I don’t know what she was wearing the day she disappeared. I didn’t see her when she dropped Nicky off at school. She was a little late that day. Usually the buses arrive and unload all at once. The teachers have a lot going on, greeting the kids, herding them inside. I don’t blame them for not noticing what Emily was wearing or whether she seemed like her cheerful normal self or anxious in any way.
Probably Emily looked like she always looks when she’s going to the office: like a fashion executive (she gets designer clothes at a huge discount) heading to work in the city. She’d called me early that morning.
“Please, Stephanie, I need your help. Again. An emergency’s come up at work, and I have to stay late. Alison has a class. Can you get Nicky at school? I’ll come get him in the evening, nine at the latest.”
I remember wondering: What counts as an “emergency” in the fashion business? The buttonholes are too small? Someone sewed a zipper in backward?
I said, “Of course. I’m totally happy to do you a favor.”
A simple favor. The sort of simple favor we moms do for each other all the time. The boys would be thrilled. I’m pretty sure I remember asking Emily if she wanted Nicky to sleep over. And I’m pretty sure she said no thanks. She’d want to see him at the end of a tough day, even if he was asleep.
I picked up Nicky and Miles after school. They were in heaven. They love each other in that puppyish way little boys do. Better than brothers, who fight.
They played nicely in my son’s room and on the swings where I could watch them from the window. I made them dinner. We had a healthy meal. As you know, I’m a vegetarian, but Nicky will only eat burgers, so that’s what I cooked. I can’t count how often I’ve blogged about how hard I try to balance the good nutritious stuff with what they’ll actually eat. The boys discussed an incident at school: a boy got sent to the principal’s office for not listening to the teacher even after he got a time-out.
It got late. Emily didn’t call. Which seemed weird. I texted her, and she didn’t text me back. Which seemed even weirder.
Okay, she said emergency. Maybe something happened at a factory in one of the countries where the clothes are made. Sewn by slaves is my impression, but that could never be mentioned. Maybe there’s another scandal involving her boss, Dennis, who’s had some well-publicized substance-abuse episodes. Emily has had to do some heavy damage control. Maybe she was at a meeting and couldn’t get out. Maybe she was somewhere with no cell phone reception. Maybe she’d lost her charger.
If you knew Emily, you’d know how unlikely it is that she would lose her charger. Or that she wouldn’t find a way to call in and check on Nicky.
We moms are so used to being in touch. You know how it feels when you need to reach someone. It’s like you’re possessed. You keep calling and texting and trying to keep yourself from calling and texting again because you just called and texted.
Each time, my calls went to voice mail. I heard Emily’s “professional” voice—perky, crisp, all business. “Hi there, you’ve reached Emily Nelson. Please leave a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Talk soon!”
“Emily, it’s me! Stephanie! Call me!”
It got to be bedtime for the boys. Emily still hadn’t called. This had never happened. I got those stomach butterflies of fear. Terror, really. But I didn’t want to let the kids know, especially Nicky . . .
I can’t write any more, moms. I’m just too upset.
Love,
Stephanie
4
Stephanie's Blog
Ghosts from the Past
Hi, moms!
You all remember how often I blogged about not letting Miles see how grief stricken I was when his dad—Davis—was killed in the same accident with my brother, Chris.
It was a beautiful summer Saturday afternoon. Davis lost control of our vintage Camaro, and they hit a tree. Our whole world changed in one minute.
I lost the only men who ever mattered to me, not counting my dad, who died when I was eighteen. And Miles lost his father and his beloved uncle.
Miles was only two, but he could sense my grief. I had to be strong for his sake and not fall apart until after he was asleep. So you could say I had good (if you could call that good) preparation for not freaking out or letting the boys suspect how worried I was about Emily.
After I put the boys to bed, I had another glass of wine to calm my nerves. The next morning, I woke up with a headache, but I acted as if everything was fine. I got the kids dressed. It helped that Nicky had slept over so often, it didn’t seem strange. Nicky and Miles are about the same size, so Nicky could wear Miles’s clothes. That was another way I knew that Emily had meant to pick Nicky up last night; she always sends a change of clothes when he’s going to stay.
Emily still hadn’t called. I was approaching full panic mode. My hands shook so much that when I poured the kids their Cheerios, crispy O’s skidded all over the kitchen table and onto the floor. I don’t think I ever missed Davis so much—someone to help me, advise me, calm me down.
I decided to drop the kids off at school and then try to figure it out. I didn’t know who to call. I knew Sean—Emily’s husband, Nicky’s dad—was in Europe somewhere, but I didn’t have his cell number.
I can hear all the moms out there thinking I’ve broken my own rules. never have another child over for a playdate without backup contact information!!! Both parents’ home and work and cell numbers. A close relative or someone empowered to make medical decisions. The name and phone number of the child’s health care provider.
I did have the nanny’s—Alison’s—number. She’s a responsible person. I trust her, though you know I worry about kids being raised by nannies. Alison said that Emily told her Nicky was having a sleepover with Miles. Good news! I didn’t ask how long Emily said he’d be staying. I was afraid it would make me seem . . . not together, and you know how sensitive we moms are about competency issues.
You moms will think I’m not only irresponsible but insane for not having Nicky’s dad’s cell phone number. There’s no excuse. I can only ask you not to judge me.
When I dropped the kids off at school, I told Mrs. Kerry, their fantastic kindergarten teacher, that I’d kept the kids overnight. I had the craziest feeling, like I’d get Emily in trouble if I said she hadn’t come back and hadn’t called. As if I . . . as if I was telling on her. Ratting her out for being a bad mom.
I said I couldn’t reach Emily but I was sure that everything was okay. We must have gotten our signals crossed about how long Nicky would be staying. But just in case, could the school give me his dad’s—Sean’s—cell number? Mrs. Kerry said Emily had mentioned that her husband was spending a few days in London on business.
Miles’s teachers like me. They all keep up with my blog. They appreciate how positively I blog about the school, how often I send them major love and hugs for the great job they’re doing with our kids.
Mrs. Kerry gave me Sean’s number. But I could see (over the top of my phone) that she was looking at me with a slightly mistrustful expression. I told myself that I was being paranoid, again, that she was trying to seem concerned but not worried. Trying not to judge.
I felt better having Sean’s number. I should have called him right away. I don’t know why I didn’t.
I did call Emily’s company in the city.
Dennis Nylon Inc. There. I’ve said it. To me and a lot of you moms, Dennis Nylon is what Dior or Chanel was to our moms. An unapproachable, unaffordable, all-powerful fashion god.
I asked the young (everyone who works there but Emily is practically a child) man who answered the phone to connect me to Emily Nelson’s office. Her assistant, Valerie, asked me for the thousandth time who I was, exactly. Okay, I get it. Valerie has never met me. But does she have that many Stephanies in her life? Does Emily?