One

July 15th 1992: 4:00 PM

By the time their patrol rolled up against our curb, he'd been missing for hours.

We rarely get visitors at the house, least of all when they’re dressed in uniform. So when a pair of officers appear outside our front window, I watch with interest. Unannounced, their squared shoulders cause a fragment of hope to break away from my mind, which settles somewhere between my toes moments later. The least they could’ve done was use the siren on their patrol car—to give us some kind of thrill.

Instead, I’m left staring at two darkly clothed men standing beyond the curb of our front lawn. Their badges catch the afternoon sunlight to outline the names pinned upon their chests. The letters are too small for me to make out at such a distance. I wonder if they know the motel—the house filled with drunks and chaos—is a few doors down the street.

My heart skips a beat as they pause at the end of our drive, probably to double-check their notes. But when they continue up to our sidewalk, my stomach churns. Whatever wishful thoughts I had moments ago are lost in a haze of confusion.

Seeing the cops in our neighborhood this time of year is no surprise, but not here—not at our house. Uneasy, I glance back over my shoulder at Mum who's finishing one of her many crossword puzzles at the kitchen counter.

“The police are outside,” I say, glued to my perch on the living room couch.

“What house?” she asks, her voice wafting like freshly baked cookies, gentle and sweet.

The faucet turns on as she washes the ink from her hands. I wait for the water to turn off and then continue.

“Ours,” I say, looking back through the front window to hide the edge in my voice.

The patrol car’s sitting under the shade of our cherry tree. I've never been inside one before, but figure it’d be pretty cool, especially with the blue and red lights flashing. Maybe if I ask nicely, they'll let me ride in the back. Okay, probably not.

Mum motions for me to turn around and sit nice as she opens the front door. Her hands are still damp when she goes to wipe them on her hips. The officers exchange a handful of mumbled words through the screen door and she invites them inside. I'm still studying their uniforms, neatly pressed with all their shiny buttons, when they ask me to leave the room. I catch

the mention of my name and immediately look at Mum whose calm complexion hasn't changed. Nothing serious.

She catches me looking at her and nods. “Go on outside and see what Pap and Uncle Merl are up to.” It's more of an order than a request. “They should be sitting out back,” she adds as I head for our den—explaining Pap’s location more for the officers’ benefit than my own.

I'm a good girl, really I am. I mind my own business when asked and keep to myself most of the time. But something in my gut tells me today's different. I know I said seeing cops in these parts is normal, but I've never seen them in our living room before.

Willing my legs to keep still, I step into our den and close the door. I keep a firm hold on the doorknob and press my ear against the cool wooden fibers. The voices just around the corner are quiet, but not so much that I cannot hear them.

Jumbled in their hurried list of words I pick up my dad's name. It's all I need to hear for my legs to buckle and my heart to race. She didn't send them away. It’s not serious. They have the wrong house. Why hasn’t she told them yet?

My breath catches in the back of my throat. They're still in the house, but their voices are silent—they’ve finished talking. My jaw locks as I pull my ear away from the door. What do they want with him? I've watched Cops with Daddy millions of times before. Cops never bring good news.

I let go of the doorknob and leap down the six steps leading into the den, stopping to pick myself up before making my way outside. I navigate around the mountains of assorted garments and cleaning supplies inside our washroom, through the garage and out the backdoor.

As promised, Pap's sitting under an umbrella enjoying what's left of the late afternoon sun with my uncle. They both look as if they're asleep, eyes lidded and heads leaning back against their chairs. Afraid I'd miss whatever bit of news is left, I squeak out what I know.

“Cops are in the living room,” I explain, likely too fast to decipher as they both gaze at me through slitted eyes. I take a deep breath and try again. “Something about Daddy,” I say, begging them to move faster by tugging on Pap's wrist.

Hearing mention of my father causes them both to head for the back door. When I step into the back porch, there's an eerie silence—brief and unnerving. My great aunt who'd been sitting here with a book moments earlier is absent. Remembering where I'd left Mum, I ride on Pap's heels into the living room.

My eyes jump to the door—now shut against the heat. The officers are missing. I crane my neck to check the space beneath our cherry tree, but their patrol car is gone as well. Maybe they had the wrong house after all. I decide to look again.

What I see forces a knot of barbed wire to barricade itself inside the pit of my stomach. Mum's doubled over in a chair as my aunt hovers around like a bee drunk on honey, tending to her fresh wounds. The tips of my fingers are numb and I’m having a hard time piecing it all

together. It takes a few moments between Mum’s racking sobs for the news to reach my grandfather. Mum’s words drain all color from his face. I'm the last one to know.

Their pact of secrecy as the room erupts in tears and slurred words cause me to look from one tear-streaked face to another. My body goes into defense mode, blocking them from my mind as I wait patiently for the whispers down the lane to reach me. The news comes quick and without warning.

“Your daddy's dead,” my aunt says, wrapping her hands around mine. They're cold and stiff. I try not to pull away. “Drown,” she explains, setting me on the stoop in front of our fireplace to thaw so she can return to my grandmother.

Even though her cold hands have left mine, I cannot seem to get warm. Body shaking, I stare at my hands, at their purple and blue lines as if they were a map capable of leading us to the truth. As if those lines could make me understand. There is no shining star, no X to mark the spot.

I repeat her words in the back of my mind, but they aren’t related. He couldn’t have drowned. He went fishing, not swimming. Clearly, someone made a mistake. No to mention he's one of the best swimmers any of us have ever known. That’s not something you just forget!

The cops were probably in a hurry, pulled the wrong file, and instead of drowning my dad's waiting at the station because he yelled at the fish. He just hasn’t gotten his phone call yet. That sounds more like something he’d do, but I cannot help thinking they might be right.

The air in the room doesn’t move, not even after the air conditioning kicks on. My ears ring to block out the silence. What time is it? How long have we been sitting here?

Bloodshot eyes stare down at the floor. They won’t look at me; they don’t want to look at me—I remind them of him. I can almost hear their thoughts. They say nothing.

Two dark shapes move into the kitchen, tiptoeing around me so I won’t break from their wavering words. I’m not stupid, I just don’t understand. I need someone to explain it to me, but their eyes go blank and their frowns grow. They can’t stand to look at me. It hurts them too much.

By late evening, the truth still hasn’t sunk in—I doubt it ever will.

Warm tears soak the ends of my sleeves as I brush them from the bottom of my face. Their salty trails make me itch. I move in slow motion—my hands don't reach them in time.

One, two, three…

More tears drip from my chin and onto my knees. I've been like this all day. I can’t turn them off. I don’t know if I'm crying because it hurts (which it does), or so I don't feel so alone with everyone else crying around me.

I’ve tried throughout the day to return to the little girl I was before, the innocent, unbroken girl I was this morning. She doesn't want to come out and play anymore. She's just as lost and confused as I am.

Mum and Pap give in to their grief, eyes empty while their mouths speak not words but inaudible chaos. I want to forget it all, erase it from my mind and run into my room with the door shut tight behind me. I don’t move. No amount of tissues can keep the tears from falling. I suck in a deep breath and choke on the air that doesn’t reach my lungs.

My ears grow hot and I hold my breath until the tears stop. It’s a temporary fix, but just enough so I can breathe in silence before it starts all over again.

I want someone to guide me through the maze of brambles and thorns, to ask for advice, to have some form of direction. I keep to myself, afraid of what words might come. A part of me wants to understand the full of it, but at the same time I wish, I hope it isn't true. It's a mistake; it has to be. Just watch—in a few minutes, he'll come walking through the front door laughing like it's some kind of joke he thought up on the way home.

Of course, Mum'll be infuriated. She'll break down before she can find the right words, overcome with relief just to see him safe—the laughs never come. I can pick my dad's laugh out against all the rest, but it's absent within our small home. No one’s laughing. He'll be here.

It's the same thing I've been saying—chanting, for the past three hours. He isn't coming...

He'll come.

He's gone. Our family folds over helplessly beneath the murky waters, our dreams shattered by the currents of the Delaware River.

The news of his passing spreads like arcs of lightening across the east coast. Those we haven’t called through our family chain saw it on the evening news. Their bodies appeared out of nowhere to give what support they could. They've tried their best, but it isn't enough, not when so many pieces lay across the floor.

I pick up the specs of dust belonging to me and hold them close to my chest. If I breathe the wrong way, I’ll never be able to find them again. I don't know what else to do.

“Would you like anything to eat?” someone asks, resting their hand on the small of my back.

I can't see through the haze and numbly shake my head. I just want them to leave me alone. They hover a moment before moving onto the next injured animal.

My throat's dry, I could probably use a drink, but I've somehow lost my voice. It's almost time for bed so I'll wait until tomorrow.

There are so many members of our family and concerned neighbors drifting from room to room that I’ve lost count. Food brought in earlier this evening sits untouched, threatening to go stale while cold cups of coffee sit in my grandparents' hands.

Cupping the polished glass between their palms, they stare at the dark liquid only to see his or their own reflection before looking away again. I can see the pain etched on their faces, deep valleys creasing across their foreheads.

Mum catches my attention, our eyes locking from opposite ends of the room. She moves to stand and I look away. I want a hug, a shield so I can cry, but I don't want to see her like this. Send someone else, anyone else, but not her. She needs someone who can protect her, not me, not a lost child. I'll be okay.

“There are sandwiches in the kitchen,” Mum says, clearing her throat. “Have you eaten?”

She knows the answer, but asks anyway. I follow her direction as I've done so many times before.

“Not hungry,” I manage to say.

“You should eat something. They have ham.”

“There's cheese on them,” I say, grimacing.

“You can take it off.” I shake my head, frustrated. “All right. I'm right over there if you need me.” She gives me a quick hug, her arms limp from the day's events, and returns to her chair to sit for a few more hours.

After packing my broken world into an old afghan, I begin the long journey to my room, feeling the weight of it all on my scrawny nine-year-old shoulders. I pause halfway up the stairs as Mum’s cries start anew somewhere in the room below. My stomach hurls forward and I throw my knapsack in front of me, digging into the folds for emergency reserves.

The stairs feel more like a mountain than anything else as I shove cotton swaps in my eyes and cover my eyes with black patches. Closing the pack and hefting it onto my back, I take one step and then another, leaving the world of nightmares behind. I figure if I can’t see or hear what they’re saying, then there’s no truth to it. It’s hard to believe what you cannot see.

Every step I take sends a jolt of electricity throughout my body as I climb into the hall landing. I pause to catch my breath and glance back at his room. It’s up another flight of stairs behind me. The door’s shut, but that doesn’t mean it’s locked. Balancing on a thin wire, I consider running into his room, to find him hiding—I know better. Wish for as much as you want. It won’t make a difference. Wishes aren’t meant to come true.

My shoulders slump forward once I enter my room and close the door behind me. It’s a girly room painted with pink walls. Stenciled dolls and teddy bears float high against the ceiling. I’ve never liked how pink it is in here, but it’s mine—a sanctuary, and one of the last private

spaces I have in the house. The other would be our crawlspace, under the kitchen stairs, but it’s more normal for me to hide in my room than to join the spiders and centipedes.

Locked away from everyone else downstairs, I do my best to drown out the faint sobs weaving through the little nooks and crannies between my bedroom door and its frame. Their tears stopped hours ago, but the ragged breath and tight chests will remain until morning. The feeling of being suffocated by my own body is uncomfortable...I keep my breaths shallow and short.

There’s just one thing I have to do before bed—explain what happened to my stuffed animals. It’s a lot harder than the adults make it look. Confusion covers most of their fuzzy muzzles while others lift their arms so I can comfort them. Their plastic eyes seem to look right through me as they focus on something I cannot see. I could’ve told them anything, knowing it’ll never leave this room. Because of this, I tell them what I’ve been trying to tell myself all day.

“He’s gone.” No he isn’t! “ He drowned...” It’s not true.

I speak the words, but my mind says different. I don’t know which one to trust. I ignore both. Neither one is right or wrong; they just are. Too tired to weigh the differences, but not enough to fall asleep, I close my eyes as the room begins to spin. A sea of nausea twirls around my stomach like a skilled dancer, weaving between the solid pillars that have kept our lives in balance for so long.

Feeling my way over to the bed, I crawl under the covers and take comfort in the little protection they give. The world inside my room is untouched—safe from the chaos that’s been running through the better part of our house for most of the evening. This too will be gone in the morning. Nothing’s safe.

Blindly, I search with my hands, digging under the pillows for my ratty, torn blanket. My fingers hold onto as much of it as they can as I bring the old fabric out of its safe hideaway. Sniffing at it, I soak up all the memories Daddy and I shared. Up until this afternoon, he was all I knew. I figured he was immortal, just like everyone else’s parents. I believed he couldn’t be touched.

My mind goes numb with fear, realizing not even Mum and Pap are immortal. Not anymore. Can’t think of that right now. The muscles along my throat constrict and I struggle to suck in a breath. The thought of losing Daddy changes to those of us he’s left behind. Are we still a family?

None of my friends has ever lost a parent, but I’ve seen some kids at school who have gone through a divorce. Not the same. It kind of is. At least they’re still alive...

I cover my mouth with my blankie before any noise can come out. After a moment, my thoughts settle on what one of the boys at school told me about his family—about divorce. He had to change schools and ended up moving away from all his friends. Will it be the same for me? Where will you go? Will they keep me?

Nothing's changed. We can still be—we're still a family. I'm still me. We were a family of four, now three, living under the same roof since they brought me home from the hospital. Nothing's changed.

Someone downstairs opens and closes the front door behind them as they leave, their voices getting louder as they huddle into a nearby car. The vibrations of our house are familiar enough, but I still jump out from under my covers to look out my front bedroom window, eyes searching for a co-worker or his boss' car. It’s not him.

I watch as another vehicle pulls away, their headlights hitting against my ceiling, yellow pools of reflected light moving from one side of the room to the other. Locked away in my tower, I have no way of knowing who’s left and who’s still here to fight the dragon. Did you fall asleep? I don’t remember.

Climbing back into bed, I burrow under my covers. Here my mind can wander wherever it wants, but I'm quick enough to wrap a collar around it before it goes too far. After pulling it to my side, my mind forms two lists—one of the family sitting downstairs and one of the family we'd been earlier this morning. It's all I can do to stay awake. I don't want to go to sleep.

At first, I can't really think of any differences, but as I give it a little more thought, the simple changes begin to surface. We’ll eat breakfast in silence, if at all. His room will still be off limits tomorrow, the day after that and the day after that. One of us will have to go outside and get the newspaper every morning—Daddy used to bring it in before he went to work. I'll watch my cartoons alone. I'll walk down to 7-11 alone.

I roll over and hug my blankie to my chest.

Nothing will change—nothing has changed.