Little Girl Gone

by Alexandra Burt

  ‘You run to find clues as to where your daughter is?’ Her eyebrows raise and form half-moons of apprehension over her eyes.

  ‘I know it’s not very logical and that’s why … that’s why I’ve been thinking about becoming a crime analyst,’ I say.

  Dr Langston forgets to blink, then she clears her throat. ‘A crime analyst?’

  ‘Yes. I’m thinking about it.’ It had never crossed my mind to become one, but there it was, floating in the air. From hasty comment to a possibility to do something, then a resolve of some sort.

  ‘Maybe we should talk about this before you—’

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ I interrupt her. ‘I’ve been calling the detective for years, the one who worked the case. They never had a single lead, the case has gone cold. Nothing. How do you not have a single lead?’

  ‘From what I understand—’

  ‘It drives me crazy that she’s somewhere, right now as we sit here, she’s doing something. Right now, as we speak, she is living somewhere, wearing a dress, with her hair in a ponytail, speaking, playing. I refuse to believe that she’s lost. It’s not like a stranger grabbed her off the street; we know Anna took her. I understand that all the other leads, the diner, the waitress at the diner, turned up nothing. I get that. I may not be able to find my daughter, but Anna, Anna I can find. A needle in a haystack maybe, but hell, there’s a haystack and there’s a needle in it. All I’ve to do is take each single blade of hay and remove it. And I’ll be left with the needle.’

  ‘I just want to make sure that you don’t—’

  ‘Become obsessed? You worry that I’ll become obsessed with finding my daughter? Listen, Dr Langston, this is not a healthy life, I know that. But I’m not concerned and neither should you be.’

  ‘As your therapist your mental health is my primary concern.’

  ‘Then tell me what to do, tell me what would you do? Sit around and wait? One more summer, one more Christmas? Another five years?’

  Dr Langston remains silent as a broad bar of sunlight bathes her in an angelic light.

  I laugh, loud, from the gut. Crisp, with a hint of evil.

  She presses down the button of her ceramic pencil. The porcelain shell looks expensive, a Mother’s Day present maybe – I’ve seen photos of her children on her desk – a token of appreciation from people who love her. She aligns the pen with the yellow notepad paper.

  When she doesn’t answer I nod with unwavering intensity.

  ‘I’m not managing my grief well, am I?’

  ‘Managing is the important part.’

  I’ve read the terminology. Mia is considered a ‘long term missing’ child. All subject matter experts from a wide array of disciplines have considered all possible strategies. Nothing else can be done. This is the end of the line, I’m the only one standing.

  ‘Sometimes I get up in the morning and I feel that today is the day. Today is the day when the phone rings and there’s a lead. A picture. A trace of something.’

  I don’t tell her that just last week, on a whim, I went to Dover and stood in front of Anna’s former house. I don’t mention the fact that I went back to the cornfield and that I poked the earth with a stick where I buried Lieberman. That I had coffee at the diner which now sees a pretty steady influx of customers.

  I’ve done my homework. Dr Langston is merely a companion on my journey, a spectator of my grief, if you will. Her main mission is to bear witness to my pain. According to her manual she is to emphasize the importance of ongoing support for individuals like me. She is to tell me that I must attend to my own physical and emotional needs. She is to help me prepare for the long term and the fact that my life must go on.

  Dr Langston listens and honors the few stories I have of Mia. There isn’t much to tell, really, she was born, afflicted with a colic when she was only a few weeks old, a colic that never passed and then she was gone. No anecdotes of learning to crawl or her first steps. It was all struggle for both of us all the time. When I run out of stories to tell, and we go in circles for a few sessions, she hands me an address of a support group in a church basement.

  ‘Did you ever give the support group I told you about a chance?’ she asks me the following week.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say and I have no intention of going at all. The thought of listening to other people’s pain is not my idea of finding Mia.

  ‘It can be quite therapeutic and might help you make sense of your new world.’

  A world without my child doesn’t make sense at all, I tell her. Please attend a meeting, she says, and even though I don’t see the point, I don’t want to ever again look back on anything with regret. Give it a chance she says, and so I do. I go to a meeting that very same day. I give chances, it’s the only thing I have to give these days.

  Only a handful of cars dot the church parking lot as I pass spindly trees amidst concrete islands and weeds poking through the asphalt. I count eight cars.

  I scan the flier taped to the door. Healing Hearts, it says. Weekly meetings. Grief Support After The Loss Of A Child. The group meets at six. At five there’s an AA meeting on the schedule. Tai Chi for seniors starts promptly at eight.

  Grief is universal, the flier says. Join a group of people who have experienced a loss, who tell their stories knowing they will be respected and held in confidence.

  I enter the titanic room with intermittent columns holding up the ceiling. It is stuffy and reeks of mold, Freon, and stale coffee.

  I make my way to the back where the fluorescent lights shine a merciless blaze on a group of people. I count seven. A man with a folder on his lap. Two couples. One middle-aged woman and one fairly young woman.

  I take one of the vacant chairs.

  ‘Hi, my name is Eric,’ the guy with the folder says and counts heads, then notes the number of people attending on a notepad.

  ‘I’m a licensed grief counselor and the facilitator of this group. Most of us know each other but we have a new face here tonight.’

  Eric makes eye contact with me and strokes his beard.

  ‘Just so we’re on the same sheet of music, let me go over the principles again. Everyone here has experienced the loss of a child. We’re here to talk about that experience with people who are likely to understand. There’ll be words of wisdom, words of support and sometimes …’ Eric pauses and glances at a couple holding hands, ‘sometimes our words cause even more pain. Be patient with each other and remember, we’re not a social network, we’re not a therapy group. Everything we say is confidential. Always.’

  I look around while I listen to Eric. A couple with identical T-shirts, the word Hope, the ‘o’ being a butterfly. The woman’s pudgy fingers rest in the man’s hand, as if he is keeping her from darting for the door. Or off a bridge, I’m not sure. The man introduces himself as Dwight, his wife as Kathryn, ‘but she goes by Katy,’ he adds. ‘We lost our daughter to cancer a year ago.’

  The middle-aged woman in an outfit that I didn’t know still existed − pink stretch pants and a pink shirt with embroidered flowers − is on the verge of tears.

  ‘I’m Regina,’ she says and dabs her eyes with a cloth handkerchief. ‘My son suffers from a mental disease. I haven’t seen him in five years.’

  The other couple, ‘Kristy and Dave,’ wear sweatpants and flannel shirts. And crosses around their necks. ‘Our son went on a motorcycle trip two years ago. He never returned.’

  And then it’s my turn to introduce myself.

  I practiced at home, went over my words dozens of times, expecting the inescapable and obligatory introduction of my loss and I faltered every time. I haven’t lost anyone. At least not yet. Mia is alive but I don’t know where. I feel out of place, even more than I imagined when this moment played out in my mind.

  ‘My name’s Estelle,’ I say and take in a deep breath. I’m not sure what to say. My loss is unique, I’m in some elusive limbo state, not quite circle of life, yet all-encompassing.

  ‘Hi, Estelle,�
�� Eric says. ‘Welcome to Healing Hearts. Who have you lost?’

  I remain silent. The young, very large woman to my left takes pity on me.

  ‘I’m Mary,’ she says. ‘The first time can be difficult. This is only my second time here and last week I told the group about my sister Lilly. One day, in third grade, she didn’t come home after school.’

  Mary pauses and I scrutinize her profile, want to see exactly what grief looks like on such a young face. Mary can’t be older than nineteen or so and must be close to five hundred pounds, her thighs are swollen beyond the metal chair’s seat. She wears stretch pants and a large black T-shirt. There’s a velvety, light-brown ring around her neck, indicating an advanced state of diabetes. I wonder if she knows. Her fingers are stubby knobs, her nails are bitten to the quick. Her face seems almost unaware of her loss, her porcelain skin is plumb and subtle, her eyes bright, surrounded by long lashes. Nothing about her speaks of pain but her shaky voice. I don’t notice any tears but Mary wipes her eyes with the back of her hand nonetheless. Maybe people run out of tears eventually, I think.

  ‘May Christ hold her forever,’ Kristy chimes in, and crosses herself. ‘God’s love is eternal.’

  Mary stares at her, and after a brief pause, says, ‘Amen.’

  Fuck, I think, for fuck’s sake, have these people lost their minds?

  ‘Left my car lights on,’ I say and leave.

  When Dr Langston asks me about the group I tell her it’s not for me.

  ‘Different priorities, is all.’

  ‘I know it’s not easy to speak in public about Mia. Each parent’s expression of pain is unique,’ Dr Langston says.

  ‘I’d rather talk about finding her.’

  ‘I’m worried about you, Estelle.’

  ‘Why?’ I can feel myself getting angry. Dr Langston watches my emotions intently and she knows she’s hit the mark. Challenge is part of the manual.

  ‘We’ve talked about this before.’

  ‘Are you telling me to stop looking?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I want you to dedicate a part of each day to finding Mia. And the rest of the day I want you to dedicate to you. And maybe allow yourself to consider the other possibility.’

  She’s been trying to get me to say it for weeks now. She will never hear those words from me.

  ‘She might not come back.’ Dr Langston’s voice trembles ever so slightly.

  ‘You know what?’

  ‘What?’ She scoots to the front of her chair and listens intently.

  ‘I think I left my car lights on,’ I say.

  Chapter 27

  The air is sharp. Liquid ice stings my nostrils and seeps into my lungs. The first ten minutes of running in the cold sucks, but then I get warm and cozy. My legs loosen up, my breath settles into a steady rhythm and I go into autopilot.

  Three miles later the cold air has dried out my airways and, after another mile, my lungs start to burn and a hacking cough forces me to stop every few minutes. The cold pavement crawls through the bottom of my running shoes up into my legs. Three layers of clothes, a thermal cap and tights are no match for New York’s arctic air.

  I finally give up and surrender to the cough. I spot a Starbucks down the street and decide to stop running for the day. I cut across Flatbush towards Prospect Avenue and pause in front of an electronics store. Hot air blows up a shaft and through a crate, warming my feet. There’s numerous flat screens mounted on the walls of the store, all of them tuned to CNN. Silent pictures move across the screens when another coughing fit rips through me. I cup my hands around the coffee cup and the news ticker on the bottom of the screen catches my attention.

  Breaking News.

  My breath mingles with the steaming coffee and I jerk back as the hot liquid scalds my lips. I watch the headlines pass by.

  Fundamentalist church raid underway.

  Compound under investigation of child abuse.

  84 children taken into custody.

  I watch dozens of children in a neat line hold hands as they enter white buses parked by the side of the road.

  Behind them a group of women emerge from a building, shielding their eyes from the cameras. Some of them step off the porch as if to follow the children being carted off, others remain on the porch, crying, holding on to each other. Their pastel-colored dresses are buttoned up to the neck, reaching all the way to the ground. Their every step kicks up the dress seams, offering a glimpse of stocking-covered legs and dusty orthopedic shoes. Their hair is pinned into tall waves high above their foreheads, their faces are scrubbed clean. Red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks complete the picture of utter despair.

  Another news flash creeps over the screen.

  Children to remain in state custody while authorities investigate allegations of abuse.

  One of the women’s braids has loosened and her red hair is reaching all the way to her lower back. She screams at the men escorting the children into the bus while the other women stand in silence, wiping their tears. A state trooper is motioning the woman to get back on the porch. The woman’s red hair floods around her as she raises a hand towards him as if to curse his very existence. Then the camera zooms in on her. Her lavender dress and her poufy strawberry hair can’t distract me from her hand. Deformed, covered in burn marks.

  My intestines turn into a corkscrew, then my body surrenders. A flash, followed by a star falling towards the dark ground, illuminated, shining bright. A recollection, then a memory. Anna, the teenager, the aunt. Laura Dembry, member of The Church of Appointed Dominion.

  My mind stills and the world around me turns fuzzy.

  The haystack. I’ve found the haystack.

  ‘Detective, this is Estelle. Estelle Paradise.’ I have trouble catching my breath.

  There’s a long silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Mrs Paradise.’

  ‘I’m calling you because I need your help.’ I have trouble talking and breathing at the same time.

  A pause. Then, ‘I’m no longer working with the same department. I’ve been reassigned. I can give you a number to call if you—’

  ‘Are you watching the news?’ I interrupt him when I finally catch my breath.

  ‘The news?’

  ‘Police raided a compound in Texas. They took all the children.’

  ‘I’m not watching, but I’m aware.’

  ‘I called the precinct. They won’t help me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Can we meet somewhere?’

  A long silence. ‘Mrs Paradise, I don’t—’

  ‘In one hour. The Starbucks on Prospect Avenue. By the park entrance.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do for you. Like I said, I’m no longer—’

  ‘In one hour. I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Hold on a minute, I still don’t understand … what’s the raid got to do with anything?’

  ‘It’s about Anna. I found her,’ I say and hang up the phone.

  One hour later the words pour out of me. The raid in Texas. The children. Anna Lieberman, the woman with red hair is one of the mothers from the Dominion Compound in Denton, the same church her aunt belonged to. And maybe, just maybe, one of the children I watched on live TV boarding the buses, is Mia. And no one at the precinct is willing to hear me out because any information on the minor children recovered from the compound will not be discussed until DNA analysis has been completed. And then they hung up the phone.

  ‘How can you be sure the woman is Anna Lieberman?’ Wilczek’s voice is intense, almost sharp.

  ‘I think I’d recognize the woman who took my daughter. I also understand this is an ongoing investigation, but I need to know where the children are.’

  ‘They won’t release any information until the investigation is complete. It’s not really out of the ordinary that they don’t want to talk to you about the case.’

  ‘No one else is even hearing me out. All I need is a DNA sample.’

  ‘I do
n’t think I’m the right man for it, I don’t have access to the Denton compound case. Besides, I don’t know how I can help.’ He raises his hands, palms up. There’s a change in his demeanor suddenly, like a cloud’s shadow overhead. ‘I can’t do anything that’s against the law.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to do anything illegal,’ I say but I don’t really know the legalities, and I don’t really care, which is just about the same thing to me.

  ‘You don’t understand, I’ve had a lot going on lately, there were some problems at work, and I don’t need to get caught up in something …’ His large thumb presses down on the domed plastic lid. ‘Look …’ he says and hesitates ever so slightly, ‘not that it makes any difference to you, but I’m going through a divorce. New York state maintenance is not exactly cheap. And I have a son. I can’t risk my job right now.’

  I ignore his comment. I have no interest in his problems. I swallow, tell myself this doesn’t mean no. It means nothing. There’s a way, there’s always a way. ‘One girl, Wilczek.’ I study the dark circles under his eyes and his wrinkled shirt. His eyes are empty dark holes, lifeless. But I don’t care about any of this. ‘There’s one girl with my DNA. That girl, five years old, is my daughter. And I need to find her.’ I imagine nurses with cotton swabs swiping the cheeks of children with large and frightened eyes. ‘I know there are lengthy backlogs in every crime lab in the state and it could take months to get it all sorted out, but—’

  ‘Do you have any idea what kind of circus you’re dealing with? There are hundreds of DNA tests to be done. Figuring out who belongs to who will take months. And let’s not even take into consideration that they probably gave wrong names and ages. Everybody is someone’s mommy, every man’s someone’s uncle or daddy. It’s like untangling hundreds of fucking miles of Christmas lights.’