment was delicate as old parchment. One careless
touch and all would crumble. “May I do that, Bailey?”
Bailey blinked and nodded once.
“And you must tell me, just nod your head, did anyone hurt you,
Bailey, while you were gone?” It was not a matter of being gentle;
the question itself was an assault.
Bailey blinked and looked at Moby standing guard at the bathroom door.
Dana rested her hands at her daughter’s waist, the butterfly
bones where her hips would be. She smoothed a hand across the
pout of her tummy and kissed her belly button, this place where
they had been connected for nine months. Bailey had swum in the
waters of Dana’s womb, rocked and jollied there like a dolphin
baby. She had been warm and secure in the dark one moment and
then expelled into the glare of an electric sun, hung by her heels and
slammed by sound. And then in May it had happened again. Someone
had ripped her from the home where she knew only warmth and
love. She had been dragged off and forced into a strange van. It was
too easy to imagine Bailey’s fear. If her kidnapper had done more
than steal her, Dana almost did not want to know.
But she had to know.
At eye level Bailey’s labia was innocent and tender as a folded
rose, as sweet as anything Dana had ever seen. She thought of a
man’s hands resting where hers did now, the heel of her hand on the
small mons, and a sob choked her and she forced it to the back of
her throat.
A man with bright white hair and starched black eyebrows had
lived alone three houses down from
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