His Sweet

by Hildur Sif Thorarensen

  “She sounds lovely.” Yolanda gave him a gentle smile. “Could you perhaps tell me the names of some of her friends?”

  “She had lots of friends. There were Billy, Donald, Oliver… she often played with the boys for some reason,” he explained with a shrug of his shoulders. “Then from school there was Katie, Julie, and of course Susan from our street. I’m sure there were more; they’re practically all grown up now. I see them driving sometimes and imagine my little girl there with them. Going to the mall, spending her entire allowance on clothes, and looking at boys in a way that would have my hackles rising.” His eyes became damp and he shielded them by massaging the bridge of his nose.

  After having read the notebooks, Yolanda was starting to get an idea of the girl. How she moved, how she smiled, the person she had become. What her father was describing could very well fit that description, but it was still too imprecise for them to be sure. Even if one of the friends’ names was the same, she had to resist the urge to give anything away until they could be absolutely certain. The last thing she wanted was to bring even more anguish to a grieving parent.

  “What about some favorite toys, something that might be specific to her?”

  “She liked all sorts of toys and had almost outgrown most of them when she...” He trailed off, trying to find the right words. “...went away. But there seemed to be always this one toy that stayed with her and brought her joy in the direst of circumstances. When she was a baby, we gave her a yellow bunny and hung it over her crib. She was just an infant and didn’t have any control of her fingers, but she still tried to poke the bunny’s bright red nose. She tried every day, and before long she managed, hitting it straight on there. You should have seen the smile—she literally glowed with happiness. That’s when I knew my girl would amount to something amazing. She had that determination needed to find a goal and follow through.”

  “Did that bunny have a name, by any chance?” Yolanda could feel her cheeks burning as she waited patiently for the answer.

  “Yes, the bunny did have a name. Lily was so little when she got it that she couldn’t say bunny, and it ended up as Bubby. The bunny was her friend and stayed dear to her even once she grew older. I’d sometimes see her stroking its ears, knowing that she had gotten upset about something, since she only did that if she was feeling blue. My girl was so sweet—she was the kindest soul, and I miss her terribly. We all do. She left a huge hole in the hearts of everybody who ever knew her.”

  “Well, sir, I don’t mean to give you false hope, but the girl in the notebooks does mention a bunny by the same name. Now, of course it’s possible that there are other toy bunnies called Bubby, but I’d like to think that it’s unlikely. If this does in fact turn out to be your daughter, then we’re going to need your help to find her, meaning that we need to know everything you can tell us about her disappearance.”

  1152

  Mister Whiskers calls me “My Sweet.” I don’t know whether he means it as a term of endearment or if it’s his way of reminding me that I belong to him. He told me he’s going to stop calling me that now; he says that my sweetness is slowly withering away, and from now on I’ll be his old lady.

  I don’t know how old I really am. I didn’t begin counting the days until sometime after I was brought here. I know that there have been 1152 days since I began counting, but I’ve been here a bit longer than that. When I was little, my mom told me how many days there are in a year. It was right after Christmas, and I was badgering her about how long I’d have to wait to get more presents. “Lily, darling, there are 365 days in the year, and it’s only two weeks since Christmas. You’re going to have to wait a bit longer,” is what she said, and although she was probably annoyed by my persistence, she still said it in her loving voice. Those were the holidays before I met Mister Whiskers, and I guess she was right; I’ve been waiting ever since.

  Last time I was in school, we were learning how to multiply, but I didn’t get the chance to become good at it. I think it’s possible to use multiplication to count how many years I have been here, but I don’t know how. I figured out that by subtracting the number of days in the year over and over again I would eventually find the number of years. I got three plus some change, and since I was ten when I got here, that means I must be at least thirteen.

  Math used to be my favorite subject at school. I have asked Mister Whiskers to teach me some more, but he says that women don’t need to learn math, that only men have any use for it. He tried explaining it to me by saying that he is an engineer and that he uses a lot of different math at work, but he only needs simple multiplication when he’s cooking in the kitchen. I haven’t had the nerve to tell him that I can’t even do that; I’m scared he’ll get angry at me.

  I sometimes wonder why Mister Whiskers thinks women should be in the kitchen and men out working. My mom worked for a big company, and she was often in meetings or doing something important for her job. I used to miss her so much when she wasn’t home, but I always had Dad around, and he actually spent much more time in the kitchen than she ever did. I never looked at cooking as a woman’s job, and I find it a bit funny that despite Mister Whiskers’ ideas, he’s still the one who cooks for me.

  My dad was a carpenter, and he designed all sorts of furniture from home, putting it together out in the garage. Every time I got home from school, he would call out to me, hug me tight, and ask me to tell him about my day. Sometimes I got annoyed because I wanted to go out and play with my friends and didn’t want to stay inside, talking about stuff that had already happened. Now I’d give anything to hug my dad one more time and spend some time with him.

  I don’t know what my mom’s job was called. They told me a bunch of times, but I always forgot. I remember it had three letters, something like CBE. Dad told me she was a very important person at her job; she had a lot of power and was the one to make sure that everything ran smoothly. I sometimes imagine what it’d feel like to do what Mom did—have power, be responsible for other people’s work, and always get to wear professional clothes. Maybe that’s where I would have ended up if I had lost interest in becoming a magician. I guess now I’ll never know. The only thing I’ll ever be is Mister Whiskers’ wife. His Sweet. And only his.

  “So, what did he say? Is it his girl?” Tyne’s eyes were big as saucers while she waited for Yolanda to share the latest scoop on the case. Yolanda betrayed no emotion, keeping a cool face as she considered her response. While desperately wanting to tell them everything, she bit her tongue. She wanted more time with Peter before involving her eager colleagues.

  “I met up with the father yesterday. He’s shacked up in a nearby bed ’n’ breakfast and is going to meet with me again just after lunch. I’m fairly certain it’s his girl, but it’s hard to be sure of anything at this point.” She nodded toward the notebooks. “I’m hoping he’ll have some information that might help us find the man who took her.”

  “And what did he say? Did he have any ideas?” Solomon seemed no less determined than Tyne. “He must have some theories.”

  “Well, we didn’t go very deep into it yesterday. He gave me some details to help us narrow down whether it’s really his daughter. Her name is Lily, and she sounds just as wonderful in real life as she sounds in those books. The father became rather overwhelmed when I suggested his daughter may still be alive, so we ended the conversation shortly thereafter.”

  “You have to tell us more—we’ve been working on this for days!” Solomon continued.

  “Well, it’s a slow start with the father. I can’t rush him. This case has been in limbo for a little over seven years, and I’d like to rip the band-aid off as slowly as possible. Even though it pains me to say it,” she looked at both of them in turn, “we have to account for the possibility of never finding her.”

  Yolanda watched their reactions swing from excited to distressed in a matter of seconds and couldn’t really blame them. Of course they didn’t want to think of this girl being trapped where
it would take a miracle for them to find her. They wanted to believe that within those notebooks lay the key, and even though they were finished poring over half of them, the one with the answers might still be left.

  “I think we’ll find her.” Tyne broke the silence as she stomped her boots over to the coffee counter for a refill. She had brought her own porcelain mug with her. It had the picture of an owl regally perched on a branch, a gift from her boyfriend, from what Yoly had gathered. Little quirks such as that made her endearing… the cup and the ‘Fuck Cancer’ bracelet she wore, which came with the story of her mom having battled breast cancer and succeeded. Tyne said she had had worn the bracelet ever since.

  “I’m not so sure.” Solomon had the look of pure skepticism on his face as he contemplated the situation. “I don’t see how we are going to find her. We have no idea who took her, we’re not fully sure who she is, and on the slim chance it turns out to be this Peter’s girl, we’ll sure have to hope and pray that he has kept some information secret from the police through all these years. Without that, we don’t even know where to start.” He rubbed his temples, momentarily closing his eyes.

  Solomon was right, of course, his blunt delivery notwithstanding. It was unlikely that they would find her, but there was always a chance. Yolanda had great faith in the three of them for some reason. Their investigative procedures differed from those of the regular cops, because they were country, and country meant going your own way. Yoly knew she’d go as far as knocking on every door in the whole state if that was what it took.

  “Solomon, you’re forgetting something.” She put on a smug look, like a card shark holding pocket aces at the final table.

  “What?”

  “We’ve already gotten much closer than the DC cops ever did. The kidnapper wouldn’t have known about the barn unless he’s a local, which means that we’ve narrowed the search radius extensively, and our chances are much greater.” She knew she was right. She had to be right. “I’m sure the police conducted their original search only around the area where she lived, and that would’ve been no help if she was all the way down here.”

  “Well, yes. But there are quite a number of houses in this area.” Solomon was clearly unwilling to underestimate the challenges still facing them.

  “Yolanda’s right,” Tyne said so firmly that further debate ground to a halt. “We’ve got the notebooks, and I’m going to comb through each and every sentence to narrow our search. We know that Mister Whiskers—or Mister Butthole, as I prefer to call him—says that he’s an engineer and that he builds houses. That right there gives us a whole bunch to work with, and I’m sure there’s more to be found, just you wait.” She sat down forcefully, slamming her owl cup on her desk and then delving back into the book she had been reading, taking notes as she went.

  “That’s more like it.” Yolanda smiled in appreciation. “I really like your gumption. We should talk to the father and see what information he can give us. Then you, Solomon, might want to go down to city hall and see if they can tell you which houses have basements in them. Before all that, though, we’ll have to define a search radius. I’m sure you’ve got some ideas in that department.”

  “Okay, sure. Let me just have a look at the map and give you some numbers.”

  “Great, then that’s decided. We’re not going to stop until we find her.”

  1387

  I missed my family a lot in the beginning. My dad was always firm with me, and it sometimes upset me, but after he was gone from my life, I started missing even his firmness. I always thought he was being strict because he wanted me to abide by his rules. It wasn’t until later that I realized his rules had nothing to do with it—it was all about me. He wanted me to do well; he wanted me to be successful, and he wanted me to have the opportunities he never had.

  All I thought about was magic. I wanted a cape for Christmas, a wand for my birthday, and then there were all the books and videos. David Copperfield was my favorite, and I had to see every show he ever recorded. I begged my dad to take me to see him live, pleaded even, but that never happened. At the time I thought it was unfair, but now I know that he was trying to guide me onto the right path. Toward my future.

  I was an okay student but never anything special. I liked math, but everything else was somewhat of a blur for me. When I was nine, we started geography, which I thought didn’t make any sense, seeing as Google Maps would take care of all my geographical needs. Then the exam came, and I did very poorly—I couldn’t even name the capital of Germany. When I almost failed the class, my dad became extremely upset with me. I had never seen him like that, and it scared me. Strong emotions used to scare me terribly, but I don’t think they do anymore. I have something much more terrible to fear now.

  Once I was playing with my friend, and we snuck into the attic. We weren’t supposed to be there, but I really wanted to show her the glittery Christmas bulb with the little baby Jesus inside. There we were, rummaging through boxes when I came across an old binder. It had a brown leather cover and papers that looked a bit worn inside. I opened it up and started reading. It was my dad’s diary from when he was a teenager.

  I brought the book downstairs with me, and after my parents had said goodnight and tucked me in, I’d turn on my flashlight and read an entry or two. From there I learned that my dad had loved math, just like me. He had even been the best student at his school. I also learned that he built things in his spare time—a kite, a small car, and a treehouse. He spent his time at the scrapyard looking for useful bits to use in his contraptions, and little by little, he expanded his knowledge. He even had plans to use electrical components, which included a drawing and everything.

  Then came summer, and his dad lost his job at the factory. My grandparents never had much money, and my dad was their oldest, with over ten years between him and his two younger siblings. Dad wrote that he had overheard them discussing it in their bedroom. His mom had been crying. His father had said that they were on the verge of losing their house.

  He wrote that he had decided then and there to give up his dreams of becoming an engineer; he would start putting his effort into finding a job. He even managed to get one, only a week later. It didn’t pay much, but he gave everything he earned to his parents. The job was a carpenter’s assistant and he ended up taking night courses in carpentry, eventually graduating as a master in the field.

  His parents kept the house. It’s the house where I always used to visit them, and I really love it. Finding the book helped me understand what dad’s plan was all along. He was trying to give me the world, but all I wanted was magic. That’s what upset him—not the fact I had an interest in something but the fact that I wasn’t putting in the effort toward my future. He was too proud to tell me about his past, but I was glad I knew. It really set me straight, and I never came close to failing ever again. I’m sure I’d have become something great. Something dad would have been proud of. If it hadn’t been for Mister Whiskers, I would have. I’m sure I would have.

  The father looked much better the day after; he had obviously showered, shaved, and caught some shut-eye. He had brought a large, blue Walmart bag with him, one of those reusable bags of materials that are made to last and support heavy groceries. From her position, Yolanda couldn’t see what he had in the bag, but it looked heavy and square-shaped, as if it were bricks from the Yellow Brick Road. She was half expecting to see Dorothy come trailing along behind him.

  As this was to be a formal interview, she brought Solomon in with her and asked him to record it so they could have easy access to the information after Peter’s departure. Lily’s father gave his assent with a shrug before slamming his Walmart bag onto the table and emptying its contents.

  It contained mountains of information. Articles, pictures, videotapes, and every other piece of documentation that might have accumulated over the years after a person’s disappearance. The father had obviously never even tried to get on with his life, instead devoting himself to the s
earch, keeping the case open as long as he possibly could after the police had stepped away from it.

  “Alrighty, I see you’ve got a mountain of media with you,” Yolanda said, bemused at his efforts to straighten out the newly made mess on the table.

  “Yes. This is every single news interview caught on camera that was related to the case, and these are the radio interviews.” He pointed at two boxes with VHS tapes as well as some cassettes. “Those vultures don’t miss a thing, so I decided that keeping them could come in handy, as they might be worth another look.”

  “That’s very smart thinking. There’s never too much evidence,” she replied, opening one of the boxes and finding nine VHS tapes inside, neatly labelled by date and subject.

  “Then these are the news articles. There were interviews with all sorts of people—her classmates, our neighbors, and of course everyone in the family was taken in for their fifteen minutes. There was even a time when people...” he hesitated, loosening his tie and clearing his throat, “...a time when people thought I had done it... had killed her... killed my baby girl.” A tear started maturing in his eye, and he opened them both wide before swiftly brushing it away with the tips of his fingers, trying to keep his composure.

  “Well, those voices will now be put to sleep.” Yolanda considered placing her hand on his in a comforting gesture but thought better of it; she didn’t really know the man. “And what is the third pile?”

  “That’s the police documents.” He looked a bit abashed, as if unsure whether to share that particular piece of information or not. “I know it’s not procedure or legal, for that matter, for me to have them, but I’ve got a buddy in the force, and he gave me a copy when it became clear that the police seemed to have completely forgotten about my Lily.”