by Shay Violet
“There’s another story called Hansel and Gretel,” I say, steering toward that fairy tale next. I plan to link them together because the moral is worth telling her for inspirational purposes.
“I’ve heard of that one,” she says.
“Oh, yeah?” I toss her a smile. “About the brother and sister who get lured into the woods by a witch?”
She frowns, appearing to contemplate and then shakes her head. “No. I don’t think I know that one. It must have been another story.”
“Does your dad read stories to you at night before bed?” I ask.
It’s a perfectly innocent question, but her face shadows with grief. “Sometimes. When he’s not busy…”
“I thought you said he put you first?” I ask. “What the heck are you talking about?” I give her a playful shoulder bump to lighten the mood.
She smiles, but it’s muddled by her melancholy mood. “He’s busy sometimes.”
I don’t ask her to elaborate. I distract her again with the fairy tale, hoping that it won’t be too morbid for her.
“Well anyway, Hansel and Gretel went into the woods, but Hansel was smart. He left a trail of breadcrumbs as they walked along.”
“Why did he do that?” Nadia cranes her head to the side and gives me a curious glance, squinting against the harshness of the bright sunlight.
I pat my temple with my index finger. “That’s the beauty of it. He planted the breadcrumbs on the trail so they could find their way home.”
Her eyes light up with recognition. “That’s really smart.”
“It is,” I say, “but the forest birds eat the breadcrumbs along the way and they don’t realize it. Then, they get lost.”
“What happens to them? Are they found by a nice lady like you?” Nadia peers up at me curiously.
I chuckle lightheartedly. “No, they weren’t as lucky. A mean old witch took them. Then the witch tried to eat them.”
Nadia screeches and her face goes ashen.
“Just let me finish,” I tell her gently. Shit, now she’s in distress. Way to go, Aurora.
“The brother and sister, Hansel and Gretel, can outsmart her. When she asks Gretel to turn on the oven, Gretel pretends like she doesn’t understand her. When the witch leans in to explain it to Gretel, Gretel pushes her into the fire and rescues her brother locked in a cage.”
“That’s horrible.” Nadia scrunches up her nose.
“But it has a happy ending because they can free themselves,” I remind her. “It goes along with the Little Red Riding Hood story too.”
“How?” Nadia asks. Her eyebrows furrow together in a perfectly knitted line.
“Well, when Red Riding Hood gets to her grandmother’s house with the basket of food, the wolf gets there first and tries to eat her too.” I omit that the wolf eats the grandmother first.
Nadia shouts again. Her tiny mouth forms into an adorable oval shape of shock.
“But,” I explain. “Red Riding Hood can survive because a woodsman comes to save her.”
“That’s good.” Nadia nods with relief. “Just like you helped me.” She points at me with a giddy squeak.
“That’s right.” I lightly tap her on the nose, and she giggles again. “But there aren’t any big, bad wolves hiding in the woods behind the park.” I end the story with a wink.
She looks hot in her red wool coat. I hope for her sake we arrive at her house soon.
“We are almost there,” she says, panting hard.
“Do you want to take off your coat?” I suggest.
“No.” She quickly shakes her head.
“Are you sure?” I scrutinize her curiously. Her eyes are downcast, and she walks rapidly.
“I’m sure.” She nods, keeping her eyes level with the sidewalk.
“Alright.” I smile at her warmly and gently squeeze her hand, still cradled in mine. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Thanks.” She gives me a pitiful smile.
I don’t know the reason behind the heavy coat, but if she doesn’t want to talk about it, I will not force her to give an explanation.
Finally, Nadia’s face shines. She hurries me along, tugging on my arm. “That’s the house. Right up there.”
She points northward.
My gaze follows where her finger is pointing. I stop, dead in my tracks and I feel my jaw slacken, dropping in surprise.
“That’s your house?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?” Nadia gives me a quizzical glance as if she doesn’t understand my reaction.
I give the house another inspecting glance. “It’s… stunning.”
Nadia smiles. “Thanks.”
“Well, let’s hurry and get you home where you are supposed to be.”
That recognizable veil of sadness is back to being draped over her face suddenly.
“Are you all right?” I lean down to her eye level again and take both her hands in mine. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
She shakes her head and glances at the house that resembles a spectacular castle. It’s made of great big stones with enormous white pillars that span across the gigantic front porch. Its perched stately up on a hill with immaculate green grass and manicured hedges in rows lining either side of the driveway.
“There’s nothing I want to tell you,” she says.
“Okay.” I smile and stand up straight again. “Just remember, I told you the fairy tales because sometimes little children have sticky situations where they are put in danger, but they can get themselves out of trouble. Can you remember that? Always have confidence in yourself and faith you will be all right, and everything will work out.”
I know I probably sound like an after school special, but the advice seems to sink in with Nadia. She gives me a nod of approval and understanding.
“I’ve got it.”
“Good.” I pat her on the back. “Now come on. Let’s get you home where you are supposed to be. Your happy ending is right up there on that hill.”
I give her one last glance and hope she believes in happy endings.
She continues walking, albeit, slightly quieter than before. I hope to understand her once we reach her home and talk to her parents.
3
Jai
I pace the Brazilian wood floors in my kitchen nervously. My mind is fraying. My thoughts are scrambled. I’m doing my best not to panic, but it’s proving to be an extreme challenge.
I run a shaky hand through my jet black hair as my distraught emotions threaten to derail me.
I spin swiftly on a heel and glance at Sheba, my daughter’s nanny. “How could you let this happen? How could you let Nadia out of your sight even for two minutes? She’s only six years old for crying out loud!”
My shout erupts through the room. I don’t mean to elevate my voice as high as it comes out sounding, but I’m stressed out beyond comprehension. My little girl is missing, and there is no one here to blame but the nanny herself.
Sheba has a guilt-stricken look in her eyes. She peers at me through large, blinking brown eyes, glazed with sorrow and regret. She rubs her hands together, intertwining her fingers and quickly unlatching them in a continuous loop of motions.
“I’m so, so very sorry,” she states, and it's consoling to hear the ring of sincerity in her voice. I’m still struggling to comprehend how something like this could have happened.
I turn my back to her, glancing out the window. “Sorry will not bring back my child.”
“Maybe she is just walking down the street. Perhaps she didn’t stray too far?” Sheba tries for optimism but her words are laced with enough doubt to make me cynical.
“Your life depends on whether that hopeful assumption turns out to be true,” I mumble under my voice so she can’t decipher what I’m saying.
I peel back the rest of the shutters and check the perimeter of my front yard. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. It’s a bright, sunny day and there’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s too bad that there’
s a storm inside my head wreaking havoc and shredding my thoughts to bits.
I spin around and cast Sheba an accusatory glare. “Why didn’t you just come right away as soon as you had realized she wasn’t in the house?”
“I… didn’t realize... it at first… that she was gone…” Sheba trails off, her words scrambling.
I attempt to wrap my head around her bogus statement. “How on earth would you not realize it? You are her nanny. I expect you to be taking care of her.”
“She went out the window, I swear she did,” Sheba counters. “It was half-open. I would have heard her sneak out the door, even if she tried to close it quietly.”
It seems like an outlandish story I might easily discredit, but unfortunately, I have no other leads to go on and I have no choice but to take her word for it.
“Why did she feel like she needed to escape out the window?” I ask, fearing the answer. My little girl has been unhappy for a while now, and the depressive behavior only seems to get worse.
Sheba’s eyes anxiously dart to the floor. She goes back to twisting her hands together. “I um… I tried to brush her hair.”
My heart collapses into my gut. “I told you not to touch her hair, Sheba.”
“I know.” Sheba sniffs and her chin trembles.
I pray that she won't erupt into a geyser of tears on me. I don’t know how to digest a hysterical woman’s emotions, especially when I’m a basket case myself at the moment.
“So?” I demand. “Why did you touch her hair?”
Sheba casts me a fleeting glance and then focusses on her white sneakers. “It’s just…” she lifts her gaze and gives me a pitiful look as if she wants me to empathize with her side of the story. It’s doubtful, but I’ll give her a ten-second head try. “Don’t you think that her hair is getting to be a problem?”
Sheba visibly cringes after proposing the question.
“No.” I don’t hesitate, even for a millisecond. I stiffen and clench my jaw. “It’s not your business, anyway.”
Sheba flinches. “I just thought—”
I hold my hand up to interrupt her. “I don’t care what you thought, Sheba. Honestly, it’s not your job to harbor opinions on my daughter’s physical appearance. You leave that up to me. Your job is to take care of her, but you can’t even do that right.”
It is a brazen statement for me to make, and I hate to be so harsh with her, but I can’t deny the truth when it needs to be told. My daughter is missing, and the nightmare started on Sheba’s watch, not mine.
A single tear escapes the wet pools collected in her eyes and trickles in a downward plunge off the side of her cheek She hastily brushes it away with the back of her hand.
“She… has your eyes.” Her voice cracks but thankfully she isn't weeping excessively just yet. “I just wish I had a clue of where she could be.”
“Yeah, I wish that too,” I declare wryly.
I look out the window again. I drift over to the door and open it, stepping out onto the front porch. It’s a humid day, but at least there’s a breeze that carries through the porch and provides relief to the brutal sun rays. A few dark clouds are off in the distance. I wonder if they are heading in this direction. The plants sure could use some rain. What am I saying? Why am I not actively pursuing my daughter’s whereabouts in a more urgent manner?
I shove my hands in my pockets. “Where is she?” I ask aloud, even though I’m asking a rhetorical question that neither Sheba nor I can answer without more information to go on.
Panic tightens in my throat. I pray that she hasn’t been abducted by some sick sexual deviant. Its only natural for my mind to be set ablaze by the worst-case scenario images. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, attempting to focus on visualizing her safe return to my arms.
Let me just say it has been a nearly impossible challenge getting my daughter to do anything. When I say anything, I mean just about anything. It’s taxing to get her out of bed, let alone do normal routine things that any other little girl might get excited about.
She throws a fit when I try to bathe her, dress her or brush her hair. I thought that hiring Sheba would help me stay afloat and ease some fluctuating burdens that inadvertently stem from being a single parent.
Life isn’t meeting my expectations, and it’s frustrating. My wife’s premature death because of a tragic accident has taken a toll on both me and Nadia, but especially Nadia. In observing her daily behavior, I’m feeling a sense of her anger and aggression that has the potential to spiral out of control.
I know that she needs a healthy way to vent those emotions, but I’m not sure how to process my own emotions, much less someone else’s. I feel futile for helping my daughter exercise and release her pain. She needs a female role model to help mold and shape her character. I’m just not worthy of the challenge.
Hence, I bring in Sheba thinking she can help us. She’s also of middle eastern descent, just like us. I hope she can find a connection to Nadia, and Nadia can relate to her because she looks like her with the bronze skin tone and the dark hair.
I couldn’t have been more off-course with my assumption. Now, here I stand, a nervous wreck with a missing six-year-old daughter and a seemingly distraught and apologetic nanny.
An important thing to point out here is that although I was close with my wife, it wasn’t love at first sight. We had been coerced into an arranged marriage. We did our best to make it work, but it wasn’t exactly a match made in heaven.
We made things work. Before the accident, things had been falling apart, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could have stitched it back together.
How can I say this next part diplomatically? There just wasn’t a… spark between us. I never felt like the chemistry was strong enough to help us share an everlasting, eternal bond, but I did my best to be a doting husband and father.
I experienced grief after her passing. It still feels like a loss, sure. There is an established empty void, but I can’t discern whether it comes from my inability to care for my young daughter on my own, or something deeper, like a curse of suffering tied to my wife Amita’s death.
I snatch my phone from my back pocket. “I will call the police,” I inform Sheba.
Sheba’s eyes grow wide with guilt. “Are you turning me in?”
“No.” I shake my head and roll my eyes as frustration burrows inside my mind. “I’m going to tell them my daughter is missing.”
Sheba’s features relax with relief, but then immediately twist back to remorse. “I’m so sorry I didn’t keep a better eye on her…”
“There’s nothing that can be done about it now,” I say bluntly. “Let’s just hope that the authorities can shed better light on the situation than we can.”
“That’s true.” Sheba nods astutely.
I call the police and the redirect me to 9-1-1.
An operator calmly answers the call. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“My daughter is missing,” I quickly exclaim into the receiver.
“What’s your location, sir?” 146 Brussels Avenue,” I declare.
“When was the last time you saw your daughter, sir?” The operator asks.
“I…uh…” I scratch my head and contemplate. I know this probably makes me look bad to the dispatcher. “My nanny was with her.”
I am not shifting blame, just recounting the facts as I have them to offer.
“Your nanny?” The operator’s voice remains level. “Is your daughter a young child or a teenager? Is there a possibility she might have run away from home?”
“What?” I shake my head. “No. I mean… I don’t think so…”
“How old is your daughter, sir?” The operator asks again.
“She’s six. She’s only six.” I’m back to pacing the hallway inside the foyer.
I drag a hand through my hair again and adjust my crisp, mint green button-down polo shirt. I know I’m fidgeting, but I’m trying to release my fretful energy in the best way I know ho
w. I’m anxious, okay? It’s a dire situation.
“Okay, what was your child wearing the last time you saw her?”
Now I feel like an absolute failure as a father. My gaze darts to Sheba and I give her a sheepish look. “What was she wearing? What was Nadia wearing when she disappeared?”
Sheba scrunches her features as if wracking her brain to pluck out the answer. It shouldn’t be a complicated question, but maybe she’s just feeling the pressure now that I have the police on the phone.
“She was wearing a red coat. It has a large hood on it.”
“Red coat. Large hood,” I relay to the operator.
The woman’s fingertips clacking against a keyboard, echo through the receiver. Patrol unit voices crackle back and forth on radio communicators I hear through the line.
“We will send an officer out to your location now sir,” the operator informs.
I nearly collapse with relief. “Thank you so much. Are they on their way now?”
“Yes sir, they’ve already been called out to your location.”
“Wonderful. What should I do meanwhile?”
“You don’t have to do anything,” the operator instructs. “Wait outside for them until they arrive, you can do that.”
“I’ll do that,” I say with an informed nod.
“I can stay on the phone with you if you would like,” she says.
“No.” I frown. “That’s not necessary. I can handle it from here.”
At least, that’s the lie I will tell myself until I see my daughter again.
“Good luck on finding your daughter,” she says in a genuinely kind voice.
“Thank you,” I say.
The operator hangs up, and the line goes dead.
I look at Sheba. She gives me an expression of pure terror. Her eyes are still wide with fright and her mouth hangs slightly open. Reality is kicking in for both of us.
“What did the police say?” She asks.
“They are sending a police officer out here to ask a few questions,” I inform. “Maybe patrol the area for anything suspicious.”
“That’s it?” Sheba looks as disappointed as I feel.