I called anyway, out of habit.
Dan? That’s me.
Unanswered.
The kitchen refrigerator was completely full.
So I headed to the garage to put the vegetables on her workbench, because it was cool down there.
I called anyway.
The garage smelled of motor oil.
I approached the workbench, my shoulder brushing against the life jacket hanging near the door. It was hanging from the hook, that awful orange thing that never came down. I was about to look away, as I always did, but something fell to the floor.
I placed the basket on the workbench.
It was a package wrapped in an old blue cloth.
My shoulder brushed against the life jacket.
My hands were trembling even before I touched it.
I sat down at the workbench and slowly unpacked the contents.
Inside there was a stack of postcards held together with a rubber band, a small black telephone I had never seen before, and a photograph.
The photo took my breath away!
Inside there was a stack of postcards.
It was Maya. She was older, maybe 14 or 15. She was standing in front of a small yellow house I didn’t recognize, with one hand resting on the head of a large, brown dog.
My niece was smiling!
As I flipped through the postcards with numb fingers, I noticed that the writing on the older ones was rounded and childish.
The most recent ones were written in cursive and seemed more mature. They were all signed with a small red heart.
My niece was smiling!
I read the previous one twice.
“Please tell Grandma right away. I’m ready.”
I fell to my knees on the garage floor and screamed!
Seven years! Seven years of candles on her birthday cake. Seven years of a lie I swallowed without batting an eye.
So I called 911.
I fell to my knees.
First came the patrol car, followed by Daniel’s SUV.
He must have received a call from someone at the police station, because he was already very pale even before getting out of the car.
My son saw the police officer at his front door. Then he saw me standing in front of the open garage door, holding the photo.
Her knees buckled against the truck door.
The police car arrived first.
“Mother…”
“No.” My voice didn’t sound like my own. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that now!”
“I can explain,” Daniel said.
“Can you explain to me how a dead child sends postcards, Daniel?”
My son was already crying before I finished my sentence. A 28-year-old man, in tears, with his hands covering his face, stood in the doorway of the house, while a police officer stood a meter away, holding a notebook.
“I can explain.”
“She’s alive,” Daniel stammered. “Mom, she’s alive. I swear to God, she’s alive and she’s safe.”
I could no longer feel my legs.
“Where?”
“From Colette. Dad’s sister. The one nobody talked about.”
“Colette?”
The name seemed strange to me. I hadn’t heard it in 15 years.
“What nobody was talking about.”
Maya had asked me questions about her father’s family, to find out if anyone was still alive. I’d always told her there was no one worth knowing. She must have asked about Daniel as soon as I turned my back.
Colette called me several times, even that Saturday. She told me Maya had been texting her for months and was planning to move in with her. I went down to the river to try and talk Maya out of it—Mom, I swear! I thought I had until the end of summer. But she jumped out of the kayak at the bend in the river and ran away! Later I found out Colette was waiting for her on the access road.
I always told him that there was nobody there.
“And you told me he drowned.”
“I panicked.” My son was trembling just like that afternoon, his life jacket soaked through. I finally realized he’d never stopped trembling. “I never had time to talk to her. And I blamed myself, so I couldn’t tell you she’d decided to leave. I thought undeniable pain would be easier to bear.”
“Slow down.” I laughed, and my laugh sounded like a sob. “Slow down, Daniel?!”
“I panicked.”
“Mom, I did the best I could! I sent her money every month. We kept in touch with postcards. I made her promise I’d be safe. I hated myself every single day!”
The policeman approached me kindly and asked if I needed to sit down.
I ignored him. I fixed my gaze on my son and asked him the only question I still had in mind.
“Where is Daniel? Where did he go?”
“Mom, I did the best I could!”
You will find the rest on the next page.
