boy?” he asks.
“A little girl. She’s six. What about you?”
“Jonathan would be twelve. What’s your little girl’s name?”
“Emma.”
He nods. “Of course. I thought you looked familiar. I’ve been following the story.”
I should tell David that I’m not just here for moral support, to bare my soul and cry on somebody’s shoulder. What I’m hoping to find is of a more practical nature. I want someone who’s been there to tell me how to continue the search. I want to know what mistakes to avoid, what these people would have done differently.
David goes over to a table in the corner, scoops coffee from a can into a cone filter. He hands me the coffeepot. “Mind filling this up at the water fountain?”
My steps echo in the long hallway. It’s Wednesday evening and the classrooms are mostly empty. The walls are covered with announcements for English tutors and tae kwon do classes. The water fountain is at the far end of the hall; a piece of chewing gum is stuck to the rim. I’m reminded of an afternoon at the zoo almost a year ago, Jake and Emma and I walking the path beside the tiger cage. The tiger was sunning on a rock. He looked at us and blinked. “I’m thirsty,” Emma said. There was a water fountain a few feet ahead. “Race you to it,” I said. I let her beat me, then lifted her so she could drink. She was wearing a sleeveless top, and the skin under her arms was soft and damp.
I had only met Jake a couple of weeks before, and things were moving so quickly. Holding Emma up to the fountain, I understood that if I was going to fall in love with Jake, I must also fall in love with her. Jake didn’t come unencumbered; he was a package deal. I marveled at the ease with which she had trusted me, how she held out her arms and waited for me to lift her. I was amazed by the unexpected completeness of this child—how she craned her pale neck to drink from the small trickle of water, how she kicked her legs in the air when she was finished to let me know it was time to put her down. I had never really thought of children as people, just as mysterious and needy creatures on their way to something greater. But standing there, holding Emma, I saw a girl who was already forming her own personality, her own ways of looking at and being in the world. I set her down. She ran back to her father. He lifted her in his arms and swung her in a circle. She let out a howl of laughter. Something kicked in my gut—fear, excitement, joy.
My God
, I thought,
I’m falling for them
.
Back in the classroom, I pour water into the coffeemaker and flip the switch. The water begins to gurgle. “How do you manage?” I ask. “How do you keep looking?”
“I don’t. Not anymore. We found Jonathan back in October. He was identified through dental records. Buried on a garlic farm in Gilroy.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I keep coming to these meetings because I need to be around people who know what it’s like. When your child is taken, it feels like you’re living in a foreign country where you don’t speak the language. You open your mouth to say something, and you get the impression that no one understands. The people you knew before—parents of your children’s friends, especially—avoid you. You’re a walking reminder of their worst fear. It seems that everyone you meet can tell that you’re not like them.”
“Maybe we have a certain look,” I say. “Maybe we give off some scent of tragedy.”
“Cream, sugar?” David asks.
“No thanks.”
He hands me a cup of black coffee, then sits down in a wooden desk. I sit across from him in the circle. It feels like high school again—desks too small, the room permanently out of date, the smell of old erasers.
“Funny,” I say. “I’ve taken coffee with cream and sugar all my life. When Emma disappeared, I started taking it black.”
“That’s normal. After Jonathan’s kidnapping, I couldn’t remember to wear a tie to work. My socks never
“A little girl. She’s six. What about you?”
“Jonathan would be twelve. What’s your little girl’s name?”
“Emma.”
He nods. “Of course. I thought you looked familiar. I’ve been following the story.”
I should tell David that I’m not just here for moral support, to bare my soul and cry on somebody’s shoulder. What I’m hoping to find is of a more practical nature. I want someone who’s been there to tell me how to continue the search. I want to know what mistakes to avoid, what these people would have done differently.
David goes over to a table in the corner, scoops coffee from a can into a cone filter. He hands me the coffeepot. “Mind filling this up at the water fountain?”
My steps echo in the long hallway. It’s Wednesday evening and the classrooms are mostly empty. The walls are covered with announcements for English tutors and tae kwon do classes. The water fountain is at the far end of the hall; a piece of chewing gum is stuck to the rim. I’m reminded of an afternoon at the zoo almost a year ago, Jake and Emma and I walking the path beside the tiger cage. The tiger was sunning on a rock. He looked at us and blinked. “I’m thirsty,” Emma said. There was a water fountain a few feet ahead. “Race you to it,” I said. I let her beat me, then lifted her so she could drink. She was wearing a sleeveless top, and the skin under her arms was soft and damp.
I had only met Jake a couple of weeks before, and things were moving so quickly. Holding Emma up to the fountain, I understood that if I was going to fall in love with Jake, I must also fall in love with her. Jake didn’t come unencumbered; he was a package deal. I marveled at the ease with which she had trusted me, how she held out her arms and waited for me to lift her. I was amazed by the unexpected completeness of this child—how she craned her pale neck to drink from the small trickle of water, how she kicked her legs in the air when she was finished to let me know it was time to put her down. I had never really thought of children as people, just as mysterious and needy creatures on their way to something greater. But standing there, holding Emma, I saw a girl who was already forming her own personality, her own ways of looking at and being in the world. I set her down. She ran back to her father. He lifted her in his arms and swung her in a circle. She let out a howl of laughter. Something kicked in my gut—fear, excitement, joy.
My God
, I thought,
I’m falling for them
.
Back in the classroom, I pour water into the coffeemaker and flip the switch. The water begins to gurgle. “How do you manage?” I ask. “How do you keep looking?”
“I don’t. Not anymore. We found Jonathan back in October. He was identified through dental records. Buried on a garlic farm in Gilroy.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I keep coming to these meetings because I need to be around people who know what it’s like. When your child is taken, it feels like you’re living in a foreign country where you don’t speak the language. You open your mouth to say something, and you get the impression that no one understands. The people you knew before—parents of your children’s friends, especially—avoid you. You’re a walking reminder of their worst fear. It seems that everyone you meet can tell that you’re not like them.”
“Maybe we have a certain look,” I say. “Maybe we give off some scent of tragedy.”
“Cream, sugar?” David asks.
“No thanks.”
He hands me a cup of black coffee, then sits down in a wooden desk. I sit across from him in the circle. It feels like high school again—desks too small, the room permanently out of date, the smell of old erasers.
“Funny,” I say. “I’ve taken coffee with cream and sugar all my life. When Emma disappeared, I started taking it black.”
“That’s normal. After Jonathan’s kidnapping, I couldn’t remember to wear a tie to work. My socks never
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