I
can't stay here.
The police are on their way, but instead of finding the body of that woman, that poor little girl's
mother,
they're going to find me, cowering in a bathroom of an empty house. I try not to think what will happen if it's Andrews who arrives.
The only thing I have, the only evidence that remains, is the photo of the little girl. The ladybug rain boots. God,
were
they the ones I found at Lisa's? Was I that close to her? Where is she now? I trace her sweet face with my fingers. It is hard to give this up, this one thing that proves I am not crazy, that she is real. But it is only a photo. She is still out there somewhere.
Down there,
Sharp said. Underground? Is this what Mary meant? Is she in someone's basement?
They have her.
I go to the living room, where the coffee table is scattered with cotton balls and syringes. Burned spoons. All the detritus of this woman's sad life. I put the photo in the center, prop it up against a crumpled-up piece of tinfoil. Right there so that it will be the first thing they see when they come into the house.
The best thing for me to do would be to run out the front door, down the gravel drive to Lost Pond Road. I seem to remember taking that road once, a shortcut from the lake into town. But this is the way the police, the ambulances probably will be coming. It would be suicide.
I have no choice but to go back the way I came. Through the woods. I need to get to Sharp's house. Does his house have a basement?
I go to the fridge, open the freezer, and find the frozen pack of ground beef. The package is covered in crystalline white. I tear it open and hold the frozen chunk of meat in my hands.
When I hear the sirens, I hurry out the back door. The dog is waiting for me, and so I hurl the meat as far as I can. He picks up the scent and goes after it, and I run.
I run through the woods, my body somehow recollecting the trajectory that brought me here, and when I glance over my shoulder the red house becomes just a spot of blood in the distance. I can hear the sirens wailing.
The dog seems to have forgotten me, but I keep running. My legs burn. I fall down once and then again; I can feel the stitches in my hand ripping and wince at the pain, feel blood seeping warmly through the bandage. I worry that this, the scent of my blood, will attract the dog again. I run until I am standing in the thick tangle of trees behind Sharp's compound. And then I stop.
Alfieri's truck is in the driveway. Alfieri is not in the cab, but his dog is. His blocky head hangs out of the passenger's side. His nose twitches and he salivates. Karina Rogers's body is somewhere in the back of that truck. Like so many lawn clippings, I think. Though I have a feeling it's not lawn clippings or leaves in those bags.
I sit down on the cool ground and put my head in my hands. I feel sick. The adrenaline that got me here has now pooled in my stomach. I am nauseous. Woozy. What am I doing here? This is insane. I am in so far over my head. In this so deep. Anybody else would give up, leave it to the police. Anyone in their right mind.
But when I squeeze my eyes shut, I see her again. Standing in the middle of the road, her pale belly protruding over the waistband of that tattered tutu. I think about the room she and her junkie mother were sharing, cannot imagine the unthinkable things she must have seen. I am the only one who believes in her. The only one who cares about what happens to her. I have no choice.
Sharp's back door swings open, and the two men emerge together. No little girl. They both get in Alfieri's truck. Alfieri revs the engine and then throws it into reverse, and then they are gone.
I run to the clearing and down the sloping hill to his backyard. I look at the house, study its foundation. It's really just a mobile home on a slab foundation. No land-level windows. No basement. God, then where is she?
I weave through the rusted graveyard of broken-down cars and appliances and discarded furniture to the trailer where I found her barrette. The trailer that is not on wheels but flush with the ground. Is it possible they've been keeping her in here?
There had been a padlock on the door the other night. I go to the door and see that the lock is still there. I tug on it, praying that it might just come loose in my hands. But it is locked tightly.
I bang on the door. “Hello?!” I say. If she's in there, would she hear me? I press my ear against the metal door. Nothing.
I look around, futilely searching for something to pick the lock with. And then I realize I can probably just break one of the windows. They're boarded up, but if I can pry off the plywood, it would be just glass separating me from whatever is inside.
I yank at the board, nearly ripping my fingernails off in the process. It won't give. I need something to leverage it. I look all around and then see a metal pipe lying in the dirt next to the trailer. I grab it and shimmy it under the wood. Once it's lodged underneath, I lean all of my weight on it, and it gives. The plywood comes off, and I can see the window. I reach down to the ground for a rock and use it to smash the glass as gently as I can, praying that if she's in there she won't get hurt. And then I hoist myself up, trying not to think about the pain in my hand. The glass that is cutting my arms and legs as I pull myself inside.
“Hello?”
Inside it is dark and smells of cigarette smoke and mold. I push through some spiderwebs, kicking trash out of my way, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I move from one end of the trailer to the next. It is empty.
I don't know what I expected. Did I think she'd just be in here, hiding? Waiting for me?
I sit down on the floor and shake my head. Tears are running hot down my cheeks. And then, in the dusty beam of light coming through the broken window, I see something.
Of course, this is why the trailer's wheels are gone.
A door. In the
floor
.
There is a handle, which I grab on to and lift.
It is still too dark in here to see much of anything. And so I reach for my key chain, remembering the penlight meant to illuminate your car door lock. The light it casts is no more than that of the glowing tip of a cigarette, and so when I look down, I peer into a dark abyss. It is nearly impossible to see how far down the hole goes. But in the weak light, I see that there is some sort of ladder down one side. Some sort of manhole.
Underground,
the psychic had said. Jesus.
I am Alice, if she had a chance to look down the rabbit hole before she fell. If she'd had a choice.
I take a deep breath and decide.
I turn around and start to climb down the ladder. It is like lowering myself into the pond. The surface is warm, while the murky depths are cold. Goose bumps riddle my skin as I descend. I keep the penlight shining, but its beam is pathetic, small.
I climb down maybe five feet, when I suddenly hit bottom.
I strain to see. The little bit of light coming in from overhead barely illuminates the room where I now find myself standing. As my eyes finally adjust, I can see it's like some sort of root cellar. Or bunker. The walls are made of dirt. It's a room, maybe about six feet by six feet.
It smells like the earth.
The walls are lined with crates.
I turn around trying to orient myself. I am in a hole, underground, beneath the trailer on Sharp's property. I feel bile rising to my throat again and press my forehead against the cool dirt wall.
Mama.
I shake my head.
Mama.
No. I press my hands against my ears. Please don't let this happen again.
But the voice is not inside my head. It is not the voice that has haunted me, the specter, the dream.
I feel in the dark, trying to follow the sound. There is a doorway of sorts that leads to a smaller room. I duck my head and go inside.
“Baby?” I say. I still have no name for her.
My shins hit something. I reach down to feel. It's a mattress, I think. A single, bare mattress. And there is the shadow of a girl, knees curled to her chest. She is backed up into the corner, like a frightened animal.
I kneel down on the ground, hold my arms open. I peer into her large wet eyes.
“It's okay,” I say. “I'm here. I came back for you.”
And then her arms are around my neck. And her hair is in my face. And as I stand, her legs wrap around me. I feel the scratchiness of her skirt and a strange, familiar softness. I make my way up the ladder, still holding her, but it isn't until I emerge into the trailer that I realize:
She's wearing my sweater. The one I left at the side of the road.
Â
I clear the window frame of glass, and carefully climb out and then help her climb out and back into my arms. And then I run. Through the maze of junk in Sharp's yard. Down the gravel drive to the road.
I will run until we are safe. I will run forever if I need to, this time.
Her bones are sharp. My breath hitches as I look at her emaciated limbs, which bounce against my legs as I run. I hold her head against my chest, cover her ears so that she won't hear me cry.
By the time I reach the dirt road that will lead back to Gormlaith, I can barely breathe, but I don't stop running.
The birds are singing loudly in the trees around us. The sky is turquoise. Her hair is soft and smells like the earth. Her skin is hot.
When the car pulls up next to us, and the man rolls the window down, I start to run faster.
No, no, no,
I think.
“Wait,” the man says. His voice calls after us. Gentle and kind. “Are you okay?”
I stop and turn to look at him. It's a burgundy VW. He leans out the open window, his face tight with concern. He seems strangely familiar. Like I should know him.
“I found her,” I say. I have no other words that can explain this: the terror, the relief.
“Sam,” the dark-haired woman in the passenger seat says. “We need to help them.”
But even as he helps us into the backseat, wrapping us both in a soft blanket from the back, I hold on tight. She holds on tight. We do not let go.
W
e leave Guatemala City.
There is nothing the lawyer here can do. And nothing Oliver can do at home either. This has happened before, he says. We should be grateful, he says, that we hadn't gotten her home already. Children have been taken from their new parents' arms, returned. It's a corrupt system, he offers. Preying upon the hopeful, the desperate.
Back in New York, I cannot work. I cannot eat. And I cannot sleep.
Like any mother of a missing child, I call the media. Newspapers, radio, TV. I tell my story a thousand times to anyone who will listen, and even to those who won't. I think that maybe, somehow, this will help me get her back. I sit and sweat under bright lights, microphones affixed to my blouses. I tremble and recite the story as though it is a prayer, an incantation that will conjure her. That will return her to me.
There is an investigation into the agency, and we find that we are not the only ones. There are other couples who have been preyed upon. Who have, like us, lost hope. And sometimes, the children are not even real. They are fabrications. These phony agencies the thieves of dreams.
And to you, she
is
only a dream.
My
dream.You never even met her. You never held her in your arms. For you, she is nothing more than an idea. A story someone once told you.
But to me, she is flesh, not a wish. She is black hair that smells of tangerines. She is dark skin, wide eyes, a beating heart. She is real. She is real. She is my daughter. And she is gone.
When
Good Morning America
's producers call and say they are doing a story on criminal adoption agencies, I am so happy I could cry. I agree to come to their studio. To tell my story. Our story. I imagine in the show's audience of millions there will be someone who can help. Who will hear my plea and help me bring her home.
But you have had enough. You want to let it go, to just let her go.
And so I go alone. And I sit in front of the camera by myself.
But this time, when I begin to recite my story, when I describe the way it felt to stand at the locked door of the orphanage after the raid, the floor falls out from beneath me. Because in the audience, in the very front row, there is a child. Dark hair. Brown skin.
Esperanza.
I stop speaking and point.
She looks at me, her eyes wide and familiar.
“That's her,” I say, jerking my head back to the woman who is interviewing me. “How did she get here?”
I am thinking that this is one of those episodes where they reunite long lost friends, lovers. Mothers and their children. I look around in disbelief, in manic wonder, waiting for someone to bring her to me.
I am smiling. My heart beating so hard I am sure the microphone pinned inside my bra will pick it up.
“I know this must be very difficult for you,” she says. “Go on.”
“How did you find her?” I ask, tears of joy running down my face. I stand up and start to go to the audience. She is right there. I can almost touch her.
On the video, later, I don't recognize that woman. The one who is weeping, gleeful. Charging toward a stranger's child in the audience before the two security guards got ahold of me.
The video and my memory stop there. I don't recall anything else except for waking up in the hospital. The hazy feeling that all of this had been a dream. And later, when you came to get me. How the only words you had for me were “It's over now.”