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Authors: Kelly Simmons

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BOOK: One More Day
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• • •

The mothers of the older children at the YMCA had noticed a man hanging around the previous summer, watching the kids burst through the doors after swim class. Sometimes he followed them the few blocks over to Starbucks afterward, eyeing the children's seal-slick hair, their tiny bottoms popping out of their bright, squeaking suits.

Ben was still a baby then, not quite two, so Carrie was always in the pool or locker room with him, but she still let him have some freedom, some space to run and explore. She didn't hover, no; sometimes she was making a shopping list or chatting on Facebook with her few college friends—the only time they seemed to communicate anymore. Maybe if she had looked up from her phone or her son, she would have fixed on that man more clearly. She would have been alert! Wouldn't she have? And been suspicious of someone who seemed to be watching the children and sometimes maybe the moms, yet who also looked like he may have been taking photos of the building, the paint job, almost like an inspector might, for a perfectly logical reason, on his phone.

It had been a particularly hot and wet summer, and each time Carrie and Ben had returned for a lesson, the shrubs and plants flanking the entrance had appeared to have doubled in size; tendrils had turned into tentacles, brushing against their legs, casting longer and wider shadows with every passing day. If Carrie had had to guess—and she had guessed wildly under the microscope of police questioning—she would have said that the man might have been a landscape architect, there to trim, to uproot and replant, to right nature's summer wrongs. Hadn't she had that very conversation with another mother afterward? That she'd assumed the same thing?

Oh, the mothers of the YMCA. The pool moms, the swim team moms. A little older, a little wiser than Carrie. They knew how to keep a child's hair from turning green. They always had ziplock bags for wet Speedos. She'd noticed their competency as much as they'd noticed her rookie mistakes—forgetting a towel, bringing a large shampoo bottle instead of a small one. They didn't know her at all, but they were nicer, so much nicer, than the mothers at preschool. Was it distance that allowed them to feel something? Was it the idea of Ben, not knowing him, that opened their hearts? Or was it just the lack of competition, since none of them had toddlers anymore?

Carrie knew what it was like to feel judged—she'd spent all of high school feeling that way. She didn't have the money, that wide, green safety net the other kids had, but she'd always felt she didn't have something else, some indiscernible heft, a knowledgeable weight left out of her DNA. Her grandmother had always said Carrie was an old soul. And it did seem that people her own age never understood her. In college, Chelsea and Tracie were always defending her to other people on their floor who said she looked “ironed” and was “too quiet” and “not any fun.”
You just have to get to know her
, they'd say.
She's quick-witted. She loves to talk, once you know her.

The moms at the Y never got to know Carrie, but they never blamed her either—they blamed themselves. They were so upset they hadn't written down that suspicious man's license plate number! Came up to her at the candlelight vigil on the grounds of the Y and told her so. Squeezed her hand with tears in their eyes as if they'd been buddies because they'd shared a bench at the locker room once, when Dolphins were leaving and Tadpoles were coming in. Some of them brought casseroles and flowers and balloons and stood in a semicircle around Carrie and John as if they'd been family or neighbors. Afterward, John's mother said she was so glad that Carrie had the support of so many friends.
Did you see all those candles, lighting up the night?
And Carrie hadn't corrected her. Sometimes people who don't know you still know exactly what you need. The same group of women attended the second candlelight ceremony when Ben had been gone a year.

Carrie had become more vigilant since then, more observant; maybe every swim mom had, owing to their guilt. No one could say whether the man's car was an old Honda or a Toyota or a Ford. If under the road dust, it was dark blue or green or black. If his long, almost girlish hair was brown or blond. If he went into Starbucks or merely sat outside, watching as they left their children in their cars, unlocked, while they dug in their purses to pay the meter.

As Ben grew and got heavier, Carrie moved him from the center to the seat behind her. Other boys unlatched themselves, got out of their seats. Not Ben. He was active, yes, but still cuddly, still obedient. Still loved to be carried. Easier, faster, for him to be near her own door. Except when there was a meter to be fed. The dark shadow of the parking attendant at the end of the block, the brass buckles of her uniform flashing in the sun, as if that was the person Carrie should be worried about. More money, surely, at the bottom of her purse. When the police asked her, over and over,
to think back to that moment
and whether there wasn't something she saw—a blur, a color, a hint of the man's hair or clothes—all she could conjure, contorting her face, begging her brain for more, was the dark leather cave of her purse. So big she could get lost in it. There was more at the edges of the frame, lost to time's edit. There was more she couldn't bear to tell them. But Carrie's mind froze in the darkness, the silty suede bottom, of that bag.

• • •

Carrie was more observant now. She stood outside her son's room, the door open six inches. Wide open was too sad. Closed tight, even sadder. So she left it slightly ajar always, like an invitation. John had finally learned not to touch anything, not to change anything else, lest it alter his wife irreparably.

No more babbling. Had she imagined it? No view of the crib through the opening. The
Where the Wild Things Are
poster on the wall. The pale-green rocking chair. The pastel wool alphabet rug that cost so much and never mattered to Ben, who never grew old enough to learn the ABCs, to spell, to put together sentences. Just handfuls of words, juxtaposed.
Light me
, he'd say when it got dark in his room.
Light me.

Those words could have become a touchstone for her and John, a catchphrase to illuminate their path back to each other. But when she held them out to John once, in the dark of their bedroom, he hadn't said them back to her and hadn't turned on the light. He had simply hugged her a little harder, almost grimly. And that wasn't enough. No, not nearly enough. She was more observant now, but John was less.

“Ben,” she whispered into the room from the safety of the hallway. Did she dare open the door wider?

No response. She felt silly, her cheeks flushed. Probably heard a child out back, on the walking path to the pond below her house. The sound carried sometimes, depending on the wind. She turned to go back downstairs, and then she heard it.

Squeaking. The sound of a small mattress when little feet bounce up and down.

“Ben!” she cried as she opened the door.

“Mama!”

She would never forget the sight of him, the width of his smile, the sparkle of his green eyes, as he stood in his crib. The same delight whether she had presents in her hands, or food, or nothing. A smile for a smile, always. The equation that children bring, that adults forget. She didn't need a snapshot to capture the way his golden hair stuck to his forehead on one side from being asleep. His cheeks were flushed because he was too hot in his clothes. She would never forget, because he looked precisely as she remembered him.

The same smile.

The same clothes.

The same pair of yellow socks.

Not one centimeter taller. Not one ounce heavier.

Fifteen months later.

I guess you could say I was there that day. There, with that beautiful little boy. Watching. Always watching.

I can't help it—I see children and I end up thinking about them, caring too much. Obsessed, some call it. But that seems unkind.

I still remember a long time ago at the supermarket, a tiny girl in a yellow dress, her fingers clinging to a red cart like she was going to climb it, sobbing, wailing really, as if her life were about to end. Her father stood nearby, picking lint off his green pants, ordering from the deli, ignoring her. I wouldn't ignore her. I thought about her every time I saw something yellow. How old was she now? Did her father still turn his back on her? Was she even his daughter? If I'd followed her, if I'd watched carefully, if I'd closed my eyes and let it all sink in, could I have saved her?

My mother named me Rain because I was born crying, with rain in my eyes, but now I dress up like a lady and tell everyone who comes in to call me Raina. I added the
A
to give my name hope, to make it always go up, singing at the end.

I was Raina when I saw that boy again from the window, where I stood between the parted curtain. Just me, alone, beneath the
h
and the
i
in the pink neon sign, blinking the word
hi
above my head. A coded signal to anyone who walked by, calling out that I was friendly, even when I looked, in my mysterious swirling skirt that didn't belong on me, like I was not.

• • •

Almost as soon as Ben had started to walk, Carrie had started signing him up for activities. Music classes, art classes. And then, as he got a little older, gymnastics, indoor soccer, private swimming lessons at the Y. Even though he had slept in a crib right up until the day he'd gone missing—even though he hadn't been particularly verbal or intellectually advanced—Carrie had recognized his good balance and motor skills, and in some ways, she'd treated him like an older child, given him a fuller schedule than some teenagers.

He was always the youngest in the class. But he could do anything the three-year-olds could do. He'd been an active baby and hadn't loved to sleep either in the beginning. FOMO, Carrie would say, laughing.
That kid has a big case of fear of missing out
. Everyone who met them—in the park, on an airplane going to Florida to see Carrie's mother—smiled and said the same thing: “Oh, you're in trouble.” How they would laugh over that, the travails she'd have with outgoing and active Ben in the future.

John's family had bought him every kind of ball that existed, and John had played with him nightly in their narrow backyard, laughing and remarking on his prowess, encouraging him. Long past his seven o'clock bedtime, when the sun was low in the sky, shadows so darkly orange it made them both look tan, they kept throwing and kicking and laughing until Carrie called them in a second or third time, insistent.

When Ben was sick and he was allowed to watch television or play games on their iPad, he would lose interest quickly. Sometimes they noticed him staring out the window, as if imagining himself out there, grass under his feet, the seam of a ball in his chubby palm.

He slept well at night, but not for very long. Seven hours. Maybe an hour nap during the day. John attributed his son's ability to sleep at all to those nights in the yard, and both Carrie and John had convinced themselves Ben needed to be engaged, that he liked being kept so physically busy.
He's not a cartoons and storybook kid
, John would say almost proudly when Ben turned away from their iPhones or squirmed when they read him a story.

Then Carrie and John would lie awake in their bed and think of all that was to come with their sweet wild boy: the broken windows, the broken bones, the stitches, the chipped teeth. They were all safe for now, but yes, everyone saw it: trouble up ahead.
We'd better move closer to the hospital
, Carrie would say with a laugh.
Put the orthopedist on speed dial now!

But part of that engagement, that scheduling, hadn't catered to Ben's nature but to Carrie's own boredom. She hadn't known at all how dull being home full-time could be. She'd actually looked forward to Ben's activities and outings more than she'd let on to anyone—even thinking through the details of her own outfits, choosing a fringed scarf or flowing sleeves appropriate to the swishing movements of the music class, or wavy tunics and bright flip-flops at the pool. The other moms, juggling multiple kids and commitments or coming from a job, would be decked out in business casual or black workout clothes, always heading to or from something they cared about more. But she'd had time. She'd had time to always look like she fit her circumstances, even when she didn't.

She wasn't used to boredom; she was so accustomed to working overtime, studying, volunteering. She'd felt a gnawing need for something more. As Ben grew older, she'd thought about adding a demanding hobby, like gardening or needlepoint. Maybe she needed a job. Or maybe she needed another child. That would fill up her days, but the thought also paralyzed her with worry. How could she ever love another child the way she loved Ben?

John had started talking about trying for another baby just the week before Ben was taken. Carrie spent that entire week, everywhere she went, imagining the same scenario with two children instead of one. Two hands she had to hold. Two sets of needs in the diaper bag. It had seemed manageable everywhere but at the Y.
If I had another child
, she'd thought,
I wouldn't be able to enjoy Ben's accomplishments. I'd be scrabbling in my bag for another sippy cup and not see the first time Ben bravely put his face in the water and blew bubbles.
She'd miss him using his kickboard, astonishing his instructor, getting the hang of it before anyone else. It had made her so sad, calibrating those measurements. Realizing she wasn't ready to have two children in her life, she still clung to the enjoyment of one. She was bored, but wasn't that better than unprepared and overwhelmed?

But six months after Ben was taken, when she had started to feel strong again, she had gone back to the Y every week, just as she had with Ben. She had all the time and attention in the world. That was all she had.

She didn't lock her car. What did she have to lose? The old gloves in the glove compartment? The pennies she always had in the tray when what she needed were quarters? The wrapper from her gum, balled up on the floor because she never washed and tidied her car, because Ben would just make it muddy again? She could wash it every day now if she liked. She thought she'd been bored then? She hadn't even known.

At first, she had told herself she was just going to remember her son, his movements, the way he splashed with his starfish hands. Then she had told herself she was just there for the camaraderie, for the swim moms who had been so nice. And there was undeniably something calming about the light on the water at first; it reminded her of the stained glass glow of church.

But that wasn't it. She would go to see if the man at the Y dared to show his face again. If he really had been looking for her and not Ben, as John had worried, then maybe, just maybe, she could draw him out. She would feel a twinge of guilt about all the outfits she'd taken care to assemble. Had she baited him by looking pretty? If she hadn't looked so nice, would the whole equation have come apart? Still, she dressed carefully each morning she went so as not to alter the balance.

The last time she'd gone, the Tuesday before Ben came back, she'd chosen pale-blue shorts, a navy-blue button-down over a white tank top, brown gladiator sandals. A beige down vest on top of it all. A mix of fall and summer, because of how steamy it was in the pool area. She brushed her hair, then rolled a hair tie onto her wrist to pull it into a bun when it got too humid.

The warmth of the indoor pool hit her the moment she opened the door, and she was glad she'd worn the shorts. She shrugged off her vest, and the receptionist waved her in and smiled—no more asking for ID. After fifteen months of her child on a milk carton, everyone in the state of Pennsylvania knew who she was. She couldn't steal a grape without being recognized, let alone stage a kidnapping, commit a murder.

She didn't go straight to the pool this time, didn't feel like it. She stood and listened to the muted sounds she could hear even in the entryway—of basketballs pounding and water splashing. The sounds of fun. She wandered the corridors outside the locker rooms, looked at the bulletin boards. A calendar with all the swim groups marked by giant cutout fish. Photos of the Dolphins having a party for someone's birthday, the unappetizing aqua hue of the sheet cake. Pictures of swimsuits lost and found, easier than everyone rooting through the giant, moldy bins, always wondering if theirs was inside.

There was a bank of glass at the end of the corridor where the property overlooked a small stream. A few picnic benches were nestled there, and Carrie watched as a woman unwrapped a sandwich for a small child who was crying and shaking his head. The woman looked up just then and met Carrie's eyes. Carrie smiled instinctively, but the mother's face was grim.
Don't make him eat it
, Carrie thought.
He needs a hug, not food.

Carrie put her hands up to the glass and looked around in all directions. A few trees marking the calm space, the street to the north, cars going by. Nothing else. She sighed. She didn't know why she kept insisting on coming back. If she did see him, what exactly would she do? Call Detectives Nolan and Forrester? Chase him? And what would she say if she finally came face-to-face with him, and his muted, reported,
alleged
features assembled themselves into an actual person's face?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone on the sidewalk. Dark hair, a dark polo shirt. He turned suddenly and rushed out of her eyeline. She ran back down the corridor, past reception, out the front door, letting it bang behind her, not holding it for the next person. She raced to the sidewalk, looked in both directions too fast, hurting her neck. She didn't see him anymore. Just then, a dark car pulled out of the far corner of the lot, turned onto Lancaster Avenue. A black car, a Honda, she thought. It looked like her husband's.

As she walked across the large parking lot to her car, she glanced nervously over her shoulder at every acorn that dropped, every car door that squeaked open or shut. It was getting colder. She felt a mantle of fog creeping toward her, weighing on her. Finally, she stopped and whirled around. Not a single person behind her. On the sidewalk where she'd stood just a moment before—no one. Nothing. Across the street, a line of storefronts built decades ago—too new to be considered charming, too old to be considered cool—blurred together with their innocuous earth tones. A flash of red in one of them, and Carrie squinted, naturally drawn in by the brightness. A little girl standing in front of a glass door. When she saw Carrie, she raised her hand and waved. A car honked and swerved on the street, and Carrie jumped back.

Her hands shook a little as she drove home. Surely John wasn't following her again? He'd promised after that last time, before Ben was born, when he'd nearly gotten into a fight with Julie's husband after Chelsea had hosted book club, that he wouldn't do it ever again. Still, he'd looked so strong, so mysteriously different, standing behind those bushes outside Chelsea's, watching the women disperse for the evening. That night, they'd had acrobatic sex, just like the old days in college, when his longing for her, his jealousy, seemed the most potent drug she could imagine. No one had ever cared for her like John. No one had ever watched over her like that. She'd been left alone her whole life, with only a dog and a key on a lanyard around her neck. How intoxicating it was to her to have an angel watching over her. But they both knew it was wrong, that it was too much, childish and overwhelming, crossing some kind of line other men, different men, didn't cross. The next morning, she told him he simply had to stop worrying about her. That was what he called it—not jealousy, not possessiveness—worrying. That was what they both allowed themselves to believe.

She pulled her phone out of her purse, dialed her husband.

“John, were you just at the Y?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. No lie, no hesitation. Had he known he was caught?

“Please tell me you suddenly decided to take swim lessons.”

He was silent, and she knew.

“John, you can't fol—”

“Carrie,” he said, his voice cracking in a way that made her feel unmoored, afloat. “I miss him. I miss him too.”

After a long moment, she swallowed and said okay. She said she knew that. Part of her was relieved she'd been right, that she'd known it was John. And part of her felt guilty, because a child had waved at her as if she were a lifeboat, and she hadn't waved back.

BOOK: One More Day
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