18
I read once that we are all born with instincts to protect ourselves and our loved ones, and then society spends every day drumming those instincts out of us until we’re too cowed by good manners to save our own lives.
The children of my generation were taught to respect our elders, not to talk back, not to make a scene in public. We were taught to be polite, to answer when asked a question, to be helpful to anyone who needed us.
Up until the time Leslie was taken, I don’t know if I could have brought myself to scream if I had felt threatened by a stranger. I would have been much more apt to talk myself out of my fear. I could almost hear my mother’s voice in my ear, chastening me for overreacting. What would people think? I would embarrass the other person and myself for no good reason.
Women of my mother’s generation especially were raised to minimize their feelings. They were taught by society that as women they were overemotional, prone to hysteria, and flighty to the point of ridiculousness.
As plain as if he was here in the room with me, I can hear my father speaking to my mother: Don’t be silly. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re overreacting. You shouldn’t feel this way. You shouldn’t think that way.
The day Leslie went missing, I knew as soon as I walked in the house that something was wrong. Not just amiss, but wrong, badly wrong. There was no reason for me to feel that way. I told myself I was just on edge because of the tension with Leslie.
I had escaped the house that afternoon to go to a job site. Judith Ivory was redecorating her beach house. To spend a few hours trying to argue Judith away from her own bad taste had seemed far preferable to staying home and dealing with my oldest daughter’s bad humor.
I knew Leslie well. I knew she would spend the day pouting in her room, coming out to inflict her sour mood on the rest of us at lunchtime and snack time. By dinnertime she would start to soften. By bedtime she would be contrite—if not the first day of being grounded, certainly by the end of the second. Then she would begin her clever, insidious campaign to wiggle her way back into the good graces of her father and me.
It wouldn’t go so easily this time, I knew. Leslie was making a stand for her independence, and Lance was making a stand for his absolute authority. A clash of the Titans. Life in the Lawton house was going to be a prickly affair for a few days.
I felt the worst for Leah, my sweet sensitive one. My peacekeeper. She had done nothing wrong, but was as much of a prisoner as her guilty sister. We would not be going out as a family again any time soon. And Leah would restrict herself from going out with her friends in an attempt not to rub Leslie’s nose in the consequences of her own wrongdoing—a courtesy Leslie did not deserve and would probably not have returned if the situation was reversed.
I felt the worst for Leah, and yet I had taken the chance to flee the hostilities, leaving her to deal with her sister alone. I felt some guilt for that, but I also knew the tension would be much less without me there, and that Leslie would soften to Leah long before she softened toward Lance or me.
I expected them to both be in the family room when I got home, watching a movie or playing video games, or out by the pool sunning themselves and reading fashion magazines. Life in the Lawton Correctional Facility was pretty cushy.
But when I walked into the kitchen through the laundry room door, laden down with fabric samples and wallpaper books, I stopped dead. The house was silent, and a sensation of dread went down my back like a cold, bony finger.
I discounted it, as I had been trained to do. I didn’t even call out to the girls to reassure myself. I went into my workroom off the kitchen and put the sample books on the table. I would come back after dinner and write up my notes regarding the Ivorys’ beach house. But even as I forced myself to do something normal, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I felt tense to the point that I jumped when Leah came to the workroom door.
“Hi, honey,” I said, trying for my usual mom smile. “How was your day with Teenzilla?”
Leah’s eyes filled with tears. “Leslie went to the softball game.”
“She what?” I said, anger overriding whatever else it was that I was feeling.
Leslie might have been headstrong, but she had always been responsible. I would never have gone out that day if I had for one minute thought she would disregard her sentence and leave her sister home alone.
“She went to the softball game,” Leah said. The story all came out in an unpunctuated rush. “She said she would be back before you or Daddy but she’s been gone forever and Valerie Finley called for her and I told her Leslie went to the game and she said she saw her at the game but that the game has been over for hours and Leslie was supposed to call her when she got home.”
She dissolved into tears then and fell into my arms, apologizing. Whether she was apologizing to me or to her sister wasn’t clear, but I wrapped my arms around her, told her not to cry.
Don’t think this way. Don’t feel that way . . .
Even as I told her to deny her feelings, my own eyes filled with tears, and I knew in my heart that we were all about to fall down a rabbit hole into an alternate universe, and nothing would ever be the same again.
I spent the next two hours swinging wildly between anger and worry as I called the homes of Leslie’s friends. She was probably still out with one or more of them. It was Saturday. They had probably gone to the mall or to a movie and lost track of time. Or maybe she hadn’t lost track of time at all, and she was just pushing her defiance even further out on a limb.
I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her—something I had never done in her entire life.
I kept looking at the clock, willing Lance to come home. He had gone off before noon for a stick- and-ball game and a few beers with some of his polo buddies. He had said he would be home to grill steaks by six. It was six forty before he walked in the door.
We didn’t have dinner that night. Lance went out looking for our daughter. Leah and I stayed home and waited for Leslie to walk in the door. I let Leah heat a microwave dinner for herself. She made one for me as well, but I couldn’t eat. I don’t remember eating anything again until after I collapsed at a press conference two days later.
The following Monday afternoon a mail carrier had spotted Leslie’s bicycle discarded over an embankment on a country road.
The nightmare had begun.
Lauren saved her work and pushed back from the desk, feeling drained and wondering at the wisdom of tackling this project. She had thought it would be somehow healing to put all of the emotion down on paper, that she would somehow be able to let some of it go. But the reliving of it all . . .
She wondered what Anne Leone would have to say about it. Most therapists she had ever known or heard of from friends wanted their patients to spill their guts, lay it all out, dissect and examine and reexamine, regurgitate, and on and on.
She wondered if Anne had done that in the aftermath of her narrow escape from death at the hands of a
