Untethered (23 page)

“That's what people on the website said,” Sarah said. “They also said that some states are cracking down on it. On rehoming— that's what it's called when you give an adopted child away. They said some people have been charged for it—”

“Wait. I thought you said it was perfectly legal. Back at the
house. No different than Lindy giving me permission to keep Allie for the rest of high school. That's what you said.”

“It is,” Sarah said. “Well, there's not a law against it, I mean. Not in most states. But it's been getting a lot of attention lately, and people on the website said there are prosecutors who're going after people for it. Even if there's no rehoming law, they can still get you for child neglect and abandonment. You can get sent to jail for that, and then you'd definitely lose your other children. So we couldn't risk calling DHS.

“And that's another reason we decided not to ask our pastor for help. We weren't sure if he'd be required to report us, if he found out we were worried about Stevie's safety. People on the websites said the number one thing was not to tell anyone. Pastors or lawyers or therapists or anyone. You never know who will tell.”

“So, you took their word for all of this?” Char asked. “People you've never even met in person and have only talked to online—”

“Our son was the reason we had to do something about Morgan! We weren't going to ask for help if it meant we might lose him!”

Sarah took a breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “We messed this up. I admit it. We got taken by these people, and Morgan's the one who suffered, and I will never forgive myself for that. We should have been so much smarter about it.

“We were so desperate to get her away from Stevie as fast as possible, so nothing else would happen to him. We rushed things. We should have taken our time. We should have gone down to check them out first. I should have gone. If I had, I would have realized they weren't the right people for Morgan. We should have kept looking until we found the perfect situation for her. I wish I could change a lot of things.

“But I don't regret not calling DHS, or asking our pastor for help, or Morgan's therapist or our family doctor or our friends or anyone else you're thinking of asking me about. We should have done a better job of finding a new family. But involving other people might have led to us losing our son. So, if I had to do it over again, that's the one part I wouldn't change.”

I
t was a little after eight thirty at night, and Char and Sarah were eastbound on I-96, east of Brighton. Soon they would take US-23 south, then connect to I-75 around Toledo, a good three hours from Mount Pleasant. Allie and Morgan had begun their trip from Toledo. That gave them at least a three-hour head start, assuming they were in Toledo the last time Char spoke to Allie.

There was no guarantee that assumption was correct, though. Char had dropped Allie at school at seven thirty that morning. If Allie had gone right home, she could have pulled away by eight and reached Morgan before noon. They could be eight hours south of Toledo by now, while Char was still two hours northwest of it. Even if Allie found a hotel immediately where the clerk believed she was eighteen, or didn't care, it could be almost morning before Char and Sarah caught up with them.

Char had tried reaching Allie earlier, when she was pulling out of their neighborhood. She tried again when she left Mount Pleasant on US-127 South. No answer. Outside Lansing, she had stopped
at a rest area and sent a text:
Could you pull over so we can text? Sarah Crew told me everything. I know now that Morgan's telling the truth.

Allie:
ok—pulled over

Char:
Stop driving south. Please. Stay where you are. Let me come get you. We'll figure something out.

Allie:
no. not unless you can promise morgan won't have to go back to those horrible people—in oh or mi. or to foster care. and you can't promise me that

Char:
I need time to work all those things out. It's late—we can't do anything about any of it now. Let me bring you home, where at least you'll both be safe. I'm sure Sarah will let me keep Morgan for a few days while I make some calls.

Allie:
what calls?

Char:
I don't know.

Allie:
i'm not coming back until you do know

Allie:
i mean it. don't ask again, or i'll stop answering

Char:
A, please. This isn't like you.

Allie:
what's not like me?

Talking back to me like this
, Char wanted to type.
Acting so impulsively. Taking a car without permission, driving without a license, racing off into the night with someone else's child.

But then, if Allie hadn't done any of those things, would that be better? Would Char be happier with her, prouder of her, if the teenager had ignored Morgan's texts from Ohio? Told the little girl,
Sorry, I can't help you. I can't skip school. I can't take the car without asking. Can't drive without a license.

It would have been best if Allie had come to Char with Morgan's
texts, of course. But then again, if she had, what would Char have done? Likely, she'd have asked the Crews about it, bought their lies about Sarah's relatives, and told Allie she should stop listening to Morgan's tall tales. Which is precisely what Char had done, at first.

Sure, Allie's measures were extreme. And illegal. But the girl had done something.

Char typed another text to Allie:
Could you do one thing for me?

Allie:
depends

Char:
It's getting dark. You've been driving a long time. Would you stop for the night soon?

Allie:
yes

Char:
Would you text me when you've checked in? So I know you're off the roads, and safe? And that you actually found a place that would rent you a room?

Allie:
ok

Half an hour later, Char's phone dinged with another text:
checked in

Char instructed Sarah to text back while Char drove:
Did you find a chain, like I asked? Near the highway? Upper floor? Did you lock both doors?

Allie:
yes to all—desk attendant too busy watching ball game to check id or care how old i am

Char thought about having Sarah ask for the name of the hotel. Maybe she could catch up to them while they slept. But Allie would figure it out in a second, and Char didn't want to do anything to make the teenager stop answering her texts. So she asked Sarah to text
Good girl.

There might have been a way she could have gotten Allie to tell her what hotel they were staying at, or even what town they were in,
without making the girl suspicious, but Char was finding it difficult to think straight. She blamed the passenger seated to her right. It was beyond distracting, having Sarah in the car. The woman had slumped so far down in her seat that Char wondered if she was going to slip out from under the belt and onto the floor. A few times, Sarah had, with obvious effort, made herself sit up straight. But she had run out of energy to maintain her posture and, after a few minutes, slid down again.

It got worse when Sarah finally reached Dave on the phone and let him know she was with Char, and they were going after the girls, and he would need to stay home with Stevie. He was angry that they had left town without discussing it with him, as Char had promised to do. And he was livid that Sarah had let Char in on their family secret. Char could hear him yelling through the phone.

Sarah hung up the phone and rested her head against the passenger-side window, closing her eyes. “He's not happy with me,” she said. “And not just because of this.” Without opening her eyes, she waved a hand in front of her, indicating the car and the highway ahead of them. “But that's good. I'm glad he's not happy with me. I'm not happy with me, either.”

She said nothing more, and Char, not knowing how to respond, said nothing. After a few minutes, Char heard sniffing beside her and turned to see tears running down Sarah's cheeks. Sarah made no effort to wipe them away.

Char cleared her throat, unsure what to say. “Are you okay?” seemed so inadequate.

Sarah opened her eyes and lifted her head from the window. “Dave still thinks we did the right thing,” she said. “He's forgiven himself, and he believes God has forgiven him. Forgiven us both.
We did the best we could, in his opinion, with a child who wasn't truly ours. A child someone else messed up.

“The odds were against us from the start, given all she had been through. We did everything we could for her. There was nothing more we could do without putting our son in danger. We had to make a choice. That's what he keeps telling me. We had to choose, and we chose our son, and it was the right thing to do.

“But Morgan was my daughter.” Sarah's voice faded and Char had to lean sideways to hear. “She still is my daughter. She always will be. The second Dave pulled out of the driveway with her that day, I felt like a part of me had been torn off. The feeling's never gone away. It's like having a phantom limb. I'm constantly aware of her absence.

“It might sound . . . made up. But I can't move like I used to since that day. I'm slower, clumsier. I drop things. I lose my balance. It's like I've lost control over my own body. And I don't care if it comes back.” She waved a dismissive hand at her torso and legs.

“I'm not the mother I used to be to Stevie. Already. It's only been two weeks and I can already see I'm failing him. I can't bring myself to change back to how I was, though. I can't allow myself to feel joy in spending time with him. I feel guilty for smiling, for laughing. Every time he hugs me or kisses me, I feel physical pain.” She put a hand to her chest as though it hurt to even think about it.

“I can't bear receiving affection from my husband, either. And I can't allow myself to give any to him. We haven't touched since the day he drove Morgan away. He's losing patience with me. It's one of the reasons he was yelling. . . .” She indicated her phone. “We made our choice so Stevie's life would be better, he keeps telling me. So our family would be better.

“He says I'm making it worse. And he's right. I am. At first, he was so sympathetic. So sweet. He put a lot of time into trying to cheer me up. He realized I was having a tougher time than he was, living with what we had done. He was desperate, for my sake, to help me reach the same level of peace about it that he had found.

“Whenever I'd break down, he'd try to hug me, and when he saw I couldn't allow it, he'd pray for me. Right in front of me, so I could hear.” She pointed to her feet as though Dave were kneeling there. “He'd pray for God to help me, to ease my heart.”

She retracted the hand that had been pointing, placed it in her lap, and turned once more to the window. “Now when I cry in bed at night, he sighs, and rolls over and goes to sleep.” She sniffed and leaned forward to retrieve a tissue from her purse. She blew her nose and returned the tissue to her purse, making no effort to stop her tears.

“I know he wishes he could leave me. But he could never allow himself to do that, after I chose him over our daughter. We'd be happier apart, both of us. For me, being with him is a constant reminder of what we did. For him, being with me is a . . .” She paused and looked down the length of her body as though the missing word might be hidden there. “A misery,” she finally said.

“Part of me wants him to go ahead, move out. The thing is, though,” she whispered, and Char leaned even closer, “a bigger part of me wants him to stay. For things to never, ever get better. Between him and me, or me and Stevie. It's my penance. Living unhappily for the rest of my life. With a son I can't be a proper mother to anymore. With a man I don't love anymore. A man who no longer loves me.”

Sarah hung her head and wept. She sniffed a few times, and Char saw her move forward for the tissue, but she didn't get far before she sighed and gave up, lacking the energy to reach her purse.

Char kept driving, and said nothing. Not out of spite, to make Sarah suffer in silence, but because what Sarah had confessed was so private, so raw, that it seemed more respectful to say and do nothing than to offer a response that could never come close to healing that level of pain.

•   •   •

S
arah reached forward, finally, and touched her hand to the dashboard. “They were mean to her,” she whispered. “My poor, poor child.” Gently, she moved her palm in an arcing motion across the plastic, as though it were the pudgy, freckled cheek of her daughter.

Suddenly, she snatched her hand off the dash and raised it to her mouth. “Pull over,” she whispered. “Please!”

Char did, and before they had come to a complete stop, Sarah's door was open and she was out of the car, stumbling off the shoulder and into the ditch. She fell to her knees, leaned forward, and threw up. Char stabbed the hazard button and jumped out. Kneeling beside Sarah, she lifted the woman's dirty ponytail away from her face. Sarah had nothing left in her stomach, but she continued to retch, her body convulsing over and over until finally she lay on her side, too weak to hold herself up.

She curled into a tight ball and covered her face with her hands. “What have I done?” she whispered. “What have I done?”

•   •   •

C
har pulled into the next rest area, where she led Sarah into the bathroom and helped her clean up. When they were finished washing the trail of vomit off her chin, and had rinsed all traces of it out of the ends of her hair, Char stepped back to take a look. It
would have been better to take the woman to a truck stop and put her under a shower. She looked like someone Char had picked up on the side of the highway.

They drove in silence. Char was afraid to speak. Anything too forgiving would feel like a betrayal to Morgan, and anything too damning would be piling on. Surely there wasn't an insult Char could come up with that Sarah hadn't already used on herself.

“I have wondered about her,” Sarah said quietly, “worried about her, every single minute of these past two weeks. If she was getting enough to eat. If she was having baths regularly, brushing her teeth. If they were making sure her hair's clean. If she was frightened . . .” She sniffed. “All the things you worry about with your kids, you know?” She turned to Char as though waiting for an answer.

Of course I know—I'm the same when Allie goes away.
Is that what she expected Char to say? As though they were any two moms on any playground in America, talking about their children? As though Morgan had merely been at sleep-away camp for the past two weeks?

When Char didn't respond, Sarah turned away and dropped her chin to her chest. She raised her hands a few inches above her legs and fanned them away from each other.
Enough
, she seemed to be telling herself.
You don't get to talk about her as though she's yours
.

That's right
, Char wanted to tell her.
You don't get to share these worries with me. You don't get to wonder out loud to me about how she is. You don't get to look at me with that wretched expression and wait for me to tell you that I get it, that I know what you're going through. As though there's this kinship, this sisterhood, this understanding between mothers, and you're still part of it.