Its a Long Way Back

A family faces recovery after a child's abduction and rescue.

It's a Long Way Back

Saturday, August 28

I stole a glance at my artistic little seven year old as she sketched plump, grinning penguins on the concrete with blue and orange chalk, bent over her masterpiece like a tiny Michelangelo. Kat’s shoulder-length auburn hair shimmered in the sun, still wet from a quick dash through the sprinkler. She wore her favorite bathing suit, the green one-piece with pink and blue flowers. The strap had slid off her shoulder exposing a deep tan line that spoke of a long, playful summer. She must have surprised herself because she giggled unexpectedly and looked up to me with her shining brown eyes.

“Daddy, look. I turned the sidewalk crack into iceberg houses for the peng’ins.”

“Wow, looks terrific, honey. I’m going around back for a minute, Kat. Remember to stay out of the street.” My knees moaned as I rose from the flower bed and began pushing the shaky wheelbarrow around the corner of the house. As I made the turn, I saw a grimy, olive colored pick-up truck make a right turn from Elmhurst onto our street and creep towards us from a block away. Its side mirror was turned inward at a tortured angle and its rusted rear fender bounced and squeaked against the uneven pavement. I paused for a moment as a fleeting thought danced into my consciousness. It raced away just as quickly though, before I could catch its meaning. I resumed my trek into the back yard, absorbed once again in my landscaping plans.

Kat’s shattering scream sliced the humid air, boomeranged around the rough stone walls of my home and stabbed me in the small of my back.

For an instant I could hear my daughter’s terrified voice and then the metallic declaration of the truck’s slamming door muffled her cries, trapping her in the monster’s chamber and trapping me in a world where rational thought disappeared and screaming confusion rushed in to fill the empty space. It paralyzed me. A tiny bead of sweat slinked its way slowly down my cheek and tickled the corner of my mouth as it dropped, coming to rest on the back of my hand. That one, piercing wetness stung like a wasp as it hit my skin and yanked me back to reality and into action.

I vaulted the earthen retaining wall, sprinted across my lawn and clambered through the wretched, stinking weeds of the vacant next door lot. The birds had halted their song and the world’s silence was broken by the inner shouts of air rushing in and out of my chest, the low, rumbling throttle of the truck picking up speed, and the faint whimpers and soft pounding of my daughter’s tiny fist on the unyielding glass of her prison.

As I ran, wiry vines hidden in the tall grass grabbed at my ankles and laughed at how easily they tangled my feet and hindered my chase. The searing arms of the sun wrapped around my throat, choking my breath and burning my lungs from the inside out. I stumbled and fell to one knee as if in a defeated prayer. How could I not have seen it coming, I thought as the truck, now three blocks away, turned left and vanished behind a large, rundown apartment building.

**********

Sunday, October 10

Six weeks have passed since Kat was abducted; stolen away from us by the tormented soul in the olive pick-up truck. She was missing for thirty-two hours, twenty-six minutes, and fifteen seconds. Deep purple bruises on her legs and arms, tell tale signs of the harm she endured, are all but gone. The heroic efforts of the young gardener who spotted the truck and chased it down, sacrificing his own safety for a little girl he didn’t know have disappeared from the news. But what really happened to Kat in those hellish hours is still a mystery. The man sits in a jail cell contemplating his fate and he isn’t talking. Kat hasn’t told us either. In fact, Kat hasn’t spoken a single word since that horrific day.

Off the front porch, a short distance from where I sat, she was swinging on the old tire that hangs from the stout, gnarled branch of the ancient sycamore that rules the front yard. The sun pitched its brilliant rays against the red and gold leaves of the maples and the cool crisp westerly breeze unleashed the smell of the freshly mown lawn. Heightened chatter from the warblers and swallows resting from their southward journey added to the blissful landscape. A small squirrel across the road had caught Kat’s attention and she was watching intently as it hunted for its winter stash. The purposeless arc of her swing and the soundless space that encircled her, however, exposed a truer picture and unmasked the hypocrisy of God’s beautiful day. There was a scar on the sycamore that betrayed a wound from many years ago, healed but not forgotten. As I sat in the old wicker chair on the porch that I love, my novel resting open on my lap, I wondered just how large my family’s wound was and how deep and lasting our scar would be.

A noisy disturbance from inside the house shook me from my unhappy reflection. The shouting became louder and my wife assaulted the screen door in a desperate effort to get it open.

“Where’s Kat!” she shouted. “Danny – I can’t find Kat anywhere!” Jules’ voice was high pitched, betraying her panic. I stood up and reached out to her, embracing her, trying to calm her down.

“She’s right here, Jules,” I said. I made my voice steady and quiet, trying to hide a bitter pang of frustration from her outburst. “She’s just over there swinging. I’m watching her.”

“She was in the dining room with me,” Jules said. Her voice was still agitated and she spoke in a rush. “I left her there to get the dishes and told her not to leave. Danny I can’t stand it. When I came back and didn’t see her, I thought I would die.”

“I understand, Jules,” I replied. “This is going to take time, my love. Kat needs time. You need time. All of us do.” I looked closely at my wife. At fifty she was still beautiful. But she had aged in these last few weeks. The small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes that once spoke of laughter and sweetness, accenting her beauty, now appeared more pronounced, more sorrowful. Her radiant smile and bright, intelligent eyes had dimmed. And, although she tried to hide it, those eyes betrayed a small but distinct hint of disappointment in the man now holding her in his arms.

“My parents will be here soon,” she said, gazing out towards Kat. Her voice was resigned and had fallen back to a normal pitch. “I need to finish setting the table. Please keep her in your sight, Danny,” she said and walked back into the house.

The advancing afternoon sun had moved the sycamore’s looming shadow closer to the tire so that Kat now plunged back and forth between light and dark as she swung. It seemed that with each forward thrust she was reaching for the bright, sunlit innocence she once knew only to be dragged back into a new and uninvited reality.

“Kat. It's time to come in now, sweetie,” I called. "You can watch TV if you like.” I watched as she disentangled herself from the tire swing, one leg at a time with the comedic awkwardness that only young children can pull off gracefully. She passed me without noticing my presence. Her pink corduroy pants were smudged at the knee from the dismount. I started to tell her but let it go as she silently walked through the open screen door.

Inside the house, I busied myself tidying the living room. Jules’ sister Ellen was in the kitchen with Mandy, our oldest daughter. Ellen was cutting tomatoes and Mandy was tearing lettuce and washing it in the sink. Tonight was actually Ellen’s idea.

“We need a family dinner," she'd said. "Sure, we’ve been ‘checking in’ to see if you’re all ok but I’m guessing you’re getting sick of all the random ‘checking in.’ It's time to move on and I think a good, old-fashioned family dinner is a damn good place to start. It will be good for Kat,” she had said as if to punctuate the point. I agreed with her at the time but now wondered if it might be too soon.

Ellen was like the glue that held us together during those critical hours just after Kat was taken. She was forty-two, single, and one of those people who were blessed with supreme confidence and perfect timing. It was as if some higher power constantly whispered in her ear telling her where to be and what to say. Ellen probably had insecurities, regrets, and fears like the rest of us stashed away somewhere in her closet but I had never seen them. When the world seemed to be crumbling around us Ellen was there, directing us and keeping us moving.

Sitting on the floor, I arranged the disheveled mountain of picture books and returned the Lego’s to their overturned box. I gently shoved the two-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle depicting two brightly colored parrots under the couch. Mandy and Jules had been working on it for two weeks and it was nearly halfway done. Three days ago, Kat had sat down and tried to place a few pieces. It only kept her interest for five minutes but we took it as a breakthrough.

Mandy’s nine year old voice floated in from the kitchen.

“Why doesn’t Kat talk anymore?” she asked.

“Mandy, Kat will talk again when she’s ready,” Ellen replied.

“Daddy says the man hurt Kat,” she said matter-of-factly. “Aunt Ellen, do you think he hurt her in the throat somehow? Is that why she can’t talk anymore?”

“No Mandy. I don’t think that’s what happened. I think Kat just got scared. So, she needs to be quiet for a while, until she’s ready. Do you understand that?”

“I guess so,” she said. After a pause she continued, “But I want her to talk. We used to play a lot and now she doesn’t want to anymore. She seems ok on the outside. But Daddy says she’s hurt on the inside. It’s been a long time though, Aunt Ellen. Maybe it won’t get better.”

I didn't hear Ellen's reply because the doorbell rang and I made my way to answer it. It was Frank and Donna, Frank holding the glass dish containing Donna’s fudge brownies. I let them in, gave Donna a hug and Frank a customary hand shake, and then helped them with their jackets.

“Hi Danny. How are you? How’s Kat?"

“I'm fine Donna, thanks for asking. Kat's about the same. She helped Jules and Mandy with a puzzle the other day. We thought that was a good sign.”

“Kat talking yet?” Frank never was much for words and when he did speak it was typically in these short, staccato sentences.

“No,” I replied. “We’ve yet to hear a word. But the doctor did say it would take time.”

“What was that disease you said she’s got?” he asked.

“It’s not a disease, Frank. It's a condition called selective mutism. It can happen for a number of reasons, a major trauma being one of them. Dr. Sanders said that we need to let some time go by before we get worried or do anything special,” I said. Frank waved dismissively.

“They got a psycho-babble word for everything these days.” .

“Well, call it what you want,” I replied. “But we’re all after the same thing here. And the important thing is that we aren’t supposed to force her. We may do therapy a little later if we need to. For now, we let Kat recover at her own pace.” Frank looked skeptical but nodded his agreement.

“So where are my little angels anyway?” Donna asked. “And where’s Jules?”

“Mandy’s in the kitchen with Ellen. I think Kat is upstairs with Jules getting ready. Now come on in and take a load off. I can smell the lasagna. I think it’ll be ready in just a few minutes.”

Seated around the dinner table, everyone became silent and looked at me expectantly.

“Bless us O Lord, and these thy gifts,” I began. I finished the prayer and Jules began passing the food. There was pleasant chatter all around as the family filled their plates. Kat looked relatively content. She loved garlic bread and was chewing a small bite as her eyes bounced from one family member to the other, listening. The conversation continued uneventfully for the next twenty minutes or so. Ellen talked about her newest hobby, photography. Jules shared her latest classroom drama in which one of her third-graders had called her a name and then proceeded to throw a tsunami of a temper tantrum. Evidently, she’d had to call the counselor to come help and it had been quite the scene.

I was getting used to the idea that this dinner might just turn out ok when Frank turned his attention to Kat.

“So, Kat,” he said. “How’s your day? You do anything fun, honey?”

“Dad!” Jules glared at him. There was nothing particularly wrong with Frank’s question but putting Kat on the spot like that in front of everyone was not the right approach. Also, we all knew Frank, and I think Jules didn’t like the direction this was going.

“For God’s sake, Jules. I’m just asking how her day was. If nobody’s talking to her, it’s no wonder she hasn’t spoken yet.” Kat was looking at her grandfather. Her expression was difficult to discern but the dark brown pupils looked shadowy and had become large enough to nearly fill her eyes. It was as if she were staring ahead but looking inside herself, watching a raging battle. Answer your grandfather; it’s what a seven year old is supposed to do. Don’t talk yet, you’re not ready. I wanted to strangle him for setting off that internal tug of war.

“What’s the matter, Kat. Cat got your tongue?” Frank chuckled. “Get it? Kat and Cat?”

“Grandpa, that’s mean. Kat can’t help it and you shouldn’t say things like that!” All faces, reflecting a mixture of expressions, collectively looked at Mandy. The heat of those stares whether critical or compassionate reddened her cheeks and rapidly melted the rebellious look in her eyes causing her to focus on a few remaining peas that lingered on her plate.

In the steamy hush that followed, even the clanking of the silverware against the plates stopped. A very long minute passed. Then Ellen didn’t just break the silence, she crumpled it up like a wad of paper and threw it out the window.

“Hey girls,” she said. "Did you ever notice that Grandpa has lips like Bozo the Clown?” I looked at her incredulously, amazed at the irreverent silliness of her statement. Then I glanced at Frank and saw Ellen’s unrestrained brilliance shining once again. Frank’s lips did indeed resemble Bozo the Clown. And his face, already pink from his granddaughter’s reprimand, was turning a deep burgundy, advertising those lips like a neon billboard. I couldn’t tell whether it was irritation, embarrassment, or shame driving the rush of blood to his cheeks but at his much deserved expense, Ellen’s well placed poke delivered the desired effect.

Mandy began to giggle. Like kids often do, she tried to stop, knowing at some instinctive level that laughter now would be inappropriate. And then, unable to hold it in, the pent-up delight burst out in an over the top show of hilarity that made the whole thing a marvelously theatrical display. And Kat was smiling too. Her smiles actually turned into giggles and the giggles had sound. Not words but sound. The first sound we’d heard from her in six weeks. The giggling was contagious and soon we were all laughing out loud. Even Frank, Bozo lips and all, found himself letting go, shaking his head while he chuckled. It all was over in a matter of minutes but something had changed. The air in the room felt a little lighter on our shoulders, at least for the moment.

The rest of the dinner was uneventful. Jules and Ellen served coffee. Mandy proudly served desert by walking around the table and giving each person a brownie, making sure we all noticed how grown up she was. Frank was subdued, content to eat his brownie quietly using nods and shrugs instead of words whenever they served the purpose. Kat finished her dinner in silence. A few threads of conversation were attempted but they were sluggish and pretty quickly petered out as if we’d all had quite enough and just couldn’t find the energy.

After dinner, at the front door, Frank paused for a moment with one arm in his jacket sleeve, one still out and stared at an invisible speck on the floor.

“Sorry I upset everyone,” he said.

“It’s ok, Dad. The dinner was nice. I’m really glad you both came.”

“There’s no harm done, Frank,” I added. “We’re all figuring this out as we go.” I looked at Ellen. “Thanks, Ell. This really was a good idea. We should do it again soon.”

Jules and I watched as the two cars drove away.

"Why does he have to be such a dumb jerk all the time?" Jules asked. Her eyes were distant and after a few moments she added, “He loves her though, I know he does.” I placed my arm around her waist and nodded, permitting her spoken thoughts to hang alone in the air. We shared a few minutes in silence, watching their taillights retreat and disappear.

Eventually, Jules moved upstairs to help Mandy get ready for bed. I returned to my wicker chair on the front porch, a heavy jacket wrapped around me. Kat came out to join me. She sat in an oversized chair with green and black plaid cushions that engulfed her little body. Her legs were drawn up and hidden under a purple fleece jacket.

“That was good lasagna,” I said. “And grandma’s brownies weren’t too shabby either.” I didn’t wait for a reply. She was staring out over the lawn toward the road and the evergreens beyond. The ephemeral yellow glow of the porch lamp lit her face and magnified the complicated expression it held. “You know,” I continued, willing my words to break through the barricade that surrounded her. “I think you are very, very special, Kat.” I paused. “And I love you very much. We all do. We might show it in different ways but all of us are here for you.”

As I spoke my voice caught. I wasn’t saying what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was that I was sorry. I should have been there for her because a father is supposed to be there to protect his daughter. I wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t fast enough or strong enough and I let this happen. But I didn’t say those things. She didn’t need to hear them. She already carried such a heavy weight. Instead, I let the feelings wash over me, then drew them deep inside myself and looked for a place to put them where they were invisible.

Kat’s miniature lips were curved downward and a solitary tear ran slowly down her cheek. I reached out with my forefinger and tenderly wiped it away. In return, she offered a tentative, forgiving smile.

“I think you should go to bed now, Kat,” I said. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you go get ready and I’ll be along shortly to tuck you in.” She nodded, rose from the chair obedient as always, and made her way into the house.

I looked out again across the yard to the old sycamore tree. The tire was at rest now, no wind or children to set it in motion. The rope holding it was big, almost two inches thick. It looped twice through the tire and was tied with a double square knot. It was old and frayed but the knot looked strong, like it could stand up to anything the world could fling at it. The light in Kat's bedroom came on and I rose to move inside. Kat will get better, I thought. We’ll all get better. It’s like we’re all aboard that swing, flying frantically to the top of its arc, waiting for the return to its resting place so we can all climb off. In the mean time though, we can only hang on for dear life, praying to God that the knot will hold.