The Year We Disappeared (28 page)

“Here, I just got this and it’s already too small,” Lauren said, handing me a bright blue and red bathing suit. “You want it?” I tried on the suit in her room and it fit me perfectly.

“I’m getting breasts,” Lauren said, standing next to me in the mirror. “I have to wear a bathing suit with a built-in bra now, see?” She pulled another bathing suit out of her drawer, a beautiful black and cobalt blue one. She turned the top inside out so that I could see the white shelf bra inside. “You’ll probably have to get one of these next year,” she told me, looking at my flat chest. I looked at myself in her full-length mirror and turned sideways. Then I turned the other way.

Nothing.

It would be great to start at my new school in the fall wearing a bra with something to put in it, but so far things didn’t look too promising. At least I would be going to a school where no one knew anything about us. That was almost better than having boobs anyhow.

WE headed back to the Cape once Polly was done with her boards, but our days at home were numbered. We would stay just long enough to pack up. The kids didn’t really grasp the situation—they knew that we were moving and had seen the Polaroids of the farm, but they didn’t really get it. Didn’t understand that we wouldn’t be at the beach all summer or living in a pretty resort town anymore. We would be out in the middle of nowhere, on a country road where neighbors were sometimes a mile apart. Where it would take them an hour on the bus to get to school, and another hour to get back home. Where the school year was dictated by the seasonal harvesting of tobacco crops and not by the calendar.

As a last good-bye, we decided one night to go out to the dunes—the miles of rolling sand protected by the National Seashore Park. The kids loved it out there and so did Polly and I.
You could take off your shoes and walk forever; all you’d see was sand and more sand and then, finally, the ocean. It was an amazing place.

I was packing as always, my .357 security blanket, and Polly also had her gun, but we didn’t bring anyone else. It was just us. She and I sat in the sand and watched the kids run around with a kite, the sun going down behind the dunes.

“I never thought we’d live anywhere but here,” Polly said sadly, looking out over the sand and, in the distance, at the big rollers coming in with the tide. Neither did I.

When I’d first applied to be a cop in Massachusetts, I could specify where I preferred to live, and Polly and I had agreed that we wanted to live on the Cape and Islands. After the application process, which included being interviewed by two cops, filling out various forms, and lots of fingerprints, I had to pass a strength and agility test. While I was still working at Hamilton Standard I was notified that the test was going to be held one weekend in Boston at some armory. So we packed up the boys and went to stay in Natick with Joe and Kate, who at that time had just one daughter, Lauren. Joe took me into the city and dropped me off at the designated place, where I had to fill out still more forms and be fingerprinted yet again. This was so no one else could come in and take the physical part of the test for me—something I guess a few guys had tried to get away with, and I would soon see why.

About fifty guys dressed in gym shorts, T-shirts, and sneakers
were all patiently standing around to take the test. There were a couple of guys from the Lowell and Lawrence area with Greek names who were built like Greek gods, and a huge guy from Roxbury who looked like he could lift the whole building, not just the weights they’d put out. They walked us through the first round—getting over a four- foot-high barrier without making body contact. A guy from Sandwich had three tries at it and kept getting his legs or ass or belly on it. Everyone else did fine. We did a standing broad jump, with a minimum distance to make. Sandwich guy failed again. Then it was the rope climb. Sandwich guy couldn’t make it, and he was out. If you failed three events, you were out of the running. After he left, we all agreed that the guy was a loser—all you had to do was listen to the explanation of how to do the event and anyone who was halfway fit could do it. I’d prepared for the test by running sprints and miles and lots of pull-ups in the pit at Hamilton Standard, using the stainless steel water lines running to the space simulator for chinning.

After the rope climb, we had to lift weights and run a quarter mile. My sprints came in handy for the run: I had the best time of the day. Running scared can do that for you. I was pushing for all I could at each task in case I failed any, which fortunately I didn’t.

Everyone made it to the last event—the fifty-yard swim. Twenty-five yards out; twenty-five yards back in. This was called the “easy” test—there was no time limit, no particular stroke, just show them you can do it, down the pool and back. But this one
was the third rail; fail it and you were automatically disqualified. Eight guys went in the pool at a time, and I was in the third group. First group did okay. But in the second group, the guy from Roxbury jumped and went straight to the bottom and stayed there. The lifeguards had to go in and haul him out. Turned out he’d never swum in his life, but he wanted to be a cop so badly he thought it was worth attempting. He was out, even though he’d passed everything else and put up more weight than the rest of us combined. I was in the next group and swam easily; it was over in a few minutes. Then more fingerprints and forms and we were on our way.

After a couple of months, a notice came in the mail about a job opening with the Chatham Police Force. We didn’t want to live down Cape, it seemed so far away then, so I ignored that one. Then I got a notice of an opening in Edgartown on Martha’s Vineyard. We’d never been to the Vineyard before and had heard it was really nice. We set out from Connecticut to Woods Hole one Saturday, only to discover that a ferry trip over and back for the four of us would be twenty-six dollars. But with no credit cards and less than twenty dollars between us, we thought maybe I should just head over alone and check it out; Polly could stay in the car with the boys and keep warm while I was gone. But it was February, and we’d heard on the radio that a blizzard was coming. Polly was pregnant, due in a few months, and with snow on the way, I didn’t want to take a chance.

The next month, there was a notice that Falmouth had a job
opening, so I went to interview with Captain Martin. “The pay is one hundred and twenty-five dollars a week, overtime in the summer. When can you start?” That was about all he said to me.

I explained that Polly was due to have a baby any day and I didn’t want to change my insurance until then. He handed me some police shirts and told me to call him when I was ready to start. Cylin was born May 1, and I went to work right after that, looking for housing while Polly stayed up in Connecticut with the boys and new baby. I found our little red house on Sandwich Road, the only one we could afford a down payment on, and we moved in that summer. Strangers in a strange land.

I couldn’t help but wonder what might have been if we’d had the money for the Martha’s Vineyard ferry that day, or if the weather had been different that weekend. Maybe we would have been living in Edgartown—maybe we would still be there. Somehow I felt that Falmouth was the place we were meant to be—what happened had happened; there was nothing we could do about it now. Looking out at the dunes, at our kids playing, it was hard to believe that we were meant to live in some tiny farming town in the middle of nowhere Tennessee, but that’s right where we were headed.

WHEN we got back to Falmouth from the cabin in Maine, the sight of our house was depressing. We would be here just long enough to pack up our things; then we would be on our way. The phone rang the next morning while we were helping Mom pack some boxes in the kitchen.

I heard Mom talking to someone; then she came into the room. “It’s for you,” she said, and I grabbed the phone.

“Hi!” It was Amelia. “My mom thought you might want to come over one last time before you guys leave. Want to? We can come and pick you up. And we’ll go in the sprinkler!”

I looked over at Mom, sweating in her shorts and tank top, an old bandanna tied over her hair. “Mom...,” I started to say.

“It’s okay,” Mom said, standing up and wiping her hands on a rag. “You can go over. Be home for dinner.”

An hour later, Amelia’s mom picked me up outside our gate.
Amelia and I were wearing almost the exact same outfits: shorts, sandals, and string halter tops. I was glad to see that Amelia hadn’t gotten any boobs while I was gone. “Did you bring your bathing suit?” she asked me. I nodded. I brought the new one that Lauren had given me. I felt a little bad going over to Amelia’s nice house while my mom and brothers were stuck at home packing boxes, but once we got there and starting running around in the sprinkler, I forgot.

“When you girls are done out there, I have some pictures to show you,” Amelia’s mom called outside. We came in, still dripping wet. “Let’s go put your things into the dryer,” her mom said, bringing us into the laundry room. As our suits dried, we stood in our towels while Amelia’s mom showed me the pictures.

“Remember that day?” she asked. I looked at the photo she was holding up—it was Amelia and me on the swings in the backyard, in our princess dresses. We looked beautiful and happy. There was another one of us with lip gloss on, posing in front of a mirror with princess crowns on our heads.

“You can have these, since you’re moving,” Amelia said.

“We’ll never forget you; you’ve been one of Amelia’s best friends,” her mom said.

“Thanks,” I said, holding the pictures. I was glad that I would have these to show the kids at my new school. The pictures made it look like I had a normal life, with friends and everything. Maybe I would tell people that the backyard in the picture was really my backyard and not Amelia’s.

“You know, Cylin,” Amelia’s mom said, “you can tell us where you’re moving; we would never tell anyone, would we, Amelia?”

I looked over at Amelia and saw her nod. I didn’t say anything for a minute. It was quiet in the laundry room; all I could hear was the sound of our bathing suits flopping around in the dryer. Then I looked right at Amelia’s mom. “We don’t know where we’re moving yet,” I lied.

“I thought you were packing up; that’s what your mom said . . .” Amelia’s mom looked skeptical.

“We’re going to stay with friends. They live really far away. Then we’ll move later,” I told her.

“Oh, I see.” Amelia’s mom nodded. I could tell from her face she believed me. “Well, when you do know—,” she started to say.

“I’ll write to Amelia right away!” I said. I gave them a big fake smile. I felt just like I had when we went to see Dad’s psychiatrist. I was lying, and knew I was lying, but I didn’t feel bad about it at all.

Both Amelia and her mom smiled back. They believed everything I was saying.

“Oh gosh, I better get home and help my mom,” I said, looking at the clock.

“Really, so soon?” Amelia’s mom looked sad. “You’re such a good girl to want to help your mom pack.”

I didn’t really want to help Mom; I just wanted to get out of there before she could ask me any more questions. They drove
me back to my house, and I hugged Amelia for a long time. “You’ll write to me as soon as you know where you’re going to live, right?” she asked me.

She looked so sad, I almost wished I could tell her the truth. “Sure, you know it,” I told her. I pushed the button on the gate and waited for someone to open it. Then I waved like crazy at Amelia as she drove away.

“You’re back early,” Mom said, looking up at me from the kitchen floor as I walked in. She was wrapping our plates and glasses in newspaper and sticking them in a box. “Do you want to help me or go pack your room?”

I looked at her hands, black with newsprint. “I’ll pack my room.”

“Good.” She stood up and handed me a box. “This should do. Just pack the stuff you really need; we don’t have room for everything.”

I looked at the box she handed me. “All my stuff is supposed to fit in here?” I asked her.

“No, just your toys—I already packed your clothes. You need to decide what you want to bring and what you don’t. You’ve outgrown most of those toys anyhow—and we just don’t have room in the truck.” She sat back down and started wrapping more plates.

I went into my room and started sorting through my toys. There was a big wagon full of stuffed animals at the foot of my
bed. I knew I hadn’t played with them in years, but the thought of leaving them behind was still hard. I picked up my Sally doll from the pile—a blond dolly with a red and white pinafore that I’d had since I was a baby. I smoothed back her hair, then put her in the box. Then I got the steak knife from under my mattress and put that in too. I opened my closet and saw that Mom had taken all the clothes out already. There were just a couple of empty hangers left. In the bottom of the closet were some old toys. A Fisher Price radio that hadn’t really worked since some batteries had leaked inside it. I pushed it off to the side. A Monopoly game. That went into the box. I found an old box of sort-of melted crayons and looked at it for a long time. Crayons weren’t that special; I could always get more in Tennessee. But what if I wanted to do some coloring after we moved in and it was a while before we could get to a store? I put the crayons aside and went through the rest of the stuff. Pretty soon I had a pile of things that I would leave behind, and the box was getting full. I sat on the floor of my closet thinking about the stuff I was leaving behind, and I picked up the box of crayons again. I noticed that it was starting to get dark outside, but I didn’t bother to get up and turn on the light, just watched the early-evening shadows creeping across the walls of my room.

Then I took out a red crayon and wrote very small at the back of my closet: “help me.” I wondered who would move into my house after I was gone, and how long it would take them to
find my note. Then I wrote it again, right under the first line: “help me.”