She rummages in built-in cabinets beneath the window seats that run along the room’s perimeter, and finds a couple of wooden toddler puzzles with knobbed pieces, a coloring book, paper, and some picture books. She sets them out on the coffee table and rejoins Amelia in the kitchen, whispering, “I thought maybe some familiar things would help him relax a little.”
“Maybe they’re not so familiar.”
The child sits on the edge of the couch, clutching the robe, sucking his thumb, staring at the floor.
“Why do you think he’s so attached to Petty’s bathrobe?”
“Maybe the silky fabric feels good against his face?” Amelia suggests. “Or does something about it remind him of someone who nurtured him? His mom?”
“I thought the same thing. Maybe she has a robe like it, or it smells like her. Petty’s forever slathering herself in lotions and potions. The way he’s holding it . . . it makes me think someone out there loves, or loved, him.” Jessie opens a cabinet, takes down a couple of plastic food storage containers, and hands one to her. “For the leftover noodles.”
“I don’t think they’ll fit.”
“They will.”
She’s right. They just fit.
It must be nice to be Jessie, so self-assured and comfortable in her own skin. She always seems to know what to say and do, and exactly how to say or do it.
Amelia would like to think that she, too, has her confident moments. Back at home, anyway. Maybe not lately, with Aaron, but she’s always in control where her work is concerned . . .
Really? So you’re not wishing you’d confronted Lily Tucker when she showed you that ring?
“If his mom is out there, we’ve got to find her,” Jessie says, layering chicken pieces in a Tupperware container. “This is our chance to do for him what nobody did for us.”
There’s that lump again, clogging Amelia’s throat.
“Mimi? Are you in? Can you help me help Little Boy Blue?” She nods, and Jessie looks pleased. “Good. We just can’t tell Billy.”
“Tell him what?”
“You know—that we’re helping. He’ll get all judgy. He likes to play by the rules.”
“Yeah, um, Jess? He’s a cop.”
“In Ithaca. This case isn’t even his jurisdiction. The county sheriff’s department is handling it.”
“Shh.” Amelia holds a finger to her lips, and they both glance into the next room. The child seems oblivious to the conversation. He’s removed his thumb from his mouth and is toying with one of the knobbed wooden puzzle pieces.
“All I’m saying is that I can’t not do something about this.”
“You are doing something. You’ve taken him into your home.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“The sheriff’s department must be issuing bulletins, searching the missing child databases, putting out Amber Alerts, getting it out there in the media, and—”
“Amber alerts are for kids who disappear, Mimi. This one appeared. It’s the opposite, and he’s safe and in good hands, so you can’t assume the authorities are going to treat this as urgently as an abduction.”
She suspects that’s true, though in all her years working with adoptees and foundlings, she’s never been involved in a case like this as it was unfolding. But she is well experienced in keeping zero-to-sixty Jessie in check.
“I know what you’re saying, but I’m sure the police are doing everything they can.”
“Everything they know how to do and have done before, but this is uncharted territory for them. A veterinarian would have more experience with this sort of thing than they do.”
“What? Jessie—”
“No, seriously, think about it. A vet deals with abandoned animals all the time. But when kids get separated from their parents—like, in a store or something—it’s usually by accident, and it’s not for very long. If the cops get involved, they basically sit the kid down with a lollypop and wait for the mom to show up. It wasn’t like that for me or you or Little Boy Blue.”
Jessie sighs, and starts loading the dishwasher. “Anyway, the police were involved from the moment I was found, and didn’t find my birth parents. I don’t know how hard they tried, once Diane and Al had taken me in and I was safe. I think they just went back to focusing on other cases where lives were on the line.”
Amelia understands what Jessie is saying. Anyone employed by any government organization has more work than they can handle. They can only do so much, and they have to prioritize.
“This seems premature, though, Jessie. He just turned up yesterday.”
“Tomorrow, it will be two days. If you look at kidnapped child statistics, the first forty-eight hours of the investigation are crucial.”
“I know, but like you said, this is the opposite. He’s been found, not—”
“You can’t be found without being lost, Mimi. We know that better than anyone. Unless he suddenly starts talking and tells us where he came from, the trail is going to go stone-cold in a hurry. Don’t you think we owe it to him to do whatever we can to find out who he is?”
Amelia glances into the next room. Little Boy Blue is back in his own world, staring down at the lavender fabric.
She sighs. “What did you have in mind?”
“If we can get his DNA—”
“No! No way! You can’t test DNA without consent. For a minor, you need a parent or guardian, and he’s currently a ward of the state, so that means involving the foster system, lawyers, a judge . . .”
“I know all that. But if you can just get his DNA into a database and find a close enough match for him, we might be able to figure out where he belongs,” Jessie rockets on. “We wouldn’t tell a soul, Mimi. Not ever. It would be our secret. And you do this every day for people.”
“For my clients. And what if we find his family? How do we explain it?”
“I knew you were going to say that, and it’s simple. If we can link him to close relatives and a geographic area, we’ll be able to sniff around online for birth records, pictures on social media . . . come on, I don’t have to tell you all this. You do it for a living.”
“It would be unethical for me to—”
“Seriously? Unethical? You can’t tell me you’ve never bent the rules or snuck around to get information, like sealed adoption records!”
No, she can’t.
Her friend closes the dishwasher and looks at her, eyes shiny with tears. “Mimi, kids fall through the cracks in the system every single day. I saw it when I was a caseworker, and I couldn’t stand it. I did whatever I had to do to keep it from happening, and sometimes, that meant bending—or breaking—the rules. If we can save this child, and find his family, how we did it won’t matter.”
Amelia shakes her head, but she can’t seem to form the word no.
“If he can’t or won’t tell us where he came from, and there are no witnesses to the abandonment, and he doesn’t fit any missing child reports out there, and no one recognizes his photo in the press, then DNA testing is virtually the only way to identify him, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” she admits. “And I’m sure the authorities will test him.”
“But by the time they sort out the red tape—”
“I know.” Her own eyes are beginning to sting. “Look, maybe if I talk to Aaron about it . . .”
“Mimi! Seriously? You swore you wouldn’t tell anyone!”
Had she sworn? Or had Jessie simply asked her to? The day’s stress is catching up with her, her brain functioning like a sieve capturing water.
“Jessie, it’s not like I’m going to . . . I mean, Aaron is my husband.”
“And Billy’s mine, and I told you, if he—”
“No, I just meant that since Aaron’s an attorney, I was thinking he might have some advice.”
“He does commercial litigation! Plus, we said this is our secret.”
No, you said that, Jessie.
It’s like they’re back in college, her friend talki
ng circles around her, trying to convince her to go along with some elaborate plan. Only back then, it would have involved illegal beer or a cute older guy, not people’s lives.
“I’m sorry, Jessie. I just need to . . . do you mind if I go upstairs? I need to feed Clancy, and Aaron doesn’t even know where I am, so I do need to call him, but I won’t—”
“Please don’t—”
“—say anything about Little Boy Blue. I know, I know, I won’t. I promise.”
Amelia stifles a yawn, hugs her, and thanks her for everything, calling good-night to the boy whose sorrowful silence dogs her up the back stairs, chased by her own guilt.
But what am I supposed to do? My hands are tied. Jessie is trying to save the world, and I’m not even sure I can save my marriage.
Billy had given her some blue painter’s tape to secure the bedroom door from the outside until he can repair it. She unfastens it and closes the door behind her, locks it, and wedges a shoe under it for good measure. Poor Theodore had been so traumatized by the kitten it might as well have been a raging lion.
The last thing this family needed was an unexpected weekend houseguest, even if she had been invited. This isn’t the first time she’s run away to Ithaca, but she’s an adult now.
And all I want to do is crawl into bed and bury my head under the covers.
“Clancy?” She looks around the room, under the bed, the desk, the dresser. No sign of him. How could he have escaped again? “Clance? Where are you?”
There he is, having climbed into an open floor bin filled with sports equipment and fallen asleep cupped in a worn leather catcher’s mitt.
She finds her cell phone and snaps a photo. Her smile fades when she realizes that there’s no one to send it to. Jessie’s under the same roof, and now isn’t the time. Aaron isn’t into cute kitten photos.
Aaron . . .
She checks and confirms that there are no missed calls or texts from him. Infuriating, though not unusual.
She tries his number and it rings into voice mail. Not trusting herself to leave a message without betraying her frustration and disappointment, she writes a text instead.
Came to Ithaca after all. See you next week. Love you.
She deletes the last two words, adds them back in, deletes them again, and hits Send before she can change her mind.
It feels like the middle of the night, but when she checks her watch, she supposes he isn’t even home from his dinner yet.
She climbs into bed, her thoughts turning back to Little Boy Blue.
Eventually, the official investigation will come down to searching the DNA databases anyway. As Jessie said, it’s virtually the only tool to identify a foundling when there are no viable leads. But by the time they file the paperwork and jump through the legal hoops to get it done, the process could take months, or even years. And the results might not yield a conclusive match for a parent or sibling or even a close relative. It takes dedication, stamina, expertise, and considerable digging to follow all the less tangible threads—many-times-removed cousins, possible great-great-great ancestors.
Amelia chases down leads like that every day. What are the odds that some bureaucratic stranger who’s never looked into those big blue eyes will go to such lengths for this lost child?
And even if someone is willing and able, even if a match is found . . .
How much time will have passed? In a few months, a year, the damage will have been done. By then, a child his age will likely have forgotten where he came from. He’ll have settled into a new home, maybe even this one, and will have learned to rely on and maybe even love new caregivers—only to be wrenched from his life all over again.
If you’re so worried about ethics, wouldn’t allowing that to happen be more unethical than testing his DNA on the sly?
She turns off the lamp and lies awake in the dark, thinking about Little Boy Blue and then about Aaron. She imagines being dragged from a sound sleep later to face questions about why she’d ignored his texts about the dry cleaner, and why she’d left town without letting him know.
She reaches for her phone to silence it. The confrontation can wait until morning. By then, she might even have some answers.
Unless . . .
She’d sent him an email earlier today. Maybe he’d sent one in return. She hasn’t bothered to check all evening.
She sits up, turns on the lamp again, opens her in-box—and finds herself looking at an email with the subject line she’s awaited for years.
Amelia Crenshaw, you have a DNA match!
Between Ithaca College and Cornell University, there are more than twenty thousand students in town. Billy finds a good many of them shopping at Walmart on this rainy Friday night, along with a mix of locals, alumni, visiting parents, and tourists. Theodore is always on edge in a crowd, so rather than maneuver him up and down the aisles, Billy rolls the cart directly to the book section.
“You can hang out here while I go grab the stuff we need, okay?”
“For how long?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”
Theodore shakes his head. “I don’t want to—”
“Pick out a new book and I’ll buy it for you.”
“Okay. Hurry up, though. I’m hungry. I want to go eat.”
“You and me both. I’ll be right back.”
He heads first to the home improvement department. After five minutes of fruitless searching for the doorstop or a clerk who isn’t busy with other customers, he comes across a gray-haired man wearing a store smock, stacking cans of paint.
“Doorstops? Couple of aisles over, with the door hardware. Come on, I’ll show you,” he says, and starts strolling in that direction like he has all the time in the world.
Billy, who does not, tells him he already looked there.
“Ah, we’re probably sold out again. These college kids aren’t supposed to prop their dorm doors open, but rules mean nothing to them. Not this generation. Back when I was—”
“If you’re sold out, then I guess I’m out of luck. But thanks anyway, sir.”
“Maybe you can just find a big rock or something? Save yourself a couple of bucks, too,” the clerk adds conspiratorially.
“Yeah, I don’t think my wife will go for that.” Billy explains the situation.
“You need to take a screwdriver and fiddle around with the hinges. Door’s not setting right.”
“I’ve tried that. It never works for more than a day or so.”
“Then why don’t you just put one of those sliding bolts on it? That’ll keep it closed.”
Billy considers the idea. At least Chip and Petty are out of the house. In their younger days, they’d have locked each other in. Theodore is hardly a prankster like his older siblings, and it does seem to be the only foolproof solution.
He thanks the clerk, curtails another “back in my day,” and throws a package of vintage-looking bolt hardware into the cart. Checking his watch, he weaves the cart back through the crowded aisles to the book section.
No sign of Theodore. He must have gotten antsy and come looking for Billy.
He sends a text.
Meet me in kids’ clothing.
Keeping an eye out for Theodore, he picks out some clothes, undergarments, pajamas, and a warm down coat for Little Boy Blue. Then, remembering the child’s bare feet, he sends Theodore another text.
Come to kids’ shoes.
He picks out a little pair of sneakers, watching for Theodore, or at least an answering text. Nothing. He checks the book section again. Still not there.
Theodore must have gotten cranky about the delay, maybe so hungry that he’d gone off in search of food.
Billy texts him again, asking where he is, and works his way toward the best bet—the grocery section. Passing a display of Halloween candy, he picks up a couple of bags of miniature chocolate bars. For the trick-or-treaters, he’ll tell Jessie. Not like they’re Zagnuts, or anything. She should be glad he’s planning ahead, avoiding anoth
er Certs Halloween. For good measure, he throws some baby carrots into the cart, too. And some of those healthy protein bars she’s always pushing on him.
Remembering Jessie had asked him to pick up some cat food and litter for Mimi’s kitten, he moves on to the pet department. Enough with the texting. He dials Theodore’s phone, but it goes right into voice mail.
He leaves a message. “Where are you? I’m going to the pet section, and then we’re getting out of here, so meet me by the registers.”
He sends the same information via text, starting to feel a little uneasy.
But this wouldn’t be the first time Theodore has been unresponsive to texts that involve a change of plans. And this time, the plans involve the resented foster child.
Billy grabs what he needs from the pet department and goes to the front of the store. No Theodore. Now he’s worried.
He wanders the aisles pushing his full cart with one hand, holding his phone with the other, texting, texting, texting . . .
Where are you?
I’m looking for you!
Time to go!
Finally, just ??????
“Hey, Sarge!” He turns to see a tall, gray-haired man in a starched pink shirt and dark suit. “Walk right on past me, why don’t you?”
Dave Carver had gone through the local schools a few years ahead of Billy and had rubbed him the wrong way even back then, before they’d worked together on the local police force. Before Billy had been promoted over him.
Dave had retired a few years ago and is now working as a real estate agent, yet persists in calling Billy “Sarge” with the same old undercurrent of sarcasm.
“How’s it going, Dave?”
“Can’t complain, can’t complain.”
But you will, Billy thinks. And he does, about the store parking lot, the price of cereal, the upcoming presidential election, his sciatica . . .
“You know, those fuzzy footy pajamas look way too small for Theodore,” he interrupts himself to say, scrutinizing the items in Billy’s cart. “So I guess it’s true, huh? You and Jessie are fostering the little kid they found out in the boonies yesterday? Saw it on the news last night.”
Dead Silence Page 18