#51 Never Again

“If anyone is separated from their child, there is a TA employee with them at 59^th Street.”

It is 33^rd Street or 23^rd or 51^st when I hear this announcement on the 6 train. I can’t believe my ears, because as long as I have lived in this city, 25 or so years, I have never heard this before. The thought of a child and parent being separated on the subway is terrifying. Though in many ways this announcement is heartening, it also throws me tumbling back to a recent memory that I prefer to forget.

One week ago we were in Unadilla, NY, a charming upstate town.  My 11–year-old is asking for more independence and I want to give it to her (she had been walking to and from school on her own all year). Many blocks of a Main Street flea market were set up and we needed to find some boring store display items. In the center of town by a permanent playground in a field, there are food trucks set up along with a BBQ Chicken and a Homemade Fudge tent. It was a great place to let her wander on her own.  No cell phone exchange, just the promise to stay in the area and that we would return shortly.

After 25 or so minutes of scavenging through some fun stuff but finding nothing useful, we return to our meeting spot.

We cannot find her.

The panic immediately set in. It was the day before we were to drop her off for 6 weeks of sleep away camp. This would be the tragic beginning of a terrible summer. Greg and I split up to search. First, I circle the tents selling plastic junk, then the Bouncy House and the Henna and Temporary Tattoo stand. I look around each and every food truck. Ice Cream, Funnel Cakes and French Fries. I search the entire play area. She is too old for this, but I stoop down on my hands and knees and check each crevice where she might be. She used to slide down those yellow plastic tubes.

 My heart is sinking deeper and more quickly than I can fathom. I start to yell:

“Nell! Nell! Nell! Nell!”

I approach people sitting at wooden picnic tables.

I hear the panic in my voice as I ask with my hands,

“Have you seen a girl this tall with black frame glasses?”

“What was she wearing?”

That awful question. I hardly remember.

There are port-a-potties to the left of the field. I circle them and continue to yell.

“Nell! Nell! Nell!”

How could we have left her? What is the next course of action for reporting a missing child?

What if I never see her again because of my terrible judgment?

My life would be over. Ruined. Destroyed.

What kind of parent am I to leave her alone in a town with who-knows-who wandering around preying on young girls?

Where can I find the Chief of Police without too much time passing by while she is in harm’s way?

It is so hot and humid. The sun is blinding. The bouncy house is empty and I can hardly remember the last time she actually wanted to play inside one. There it is, empty yellow plastic. The grass is blazing and the smell of BBQ chicken is sickening.

A text comes:

“I found her, we are near the street” I breathe and laugh as I look over to the left and in the distance I can see she is smiling and bouncing around. I walk past the blazing white Victorian library with a wrap around porch brimming with boxes of records and used books for sale. The sidewalk is cracked and beautiful.

She is buying homemade fudge and got the very last piece of peanut butter and offers me a taste, a teeny tiny piece.

She is alive. I grab her and promise myself to never let her go.

Never again.

I am the luckiest person alive to have her in my arms.