matched. I forgot to trim my fingernails and water the plants and put gas in the car. All the details of daily life become irrelevant.”
He sips his coffee. I look at the clock. It’s five minutes before the meeting is scheduled to begin. How far can she go in five minutes?
“Your wife. Does she ever come to the meetings?”
“We split up two years after Jonathan disappeared.” David spreads his hands out on the desk, stares at them, and folds them into fists. “Everyone in this group is either divorced or separated. Jane and I were the perfect couple, or so we thought. After Jonathan was gone, there was too much pain. We were a constant reminder to each other of what we’d lost. And there’s always the blame.”
“How did it happen?” I ask, finding myself drawn to his story the way others must be drawn to Emma’s.
“Jane was in Minnesota visiting her mother, and I’d taken Jonathan to the Russian River for Father’s Day weekend. We were on a canoe trip with several other fathers and their sons. While I was setting up our tent, I gave Jonathan permission to go look for frogs with a couple of older boys. The kids weren’t gone more than ten, twelve minutes. I was putting in the last stake when the two other boys came running out of the woods, panicked. The moment I saw them, I knew something terrible had happened. They’d been approached by a man with a gun. The man, for some reason, chose my boy.”
“I remember hearing about it. The manhunt went on for weeks.”
“Media frenzy. It’s creepy, the way people get into the story, but you put up with the pushy reporters and the curiosity because you think it might help. With all those people tuning in to your story on the five o’clock news, you think your child will be found.”
My heart sinks, remembering the droves of volunteers who combed the woods with flashlights and walkie-talkies.
America’s Most Wanted
covered the story, as did CNN. There were posters and flyers and candlelight vigils. Even with all that, they couldn’t find his son.
“Jane never forgave me for letting him out of my sight. If she had, it wouldn’t have mattered, because I never forgave myself. Every morning when I wake up, the first thought that comes to my mind is that goddamn tent. If I’d just told Jonathan to wait until I was finished…”
“There was this seal pup,” I say. “It was dead. I obsess about it every minute of every day. What if the seal hadn’t been there? What if I hadn’t had my camera? I looked away from Emma for forty seconds, maybe a minute.”
“We’re all cursed with that—thinking about the seconds.”
“And then there was this funeral procession on the Great Highway,” I say. “I had no business stopping to look, but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve always felt the same way about funeral processions that I feel about terrible car accidents—it’s depressing, it’s morbid, and even though you know the people involved deserve some privacy, it’s impossible not to look.”
David nods, taking it in.
“I’m not her mother,” I explain.
“Yes.”
“I’m engaged to Emma’s father.”
“I know.”
I wonder if this makes me less in his eyes. No matter how much guilt I feel, no matter how much grief, I can’t really understand the suffering of a parent who has lost a child.
“Your fiancé didn’t want to come?” he asks.
“He’s busy. Command post.”
“And?” David says, as if he can read my mind.
“He thinks the support group is a waste of time. I think he’s beginning to consider me a waste of time, too. We used to be so good together, but of course things are different now. And I don’t blame him. I just keep thinking that, when we find her, everything can go back to normal.”
“You know the statistics,” David says softly, reaching for my hand. His hand is cool, slightly damp. “You have to be prepared for the worst.” As he closes his hand over mine, I suddenly regret telling him so much.
A
He sips his coffee. I look at the clock. It’s five minutes before the meeting is scheduled to begin. How far can she go in five minutes?
“Your wife. Does she ever come to the meetings?”
“We split up two years after Jonathan disappeared.” David spreads his hands out on the desk, stares at them, and folds them into fists. “Everyone in this group is either divorced or separated. Jane and I were the perfect couple, or so we thought. After Jonathan was gone, there was too much pain. We were a constant reminder to each other of what we’d lost. And there’s always the blame.”
“How did it happen?” I ask, finding myself drawn to his story the way others must be drawn to Emma’s.
“Jane was in Minnesota visiting her mother, and I’d taken Jonathan to the Russian River for Father’s Day weekend. We were on a canoe trip with several other fathers and their sons. While I was setting up our tent, I gave Jonathan permission to go look for frogs with a couple of older boys. The kids weren’t gone more than ten, twelve minutes. I was putting in the last stake when the two other boys came running out of the woods, panicked. The moment I saw them, I knew something terrible had happened. They’d been approached by a man with a gun. The man, for some reason, chose my boy.”
“I remember hearing about it. The manhunt went on for weeks.”
“Media frenzy. It’s creepy, the way people get into the story, but you put up with the pushy reporters and the curiosity because you think it might help. With all those people tuning in to your story on the five o’clock news, you think your child will be found.”
My heart sinks, remembering the droves of volunteers who combed the woods with flashlights and walkie-talkies.
America’s Most Wanted
covered the story, as did CNN. There were posters and flyers and candlelight vigils. Even with all that, they couldn’t find his son.
“Jane never forgave me for letting him out of my sight. If she had, it wouldn’t have mattered, because I never forgave myself. Every morning when I wake up, the first thought that comes to my mind is that goddamn tent. If I’d just told Jonathan to wait until I was finished…”
“There was this seal pup,” I say. “It was dead. I obsess about it every minute of every day. What if the seal hadn’t been there? What if I hadn’t had my camera? I looked away from Emma for forty seconds, maybe a minute.”
“We’re all cursed with that—thinking about the seconds.”
“And then there was this funeral procession on the Great Highway,” I say. “I had no business stopping to look, but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve always felt the same way about funeral processions that I feel about terrible car accidents—it’s depressing, it’s morbid, and even though you know the people involved deserve some privacy, it’s impossible not to look.”
David nods, taking it in.
“I’m not her mother,” I explain.
“Yes.”
“I’m engaged to Emma’s father.”
“I know.”
I wonder if this makes me less in his eyes. No matter how much guilt I feel, no matter how much grief, I can’t really understand the suffering of a parent who has lost a child.
“Your fiancé didn’t want to come?” he asks.
“He’s busy. Command post.”
“And?” David says, as if he can read my mind.
“He thinks the support group is a waste of time. I think he’s beginning to consider me a waste of time, too. We used to be so good together, but of course things are different now. And I don’t blame him. I just keep thinking that, when we find her, everything can go back to normal.”
“You know the statistics,” David says softly, reaching for my hand. His hand is cool, slightly damp. “You have to be prepared for the worst.” As he closes his hand over mine, I suddenly regret telling him so much.
A
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