The last entry I’d made was a few days before the abduction. I had written about how well Amanda had been doing since her drunk driving arrest. As I leafed back and read over some previous entries, a sickening thought came over me. What if Matt had found the journal in my desk drawer that night he came into the house with the kids? There was so much there to condemn me, so many ugly thoughts about him, all my doubts and insecurities about being a parent. Maybe that was when he decided to steal them.
I picked up a pen and wrote:
8/16/83 (2 months & 6 days gone) Please, Matt. Please bring Sarah and Nathan home. I won’t press charges. I won’t ask where you’ve been. I promise I’ll be a good mother. Just let me hold them again.
That was all I could manage before I broke down.
8/19/83 (2 months & 9 days gone) I went to see Carla today. I talked and cried and raged at Matt. Raged at myself. I should have known what he was up to. He was so anxious to get away. I never should have let him take the kids to Disney World. If I hadn’t been so fucking blasé and had insisted he call me every night, maybe…
The phone in the hall just rang, “the kids’ line” as I call it now. I ran to pick it up, and it was some woman looking for a Mr. Fletcher. She apologized when I told her she had the wrong number, and I said it was okay. I’ve been trying to learn not to take my anger and disappointment out on other people. Every time that phone rings my heart starts beating a hundred miles an hour. I no longer believe that Matt will come to his senses and bring the kids home, but I keep thinking Sarah will call. I taught her the phone number in case she got lost. She’s very smart and could have easily remembered the digits, but I wanted to make it fun and see if I could turn our phone number into a word the way businesses do in their advertisements. Call 1-617-PLUMBER or 1-800-RENT-A-CAR. Our number is 244-6673, which spells BIG NOSE. Sarah giggled when I told her, and she made up a rhyme: Big nose, ice snows, jiggy wiggy piggy toes. But I didn’t explain to her about dialing one first or an area code. I didn’t teach her about calling collect. I had warned her about the dangers of talking to strangers, the usual stuff you say about not taking candy or getting in someone’s car. But I never said,
Be
careful
of
Daddy
too. He’s angry at Mommy and might tell you lies and say mean things about me and take you far away.
Sarah Caroline Drobyshev. Nathan Alexander Drobyshev. Where are you now? Who are you now? Sometimes I want to stuff some clothes in a sack, close the door behind me, and wander the country, searching for you.
***
One of the truths I couldn’t dodge in my journal was that Griffin and I no longer fit. For me, he was a constant reminder of everything I’d done wrong. It was foolish to blame him for ruining my life, but he was the catalyst, and I harbored a secret belief that I’d get the kids back if he were gone. He had started spending most nights at his own apartment now, and our lovemaking was scant and lifeless. We tried to talk about the future but couldn’t sustain it. At least he had enough sense not to suggest we have a child together. Sometimes he’d come by after work and go out in the yard and do flips on the trampoline in a dress shirt and tie. Our only real connection seemed to be through the puppy.
Griffin tried to talk me into going to Nantucket for the long Labor Day weekend. I made excuses, saying I didn’t want to deal with the crowds or sit in traffic, but I simply couldn’t imagine leaving the house for three days with the telephone untended. He kept pushing and I pushed back, but he had no desire to keep the fight going. We had come to a crossroads and both of us knew it.
He said, “I’d like to make it easy for you, Luce, but this is your call. I don’t want to be the one to say it first.”
“Say
what
?” I gave him a sad smile.
He smiled too. He opened a bottle of wine and poured us both a glass as if we were celebrating. “You could shame me into sticking around if you want.”
“I know. For a little while anyway.” I lit a cigarette. “Are you relieved?”
“Actually, I was trying to fall in love with you.”
“That may be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Never a bad time to start good habits, as my Uncle Baxter used to say.”
“Is that the uncle with the Siamese named Minx?”
“The very same. I’m amazed you remember. Can you believe that old cat is still going strong? Twenty-three years old and blind in one eye, but her fur’s still as silky as a kitten.”
I laughed. “You and your stories, Griffin. Do you have any idea which ones are true?”
“I try not to get hung up on minor details, baby. Life’s better that way.”
I think we both felt a sense of relief that it was over, our losses dwarfed by the realization that we no longer had to try.
***
The morning after Labor Day, I stood by the open window in the kitchen, smoking and drinking a cup of coffee. Stray leaves and twigs were scattered on top of the trampoline, the swings on the monkey bars rocking gently in the breeze. Sarah always wanted you to push her as high as she could go, squealing with delight as the ropes jerked at the top of their arc. Frodo was in the yard digging a hole under the maple tree. Beyond the fence Nancy Prince’s tomatoes were bright red on the vines. When the kids were still here, Nancy’s daughter Lindsay, who was eight or nine, would occasionally come over and play with Sarah and Nathan in the yard. The blinds on the windows on the second floor were raised, and I could see Nancy sitting on the edge of a bed braiding Lindsay’s hair. I refilled my coffee cup and cinched the tie around the waist of my bathrobe and sat on the porch steps in front of the house, watching the children go by with their backpacks and lunch boxes. Two girls smiled and said hi to me then quickly looked away. I didn’t try to hide the tears that were rolling down my cheeks. Today would have been Sarah’s first day of kindergarten.
***
2/4/84 (7 months & 25 days gone) Thorny has been encouraging me to take a vacation, someplace warm and sunny, blue ocean, white sand beaches, and piña coladas. He just wants me to get out of the house to try to take my mind off the kids. The Pinkertons say the case is still open, but I know they’ve stopped looking. Photographs of missing children have begun to appear on milk cartons along with their names and the date they disappeared. It’s part of a nationwide campaign started by the parents of a boy named Etan Patz, who left to catch a school bus in Manhattan one morning and was never seen again. Thorny tried to get Sarah and Nathan’s picture on one of the milk cartons. He was told they were not publicizing “family abductions” at this time. Apparently, there are about 200,000 of these abductions every year, but the focus of the milk carton campaign is on the kids who have been taken by strangers. It makes me angry to think that my case is diminished because I know who stole my kids, as if it’s not a crime but a misunderstanding.
My old pal Cody crawled out of the woodwork the other day. We went to a movie then to the IHOP after and talked for hours and he made me laugh, which sometimes still makes me feel guilty. Cody is in love with a nineteen-year-old boy, unrequited so far. He says if it doesn’t work out, he wants us to move in together and live in celibate bliss, cook great meals in the evening with show tunes playing on the stereo. I told him it sounds like heaven.
***
On my way into the Star Market, I saw a notice on the bulletin board for a group called GrieveWell. It said that anyone dealing with grief was welcome, but the primary focus of the group was for parents who had lost a child. Their meetings were at the Unitarian Church in JP, which probably meant there wasn’t a strong push toward Jesus and the healing power of prayer. I’d gotten way too much of that from well-meaning souls over the past eight months. I wanted to believe God would send my kids home to me, but when I tried to pray, I felt like a fraud, asking Him for something only when there was nowhere else to turn.
I waited several weeks before going to my first meeting of GrieveWell. There were two men and six women including me that evening. The group had been meeting for about seven months. People were friendly and asked me if I wanted to tell my story and I said no, maybe next time. Two of the women, one black and one white, had sons who were killed in gang violence; one man’s twenty-year-old son had committed suicide. There was a woman named Winnie who had come to her first session the week before. Her husband and two young daughters were killed by a drunk driver, which I remembered reading about in the newspaper, a guy plowing into them head-on on the turnpike. The driver, whose blood alcohol level was twice the legal limit, was driving with a suspended license and walked away from the accident with only minor injuries. Winnie, who was about my age and very well spoken, was a dean at Wheelock College. She said it was a shame Massachusetts didn’t have the death penalty, which was what the man deserved, but the most he’d probably end up with was two or three years in jail for vehicular homicide. I’m not sure why, but I felt a bond with her—maybe it was her incandescent anger and the fact that she flayed her fingers like me—and I thought we might become friends.
At the next meeting, Vernon, the man whose son committed suicide, wanted to talk. His wife had recently discovered that her father, who died when she was seven, had taken his own life, but the family had kept it a secret from her. She had been blaming Vernon for their son’s death, telling him he coddled the boy too much and hadn’t taught him how to face the world like a man. Now she admitted there was a long history of depression in her family. Vernon said it felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He told us he tried to get his wife to come to the GrieveWell meeting with him, but she wasn’t ready yet.
“This is a real breakthrough, Vern,” Maureen said. She was the one who had founded the group and acted as its leader. “When a loved one dies, we often look for someone to blame—doctors, God, another family member, the deceased, ourselves. But we have to learn to put that aside. The key to healing is forgiveness.”
“I’m never going to forgive the man who killed my husband and kids,” Winnie said. “He is to blame. Completely.”
“Like whoever stabbed my son,” a black woman said.
Things got heated; Maureen let people vent. Winnie was so filled with rage her whole body quivered. I listened and didn’t say anything, but after the coffee break I decided to tell my story. I left out some of the ugly details like the scene with Matt and Griffin in the bedroom but didn’t try to mitigate my own culpability in the failure of my marriage. I told them I had made mistakes, but ultimately I didn’t know why Matt had taken the kids.
People were kind and supportive. Most seemed surprised that the police had no interest in pursuing the case. One black woman snorted, saying the cops always looked out for themselves. She said the police weren’t interested in solving her son’s murder; they just figured it was one less gang-banger on the street.
Winnie was listening quietly. She hadn’t spoken since the break. Finally, she fixed her gaze on me and said, “Excuse me, Lucy, but would you please tell me what the fuck you are doing here?”
I was stunned, unable to respond.
“Please, Winnie,” Maureen said. “There’s no need to be rude.”
“Rude? What could be ruder than her coming here and whining about her missing children?” She glowered at me. “My husband and daughters are
dead
. You understand dead, don’t you? I watched the undertakers lower their coffins into three black holes in the ground. It doesn’t matter if your kids are in Texas or Arizona or China, they’re still alive. They’re out there somewhere. You still have
hope
.”
Several people tried to intercede on my behalf, but I said, “No, wait, it’s okay. I understand what she means.” At least Winnie hadn’t said I deserved my fate. To her, there was a pecking order in the world of grief, and mine was a second-class sorrow.
I said, “Winnie, what happened to your family is horrific. Unthinkable. That drunk driver changed your life in a split second and shattered your world into a million little pieces. Nothing will ever bring your husband and daughters back again, so you think I’m lucky. I’m sure you wish you could trade places with me because I still have hope. And you’re right, I do. In some ways it’s all I have. I wake up every morning and try to make myself believe today’s the day I’ll get my kids back. Sometimes I can almost see their faces as they come running into my arms. But nights are different. At night I sit at the kitchen table with my cigarettes and a glass of wine and ask myself a simple question: Am I still a
mother
? How can I be a mother with no children to call me Mommy? No little ones to hold in my arms? Maybe their father will come to his senses and realize the kids need me as much as I need them. Maybe he’ll bring them back to me tomorrow. Or next week. Next year. I
try
not to lose hope. But here’s my question: How long am I supposed to keep hoping? Two years? Five years? Twenty? Give me a number, Winnie. How long do I have to wait till I can be as sad as you are?”
Adam
Encinitas, California—June 1996
The graduation party had been going for about an hour. I put a fresh bowl of guacamole and tortilla chips on the picnic table and threw some empty soda cans in the trash. It was a beautiful June evening, the smell of sage in the breeze. The sun lingered over the ocean as if it didn’t want the day to end. The band on the back deck was playing “Maybe Baby,” Sara and her friends jitterbugging on the lawn. Some of the kids were still wearing their mortarboards, tassels swinging to the beat. The band called themselves The Indolents. What they lacked in talent they made up for in style—double-breasted chartreuse suits, flamingo pink shirts, and skinny black ties. The lead singer, Ajit Banerjee, liked to say his one goal in life was to be known as the Bengali Buddy Holly. Ajit had been Sara’s on-and-off boyfriend since the tenth grade. On, as of this afternoon, though that could have changed by now. I was smart enough not to ask.
We lived in the hills north of San Diego about a mile from the coast. A stand of cypresses hid our small stucco house from the street. Unlike most of our neighbors, we had no garage or swimming pool, but the lot was nearly five acres—a broad expanse of grass sloping down to a grove of lemon trees. Hummingbirds darted among the flowers on the firebush in the daytime. Skunks and raccoons prowled the grounds at night. Real estate developers had offered me ridiculous sums of money to subdivide, but I never gave it serious consideration. This, I often reminded myself, was as close to paradise as I would ever get.
I had no idea where the kids and I would end up when we left Chicago. We spent five months in Phoenix then moved on to Seattle. From there we went to Houston, Miami, Atlanta. The longest we stayed in one place was eleven months. I liked each city in its own way, but something always made me leave. Sometimes it was an omen, like the couple I caught a glimpse of at Pike Place Market in Seattle who I could have sworn were Amanda and Thorny. Other times it was just a hunch, a feeling that it was time to go, though I was always concerned that a sudden departure might make people suspicious. The kids whined a little when we moved but got over it quickly. When we came to Southern California, I promised myself I’d stop running. Elliot was seven, Sara just turning ten. I wanted to create a stable environment for them. Let them stay in school from one year to the next and hang on to the friends they made. I felt like I needed some stability for myself as well. I had become a good carpenter and had ideas about starting a contracting business of my own. I told myself I wanted to meet a woman I could connect with, someone I could trust, maybe even marry. But that was probably a lie.
Most of the women I met were single mothers, divorcées whose children went to school with Sara and Elliot. Virtually every woman had the same reaction when she found out I was a widower raising the kids on my own. She’d give me a look of pity and admiration, then fall all over herself making offers to help.
Feel
free
to
drop
the
kids
off
at
my
place
anytime. Do you do your own cooking? I have some wonderful dishes I could teach you to make. If you ever need someone to talk to Sara about, you know, girl stuff…
I never ceased to be astounded how a woman could be kind and predatory in the same breath. My first serious involvement was with a legal secretary in Atlanta. She had big blue eyes and a body that turned my brain to tapioca. Her husband had walked out on her when she was seven months pregnant, and she had to keep taking him back to court for child support. We started spending a lot of time together. Conversations came easily. She was a Braves fan and liked to go to their games. She and her daughter occasionally stayed over at my place for the night, which was a first for me. But she was in a hurry. She wanted to move in together and start making plans. I guess I was running from her as much as anything when we left Atlanta. I told her I had a great business opportunity in California that I couldn’t pass up, but she knew I was lying. She cried and said,
I
was
hoping
you’d be different.
I said,
I
was
hoping
so
too.
In the eight years the kids and I had been in California, I’d had three long-term relationships, but they all fizzled out. Sooner or later my girlfriend would tell me I just wasn’t
there
for her. She’d say she wanted to get closer but could feel me holding back. I didn’t talk about Lucy, but it wasn’t uncommon for a girlfriend to accuse me of being hung up on my dead wife. She’d say she needed something more from me. Like love. Commitment. I accepted the blame and didn’t fight back. Sometimes she’d suggest we go see a counselor, but I said I believed a relationship either worked or it didn’t, you couldn’t fix it by talking. Sooner or later she’d get frustrated and leave. I never asked her to come back. When she was gone I missed her the way I missed an old car, remembering the things I liked and forgetting the problems. I’d mope around for a month or two then start going on test drives.
My current girlfriend, Gwen, had been Elliot’s eighth grade math teacher. She flirted with me on parents’ night, but I waited till the school year was over before I asked her out. She was only twenty-nine, petite and sassy, and still believed in love.
I went in the house to call the pizza shop and check on my order for the graduation party. The man on the phone said the last batch had just gone in the oven; the delivery van would be there in twenty minutes. I stood by the open window in the kitchen. Out on the deck The Indolents segued into their theme song—a catchy rockabilly tune called “Unchained Malady.”
My girl’s depressed and anorexic,
I’m bulimic and dyslexic,
And we caught a little STD.
But we got shrinks and pills,
To cure our ills,
And we’re filming it all for MTV.
None of it was true, thank heaven. Ajit and Sara’s romance was famous for its melodrama, but they were great kids. He was a terrific soccer player and class valedictorian who would be going to Yale. Sara was yearbook editor and captain of the golf team. Seeing what other parents went through with their teenagers, I felt blessed. Sara and I were as close as a father and daughter could be. We bantered constantly, but it was all in fun. We liked to surf and golf and watch old movies together. We played fierce games of Scrabble and cribbage for penny a point. Most important, we talked. Sara confided in me and valued my advice—no topics off limits except Ajit and sex, which was fine with me. There was an unspoken trust between us. From the window I could see her laughing and dancing, the world at her feet. She was headed off to Stanford in the fall. I tried not to dwell on it, but I knew I’d miss her terribly when she left.
The Indolents finished their song and a cheer went up from the crowd.
Ajit bent toward the microphone. “Hey, all you high school grad-u-ates.” The cheer got louder. He savored the moment, then put up his hand. “All right, all right, the night is young. Let’s not get crazy.” There was a trace of Calcutta in his accent. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his dark, handsome face. “Now we’d like to slow it down a little. We have something new we’ve been working on. Something smoo-o-th and mellow.” He played a soft jazz riff. “But we need a real musician to come up here and help us out.”
I felt my heart catch, hoping.
Ajit looked to his left. Elliot walked across the deck slowly, oboe in hand, his eyes fixed on his feet. Ajit fluttered his handkerchief and bowed like a courtier. Whistles came from the crowd. Some of the girls called Elliot’s name, affectionate and teasing. The yard went quiet as Ajit checked the tuning on his guitar.
“This one’s by Elliot,” Ajit said. “It’s called, ‘Ask Me Later.’”
He played the same jazz riff, this time with more feeling. One by one the other members of the band joined in. The first notes from Elliot’s oboe were sweet and haunting, like a summons from an enchanted world.
Elliot was fifteen. He was tall and thin and shy, just finishing the ninth grade. Teachers said he was bright but unfocused. His schoolwork was sloppy and mediocre. Pressuring him didn’t do any good. He was never flip or defiant but had a quiet, stubborn streak. Sometimes it seemed as if he were completely self-contained. He had a few pals in school but preferred to be alone. Sara was his only real friend and confidante. Much as I loved him and knew he loved me, I felt like I was always reaching out for him and he was pulling away. He had no interest in sports. I stayed up half the night one time teaching myself one of his video games, but he didn’t want to play it with me. He enjoyed reading novels like
Dune
and
The
Lord
of
the
Rings
, but the oboe was his true calling.
When Elliot was in the fourth grade, a woodwind quartet gave a performance at his school. He came home and couldn’t stop talking about the oboe. He said it sounded spooky, like the desert at nighttime. I bought a used instrument and found a teacher to give him lessons. Within a year the teacher told me his potential was unlimited. The teacher said,
It
isn’t just the fact that he has perfect pitch and can memorize long, difficult pieces. His technique is so nuanced and mature. The oboe is like a fickle woman—you have to know how to read her moods. Otherwise, all you get is screeching and whining.
He tutored Elliot for three years, then recommended a woman who was a professional oboist to help him get to the next level. Elliot studied with her for only a few months, then stopped going. He refused to say why. I couldn’t get him to try a different teacher or go back to the first. He wouldn’t join any of the youth chamber societies in the area or play in the school band. But he kept practicing, often as much as four hours a day. He had a stack of milk crates filled with sheet music, hundreds of cassettes and CDs. I bought him a high-quality tape player to record his own work. He picked up a used flute at a music shop and started playing that too. Most of the time he practiced in his room with the door shut, but some nights he’d go out on the back deck, as if he were inspired by the moon. When I praised him, he’d just smile and shrug. He’d never write a piece and say,
Hey, Dad, listen to this.
It was almost as if the music was his way of keeping a diary, playing for himself alone. This song with The Indolents was the first time he had ever performed in public.
I eased out the side door of the house. I wanted to find some inconspicuous place in the yard where I could watch him play. As I started to walk around the side of the house, a car pulled into the driveway. It was Gwen with the cake, late as usual.
“Hey, darling,” she said, slamming her car door. “I had to—”
I tapped my lips with my fingertip. Gwen’s eyes lit up when she heard the sound of the oboe coming from the backyard. She stood on her tiptoes and gave me a kiss.
“This is
amazing
,” she whispered. “Did you know he was going to play?”
I grinned and shook my head. I took her hand and started to lead her to the backyard. Another car pulled into the driveway behind Gwen’s. I looked over my shoulder. It was a dark blue Crown Victoria—unmarked, unmistakable. Two plainclothes detectives were sitting in the front seat. The driver cut the engine while he and his partner remained in the car, talking. What I felt wasn’t fear so much as sadness. I had been expecting this day for thirteen years. I believed it was never a question of if but when.
Gwen squeezed my hand and said, “What?”
Long ago, I made myself a promise that when the authorities came to arrest me, I would hold my head high. Look them in the eye and acknowledge my real name, unbowed by what I had done. But when the detectives got out of the car, I was thinking, Please, not now. Not on a perfect day like this. As if there were a good time for the law to come and take me away.
One of the cops was a tall, caramel-skinned guy with a goatee. He was wearing a cream-colored linen suit, which probably cost a week’s salary. His partner was a bald white guy in baggy pants and a rumpled plaid sports coat.
“Evening, folks,” the tall detective said. “We’re looking for the owner, Adam Owens?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Adam.” My heart was trying to punch a hole in my chest.
The cop offered his hand. “I’m Detective Martinez from the sheriff’s office. This is my partner, Detective Holloway.” He nodded politely at Gwen. “Mrs. Owens.”
“No,” she said, raising one eyebrow, “but I’m working on it.”
Martinez frowned, annoyed at himself for his small mistake.
“Gwen Landry,” she said, grinning.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Martinez said, “but we got a complaint down at the station. Guess one of your neighbors feels the music’s too loud.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t think any of my neighbors lived close enough to be bothered by the band. Besides, the police wouldn’t send two detectives to check on a complaint about loud music.
Martinez cocked his ear. “Is that an oboe?”
I nodded. “My son Elliot.” The song coming from the backyard was slow and melancholy.
“Man, I love that sound.” He grinned. “You don’t have any cobras back there, do you?”
“Definitely a few vipers,” Gwen said.
The detective laughed. His partner leered at her and showed his yellow teeth. We stood there, listening. The song ended, and the kids in the backyard let out a big roar.
Martinez shook his head. “I don’t know how anybody could complain about jazz like that. I’d pay good money to hear your boy play.” He shrugged. “Just tell the band to turn down the volume a notch or two when they crank up the guitars again.”
There was an awkward silence. I realized the detectives had not come to arrest me. But it was like that feeling you get in the middle of a bad dream when you’re fleeing a wild animal or about to fall off a cliff and you begin to realize that the dream isn’t real. You know you’re safe—all you need to do is open your eyes—but the dream is so vivid something holds you back. You want to know what happens next.