Afterward (27 page)

“Sure,” I say.

“You have work tomorrow?” she asks.

“Yes,” I tell her. “And then maybe hang out at Ethan's.”

Before my dad moved out, I didn't even tell my mom I'd been biking over there. It was like she couldn't handle knowing more than the day-to-day basics of our lives, and sometimes not even that. But ever since it's been just the three of us, it's all “Where are you going?” and “When will you get back?” Which is annoying and comforting at the same time.

“You're playing music with him, hmm?” she asks.

“Yeah. He's good at the drums.”

My mom thinks it's weird I go there. I know she does. I haven't told her anything he's said about Dylan, and I don't know that I can. At least not yet. I told her I just drove by one day because I was curious, and we started talking. And anyway, his dad is our dentist, and it's Dove Lake. So it's not like any of us are actual strangers.

But still. I'm pretty sure she thinks the whole thing is weird.

“You know, Ethan sees a therapist,” I say, folding paper towels into neat rectangles and setting them next to my plate, my mom's plate, and one of Dylan's plastic blue plates. “His whole family does.”

“Well, that makes sense after everything they went through,” my mom says.

“He says it really helps.”

“I'm sure it does.” Her voice is tight. She's staring at the slow cooker and moving the ladle in little circles. Her mouth is in a firm line.

“Mom, we went through something, too,” I say, my voice even. “We did.”

My mom takes the ladle out of the cooker and sets it down on the counter. I swallow, my throat dry. She holds her hands up to her face and presses her fingers against her eyes.

“I just wish…,” she starts. She takes a breath. Then another. Then her shoulders start to shake a little.

“Mom?” I ask. My eyes glance at Dylan, but he doesn't seem to notice what's happening. “Mom?” I leave the table where I've been putting down the napkins and move toward her. My mom and I aren't huggers. We've never been, like, BFF mom and daughter. I've always thought that kind of duo is gross, anyway.

But she's my mom. And she's made mistakes, but she's never left us. She never would.

She's doing the best she can.

Like Dylan.

Like Ethan.

Like Ethan's parents.

Like me, too.

I put my hand on my mom's shoulder and give it a little squeeze.

“I just want … things to be okay,” she says to me in a whisper, her hands still covering her face. For the first time, I notice a white line where her wedding ring used to be.

“I want things to be okay, too,” I say. “But maybe things could be okay faster if we got some help. Someone to talk to. I think it could be good.”

“I don't know,” my mom answers, and finally she lowers her hands and looks across the room at Dylan. Her eyes are wet. She chews at her bottom lip a bit. “It's a lot of money,” she says at last.

“Yeah,” I say. “But maybe Ethan could ask his therapist? About, like, therapists who donate their time? Or something?”

My mom bites at her lip again. “Yeah,” she says, her voice cracking. “Maybe.”

My mom shuts her eyes tight and pushes out a few more tears, then dabs at her eyes with a dishtowel. “I'm sorry, Caroline. For these past few months. They've been awful.”

“Yeah, but it'll get better,” I tell her, hesitation in my voice. I want to trust my own words. I want my mom to trust them, too.

“Okay,” she says, and she smiles at me with her eyes, and I think maybe she does.

 

ETHAN—390 DAYS AFTERWARD

In the middle of May, the Fletchers moved away, and they took Missy the Chihuahua with them. My mom told me they decided to move to a senior living facility in Austin so they could be near their daughter.

When my family walked over to say goodbye to them one Sunday afternoon before they got in their car to drive away, Mrs. Fletcher reached over and hugged me goodbye. Her hug was surprisingly tight and strong.

“We promised ourselves we'd stay until you came back,” she whispered into my ear.

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say back, but I remembered when I was little, how Mrs. Fletcher would hand me little peppermint candies over the fence that separated our yards.

“Thanks,” I said, and she let me go, and I looked at my feet, a little embarrassed.

Their house has been vacant for over a month, but this morning when I walk outside to get the paper for my parents, I notice a big white moving van backing into the driveway. A man in khaki shorts and a yellow Polo and a woman in a green sundress are standing on the lawn watching the movers open the back of the van and begin to haul out boxes. The woman is holding a baby on one hip. She lifts her free hand up over her eyes to block out the sun.

“A family's moved in next door,” I tell my mom. She's loading the dishwasher from breakfast.

“What did they look like?”

“Parents and at least one kid. A baby.”

“I'll make them some banana bread to take over there tonight when we get back from Dr. Greenberg's.”

“I'll help you make it,” I say, and my mom smiles at me. A totally happy smile with no tears.

After my appointment we make the bread and wait for it to cool, and then my mom wraps it in tinfoil and ties a red ribbon around it, making sure to curl the ends with scissors. The two of us are about to leave our house when my mother's cell phone buzzes. She glances down.

“It's grandma,” she tells me, sliding the banana bread into my hands. “You go on ahead. I'll meet you there in a second.” I blink, trying to believe what I've just heard. My mom is sending me into the world. Alone. It's pretty incredible.

I walk across the yard and when I get to the front door, I ring the doorbell.

The woman in the green sundress opens the door. She's still holding the baby. I think it's a girl. It's got dark curls and is wearing a diaper and a pink T-shirt that says “Little Stinker.”

“Hi,” the lady says, pushing some stray hairs back from her face. There are stacks of boxes in the entryway behind her.

“Hey,” I say, searching for the right polite words. “Uh, I live next door? With my parents? We know you're new to the neighborhood, and we made you banana bread?” I hold it out awkwardly.

“Oh!” the lady says, and she smiles and takes the bread. “My name's Abigail,” she tells me. Then she yells over her shoulder and up the stairs. “Miguel, come down and say hello to our new neighbors!”

A little boy, maybe seven or eight, gallops down toward us. His dark brown hair is messy, and there are faint traces of green and blue Magic Marker all over his arms.

“This is my son, Miguel. My husband's not here right now. He made a run to the grocery store to get us the bare necessities to be able to feed these kiddos and keep them alive.” She laughs at her own joke. I smile back, and then I realize I haven't told her my name.

“I'm Ethan,” I say. “My parents and I live next door, like I said, and my mom is coming over any sec.” I glance toward our house, then shove my hands in my pockets. I'm not sure what else to say or do.

“Mama, I can't find my Transformers,” Miguel says, tugging at his mother's dress. He looks at me warily.

“Oh, sweetie, I don't know where your Transformers are in this mess,” she says. She shifts “Little Stinker” from one hip to the next.

“I'm seven,” Miguel tells me suddenly.

I nod and give him a little smile. “I'm sixteen,” I tell him. Then I add, “I used to play with Transformers. They're pretty cool.” Miguel smiles, and I can see one of his top front teeth is missing.

I sense Abigail looking at me, and I wonder if she's putting it together. A few of the local stations tried to run pieces about me when we hit the one-year anniversary of me being found, but I decided I didn't want to do any more interviews, so there wasn't anything in the paper or on television. But maybe this woman recognizes me anyway. Maybe she knows she's just moved her family next door to a famous kidnapping victim.

Just then, fortunately, my mother calls out hello as she crosses the yard between us, and she and Abigail start talking in their high-pitched lady voices and I'm left sort of standing there. I grin at Miguel again and he grins back, but mostly he wiggles around, bored. Abigail tells my mom the baby's name is Isabella, and they just moved here from the Valley because her husband has been named assistant superintendent for the school district.

“Well, please let us know if there's anything we can do to help as you get settled in,” my mother says.

Just then, Miguel tugs on his mother's dress again.

“Mama, I need my Transformers real bad,” he pleads.

Abigail rolls her eyes at us and then looks at my mother and says, “Please tell me it gets easier?”

My mother glances at me and in a voice that I think only I can tell is a little bit sad, she tells Abigail with a soft smile, “Yes, it does.”

We say goodbye and then head back home. My mom goes inside, and I practice my drums until my dad gets back from work. That night, after dinner, we're all hanging out watching television when my phone buzzes.

On my way—those lyrics you sent me this morning were your best yet

I smile so big my face hurts. I text back.

Shut up—stop making fun of me

Dude I am speaking the truth and you know it so shut up yourself

Whatever get over here

Well if you stop texting back I can get on my bike okay?

K

I thought I told you stop texting me back!!!

I laugh out loud.

“What's so funny?” my dad asks from the family room couch where he and my mom are trying to decide what to watch next.

“Caroline,” I say, looking up from my phone.

“I like Caroline,” says my dad. “She's full of beans.” And my mom smiles because even though she's never come out and said it, I know she likes Caroline, too.

I head outside to the garage just as she is pulling up on her ten-speed. She slides her guitar case off and dumps the bike on the lawn like always. She sets the case down and undoes her messy ponytail, runs her fingers through her hair, then ties it back up again. Her face is slick with sweat.

“Damn, it's hot,” she says.

“I know,” I say. “You still want to play?”

“Seriously?” she asks me. “Artists have to suffer for their art, you know.”

I roll my eyes at her, and she rolls hers back at me.

“So I wasn't lying about your lyrics,” she says, opening her case. “They really are my favorite so far.”

“Yeah?” I ask, trying to be casual about it.

“Yeah,” she says, and she looks me in the eyes. “I'm already thinking up a song to go with them.”

“Okay,” I say. “So what are we waiting for? Let's go.”

I sit down at my drums, and Caroline plugs in her Fender. She takes a minute to tune it and then nods at me, and I pick up my drumsticks to count off. And as I do, I catch her eye, and she grins because she knows. She knows we've got a million songs ahead of us, all of them waiting to be found, and we can't wait to play every single one of them together.

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Cases like Ethan's and Dylan's are, thankfully, incredibly rare. But just as the tiny percentage of children taken in stereotypical kidnappings need our help, so do endangered runaways and children in family abduction cases. For more information, please visit the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children at www.missingkids.com. If you think you've seen a missing child, contact the center 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, at 1-800-THE-LOST (1-800-843-5678).

If you or someone you know needs information about sexual assault, please call the National Sexual Assault Hotline operated by RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) at 1-800-656-HOPE. You can also go to rainn.org for more information or to use the Online Hotline. Services are free, confidential, and available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Please visit
autismspeaks.org
for more information on autism.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As a former journalist, I tend to enjoy the research component of writing a novel almost as much as the writing itself, a tendency I was particularly grateful for when crafting this book. Ethan and Caroline's story would not exist without the enormous help and guidance of numerous mental health professionals who gave of their time and knowledge to help me create what I hope is a realistic and compassionate portrayal of two teenagers who are healing from trauma.

Frank Ochberg, MD, a pioneer in the area of trauma science and an expert on post-traumatic stress disorder, was incredibly generous with his time and wisdom. The counting technique used in this novel by Dr. Greenberg is based on the actual Counting Method developed by Dr. Ochberg to treat PTSD. Dr. Ochberg's assistance made this book a reality, and I am forever thankful.

Rebecca Bailey, PhD, of Transitioning Families also provided incredible insight into what the therapy process would look like for a young man like Ethan, and she answered my questions with warmth and with language a layperson like me could readily grasp. Her book
Safe Kids, Smart Parents: What Parents Need to Know to Keep Their Children Safe
is a valuable resource for any mom or dad. Dr. Bailey is to thank for the character of Groovy the dog.

Other mental health professionals who must also be thanked for their time and feedback include Laura Davie, LICSW; Ellen Safier, LCSW; Suzanne Senn, MS, LPC; and Nathalie Wolk, PhD.

I would like to thank Zachary Gilley and Elaine Cagle for being so brave and willing to share their personal stories with me. You both trusted a nervous, strange voice over the phone who wanted to ask questions about difficult life experiences, and you both shared so honestly and openly. I'm forever grateful to you both and in awe of your resilience.