Emmy & Oliver

CHAPTER ONE

Oliver disappeared after school on a Friday afternoon, way back when we were in second grade, and small things seemed really important and important things seemed too small. That afternoon, it wasn’t weird to see him get in his dad’s car, a red convertible whose screeching tires rang out in my mind for years afterward.

Oliver and I had been best friends since the day we were born up until the day his dad picked him up from school and never brought him home. We even lived next door, our bedroom windows reflecting each other.

His window’s been empty for ten years, but sometimes I can still see into his room and it’s exactly how it was when he disappeared. Oliver’s mom, Maureen, she never moved anything. In the past ten years, she remarried and even had two little girls, but Oliver’s bedroom never changed. It’s become a makeshift shrine, dusty and childish, but I get it. If you clean it out, it means he might never come back.

Sometimes I think that all superstitions—crossing your fingers, not stepping on cracks, shrines like the one in Oliver’s room—come from wanting something too much.

Oliver’s dad was pretty smart about the way he took him. It was a three-day weekend and he was supposed to bring Oliver to school on Tuesday morning. By ten a.m., they hadn’t shown up. By eleven, Oliver’s mother was in the school office. By three o’clock that afternoon, there were news cameras scattered across the school parking lot and on Oliver’s lawn at home. They bore down on us like electronic versions of Cyclops, wanting to know how we were holding up, what we children were doing now that our friend was missing.

Caro cried and my mom made us sit at the table and eat a snack—Double Stuf Oreos. That’s how I knew it was really bad.

We all thought Oliver and his dad would come back that night. And then the next day. And then surely by that weekend. But they never did. Oliver and his dad were gone, drifted into nothingness, like clouds in the sky and even more difficult to chase.

They could be anywhere and it was that thought that made the world seem so large, so vast. How could people just disappear? Oliver’s mom, in her more lucid moments when she wasn’t crying or taking tiny white pills that just made her look sad, said that she would go to the ends of the earth to find him, but it seemed like Oliver had already reached the end of the world and had fallen off into the abyss. At seven years old, that was the only explanation that made sense to me. The world was round and spun too fast and Oliver was gone, spinning away from us forever.

Before Oliver was kidnapped, my dad used to say, Absence makes the heart grow fonder! and give me smacking kisses on both cheeks when I ran to greet him after work. After, he stopped saying it (even though his hugs were tighter than ever before) and I realized that it wasn’t true. It wasn’t true at all. Oliver’s absence split us wide open, dividing our neighborhood along a fault line strong enough to cause an earthquake.

An earthquake would have been better. At least during an earthquake, you understand why you’re shaking.

The neighbors formed search parties, holding hands as they walked through wooded areas behind the school. They took up collections, bought officers cups of coffee, and told Caro and Drew and me to go play. Even our playtime had been altered. We didn’t play house anymore. We played Kidnapping.

Okay, I’ll be Oliver’s mom and you be Oliver and, Drew, you be Oliver’s dad, Caro would instruct us, but we weren’t sure what to do after Drew dragged me away. Caro would pretend to cry and say, My baby! which was what Maureen had been screaming that first day before the tranquilizers kicked in, but Drew and I just stood there, holding hands. We didn’t know how to end the game. No one had shown us how and, anyway, my mom told us to stop playing that, that we would upset Oliver’s mom. But she’s always upset, I said, and neither of my parents said anything after that.

Sometimes I think that if we had been older, it would have been easier. A lot of conversations stopped when I came near and I learned how to creep down the stairs so I could hear the grown-ups talking. I discovered that if I sat on the ninth step I could see past the kitchen and into the living room, where Maureen spent nights sobbing into her hands, my mom sitting next to her and holding her, rocking her the way she rocked me whenever I woke up dreaming about Oliver, dreaming about the tag on the back of his shirt, my pajamas damp with nightmare sweat. There were always wineglasses on the table, lined with dark resin that looked more like blood than Cabernet. And Maureen’s crying made my skin feel weird, like someone had turned it inside out. I couldn’t always hear what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. I already knew. Maureen was sad because she wanted to hold Oliver the way my mom was holding her.

I can never leave, Maureen wept one night as I sat on the stairs, holding my breath in case anyone saw me. I can never leave here, you know? What would we do if Oliver came back and no one was . . . ? Oh God, oh God.

I know, my mother kept saying to her. We’ll stay with you. We won’t leave, either.

It was a promise that she kept, too. We didn’t leave. We stayed in the same house next door. Other neighbors left and new ones moved in, and all of them seemed to know about Oliver. He had become a local celebrity in absentia, famous for not being found, a ghost.

As time went on, it became hard to imagine what he looked like, even as the police age-progressed his second-grade school photo. We all watched an artist’s rendering of Oliver grow up over the years. His nose got bigger, his eyes wider, his forehead higher. His smile wasn’t as pronounced and his baby teeth morphed into adult ones. His eyes never changed, though. That was the strange part. The hopeful part.

We stayed and looked and waited for him to come back, as if our love was a beacon that he could use to light his way home, to crawl up the sides of the earth and back through his front door, his tag still sticking up in the back.

After a while, though, after years passed and pictures changed and false tips fell through, it started to feel like the beacon wasn’t for him anymore. It was for those of us left behind, something to cling to when you realized that scary things could happen, that villains didn’t only exist in books, that Oliver might never come home.

Until one day, he did.

CHAPTER TWO

I remember it was a Thursday because I had gone surfing that afternoon. I always go out on Thursdays because both my parents work late those days, which makes it easier to sneak a surfboard in and out of my car. It had been soft that afternoon, the sky hazy and the waves no bigger than three feet or so, and I was rinsing off in the shower at the edge of the sand when I heard someone screaming my name. Emmy! Emmy! Where is she? Is she here?! I looked up from the end of the path and saw my best friend, Caroline, tearing toward me.

Her hair was tangled, as tangled as mine after dousing it in salt water and sea air for a few hours, and she was dashing barefoot toward me, her shoes dangling from her hand. The whole beach stopped and watched as she hurtled down the hill, and I heard one surfer say to his friend, "Dude, she’s fast."

I stepped away from the water, my heart racing. Was it my parents? An accident? Where was our friend Drew? Oh God, it was Drew. Something had happened to Drew! Em, she said, and there was something scary in her eyes, wild and hopeful and terrified all at the same time.

I had never seen her look like that before and I probably never will again.

Emmy, she said. They found Oliver.

It’s funny. You think about hearing certain phrases and you plan how you’ll react to them. They found Oliver. And yet when you do finally hear the three words you’ve been too frightened to even think about, for fear of jinxing them, for fear that you might never actually hear them, it’s like they aren’t real at all.

Emmy! Caroline grabbed me by the shoulders and bent down so she could look me in the eyes, her grip so hard I could feel her fingertips through my wet suit. "They found Oliver. He’s okay."

Caroline, I said slowly. You’re hurting me.

Oh, sorry! Sorry! She let go of my shoulders but stayed close. Are you in shock? Are you okay? Do you need something with electrolytes?

I shook my head. They found him? How—?

Caroline grinned. Your mom just called me. You weren’t answering your phone so she sent me to find you. My mom knew what she was doing. Caroline is definitely the sort of person that you want to deliver news. Good or bad, she will rip that Band-Aid clean off.

He’s in New York, she continued. He’s coming home.

My knees were shaking. Maybe I needed something with electrolytes after all. Who’s in New York?

Oliver, Emmy! God, focus!

Can I—? Where’s my phone? I need my phone!

Caro was still jumping up and down as I ran up to my towel, digging around underneath it for my bag and finding my phone at the bottom. Seven missed calls and three texts from my mom: CALL HOME NOW, they all said.

Did you tell my mom where I was? I asked Caro, shoving my phone back into my bag and trying to get my wet suit off as fast as possible without taking my bathing suit along with it.

No, of course not, she said, then added Here, and offered me her shoulder for balance as I peeled off the lower half of the suit. I said I thought you might be at the library and that’s why your phone was off.

Good. My parents would never approve of me surfing, which is why they could never know. I love them, but if they had their way, they would have constructed a suit for me made entirely of Bubble Wrap and cotton balls. I didn’t want to be the kind of kid that snuck around and did things behind her parents’ back, but I loved surfing too much to stop. So I just lied to them instead, which, yeah. Not exactly the best solution to the problem, but it was all I had.

They might wonder why your hair’s wet, though, Caro said, interrupting my thoughts.

We’ll think up a reason in the car, I said, finally yanking a dress over my bathing suit. Caroline grabbed my towel and my hand and we took off up the hill toward the car. It sounded like there were jets flying overhead, but when I looked up and saw nothing but a few low clouds, I realized that the sound was just the blood rushing in my head, pulsing to keep me upright and alive.

"They found him," Caro whispered, and when she squeezed my hand, I squeezed back harder and came down from the clouds once again.

I quickly dumped my surfboard into the back of Drew’s van before throwing myself in the backseat. Drew was waiting behind the steering wheel, frantically texting someone. His cheeks were flushed and he was wearing his soccer uniform. Drew used to be my best surfing buddy until soccer began taking up more of his time. Now he’s on track to get a full scholarship to Berkeley, just like his older brother, Kane.

Oh my God, he said without looking up. Can you even believe it?

Not really, I said. Can you?

Nope, he said, his thumbs flying over the mini keyboard. How are you going to explain your hair to your mom?

Think something up for me, I said, realizing too late that my feet were covered in sand and silt and gravel. Now all that mess was smeared over Drew’s floor mats.

Drew loves his van. It’s actually not a van, but a restored 1971 tomato-red VW camper bus. People actually take pictures with it, it’s so beautiful, and it has lots of room for surfboards in the back. The van used to be his brother’s, but after Kane went to college three years ago, he gifted it to Drew, like he knew that Drew was going to need it as a means of escape.

Oh no! I said once I saw the sand. I’m sorry, Drew, I should’ve—

Who cares? Caro screeched. It’s sand, not acid. Just drive, okay?

Wait, I said. "My car. My backpack’s in there, my homework. I have a quiz tomorrow!"

Are you kidding me? Drew backed the car up and the force of his acceleration smashed me into the seat. Buckle up, he said. No one’s doing any homework tonight. When we were finally cruising down the road, he glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Em, seriously, are you sure you’re not going into shock? You look pale.

I already offered her electrolytes, Caroline said.

I’m fine, I told them. Only it came out sort of high and squeaky and any moron with average vision could probably tell that I was not fine.

Caro reached over the backseat and grabbed my seat belt. Here, she said. Drew’s driving. It’s a requirement. She snapped it into place and then squeezed my shoulders. Is this really happening?

Caro and I have known Drew since kindergarten. Actually, half our school has known one another since kindergarten. It’s one of those Southern California suburbs where few people move away from their pink stucco houses.

Here’s something you must know about Drew before becoming his friend: he drives as if he’s being chased by a carful of depraved, evil clowns. I took driver’s ed with him in sophomore year, so I can tell you that he’s always been like this. (I can also tell you that our driver’s ed instructor had to renew his Xanax prescription after Drew’s first on-the-road lesson.)

But when Drew’s upset or nervous or excited, that’s when he really lets it fly, and the day Oliver was found was probably the craziest driving I’ve ever seen from him. Caro kept one hand on her seat belt as he flew through a yellow light and when he hit a pothole, she yelped. Drew, this van isn’t exactly built to break the sound barrier!

Oh, relax, Caroline, he said, and I knew he was using her full name just to annoy her. No one ever calls her Caroline. It’s just too many syllables.

"I’d like to see Oliver before suffering from debilitating whiplash," I told him, trying to loosen my iron grip on my seat belt.

So how real do we think this is? Drew asked.

He had a point. This wasn’t the first time that Oliver had been found. The sightings had been intense at first, hundreds of calls pouring in to the hotline saying that they had seen a sandy-haired, freckle-faced seven-year-old in Omaha, Atlanta, Los Angeles, even Puerto Rico. The calls died down over the years, but every year or so, there was a ray of hope. A short-lived ray, but hope nonetheless, enough to live on for another year.

Maybe real? I said. I don’t know, I . . . I trailed off, not really sure what to say.

Caro took over.

Emmy’s mom called me because Em wasn’t answering her phone, she said. Something about a fingerprint. He was in a police station for a school field trip? I’m not sure. Anyway, it matched the one in his file and they went to arrest Oliver’s dad at home. He wasn’t there, but Oliver was.

New York? Drew asked. Really?

"New York City, Caro emphasized. But here’s the part that’s bonkers: they still haven’t found his dad. Apparently, he’s on the lam." Caro always liked the police lingo. I don’t think she’s ever missed an episode of Law & Order: SVU.

Wow, Drew murmured. New York. I didn’t have to look at Drew’s face to know what he was thinking. He would pretty much like to be anywhere else but our town. New York must’ve sounded like a dream.

We live in a tolerant community, so long as there’s nothing to tolerate. So when Drew came out and announced he was gay last year, it caused a bit of what he called the muffled kerfuffle. Caro and I already knew, of course, but Drew’s parents were a little . . . different. They were accepting at first, lots of we love you just the way you ares and all that, but to hear Drew tell it, the mood was heavier at his house. The silences longer, the words shorter. They look at me sometimes, he said one night when we were sleeping over at Caro’s, his voice quiet in the dark. And I can’t tell if they like what they see.

I could understand why Drew sounded wistful about New York.

I glanced out the window as Drew turned right, all of us quiet for a moment. In our second-grade class picture, we were lined up by height in the middle row: Caro on the end, then Drew, then Oliver, then me. And then Oliver went away and there were just three of us, with no idea of how to make sense of our loss. And to make it worse, every adult was super nice in the months after Oliver disappeared: Ran your bike into my car? It’s just a tiny scratch. Threw a ball through my window? Be more careful next time. It was unsettling. When the adults are full of indulgence, you know things are really bad.

Drew swung a left and pulled onto our street. His normal routine is to careen until the last possible second and then spin a U-turn in our cul-de-sac before zooming into my driveway. You can imagine how exciting that is in a top-heavy VW bus. The first time my mom saw Drew zipping toward us, she said, "He does know that the street dead-ends, right?"

It was a fair question.

I have to admit, though, Drew knows what he’s doing, and ten seconds later, he was pulling the parking brake as we eyed a caravan of news trucks and cameras. Hello, hello, old friends, Drew drawled when we saw them. How long has it been?

Two years, I replied, glaring out my window. After Oliver didn’t show up to school that Tuesday ten years ago, the news cameras became a noisy cavalry for a few months. At first, everyone thought it was great. They were bringing attention to the case! Surely, someone would see Oliver and call the police and he’d come home in time for Drew’s eighth birthday party. Caro and Drew and I used to draw pictures of Oliver and try to get the newscasters to film them, but mostly they just stood in front of Oliver’s home and said things like "This tragic disappearance has left a community shaken . . . [dramatic pause] . . . to its core."

The ironic thing is that even though Oliver’s disappearance was a huge deal in our town, it didn’t really get that much attention outside of the city. He was a young kid taken by a non-abusive parent who had no citizenship in a foreign country. It was terrible, yes, but when it came to criminal investigations, finding Oliver wasn’t at the top of most people’s lists. That’s when I first learned about true frustration, that wrenching ache when the thing that matters most to you barely makes a ripple in other people’s lives.

One afternoon, after the story had faded slightly in the local headlines, the reporters decided to talk to me. My parents were inside and didn’t know that I had snuck out to see if Oliver was secretly in his backyard, and the cameras descended on me. Even now, when I think about it, it makes me want to throw up.

How does it feel to know that your friend Oliver might never come home?

What can you tell us about Oliver, sweetheart? Do you think he wanted to be with his dad more than his mom?

Did Oliver say anything to you? Did you know that his father was going to take him?

I’m not sure when I started to cry, but when my dad came storming out of the house, I was in full-blown hysterics. He grabbed me up and told all the newscasters to go fuck themselves (which definitely did not make it into the seven o’clock broadcast), then carried me back inside. Soon after, he taught Caro and Drew and me some Beatles songs and told us that whenever we saw people with cameras, we should just sing those songs.

At the time, I thought it was just fun to sing really loud, but then I realized what an evil genius my dad is. To broadcast Beatles lyrics, you have to have the rights to the songs, which costs somewhere around a billion dollars. So whenever we popped up singing about yellow submarines or Lucy in the sky with diamonds, they couldn’t use the footage.

We’ve done that ever since. Works like a charm.

Which song? Drew asked, unbuckling his seat belt like he hadn’t just commandeered his car like a rocket. I vote for ‘Hello, Goodbye.’ It’s appropriate.

Neither Caro nor I disagreed, so we hurried out of the car and up my driveway as the anchorpeople dashed toward us. I recognized some of them—the ones that hadn’t been promoted to better jobs in San Francisco or Houston or New York—and they were already eyeing the three of us, painfully wise to our wacky sing-alongs.

‘You say goodbye and I say hello!’ we sang. What we lack in talent, we make up for with enthusiasm and nefarious glee.

We were barely done with the first chorus before we made it through the front door of my house, where my mom was waiting.

Oh, honey! she wailed, grabbing me up and then hugging Drew and Caro as an afterthought. They found him! He’s alive!

I hadn’t seen either of my parents cry in years. When Oliver was taken, there were whispered conversations and stressful quiet moments, but they never cried. I think they thought they had to be brave for me and strong for Maureen, Oliver’s mom. But now my mother was weeping against my shoulder and I hugged her tight, not sure what to say.

Drew was better in these situations than I was.

Don’t worry, Mrs. Trenton, he said. Oliver’s in New York. If he can make it there, he can make it anywhere.

She started to laugh through her tears and she let go of the three of us. Drew, my mother scolded, this isn’t a time for jokes. But she was still laughing and Drew just winked at me.

Mom, I said, is it true? Really, this time?

My mother nodded and used a ragged tissue to wipe at her eyes. Maureen called us an hour ago. She’s already on her way to the airport to go to New York. She said . . . My mother stopped to stifle a sob. She said he’s six feet tall and has dark hair.

I just nodded, but I knew what my mom meant. When Oliver left, he was barely as high as my shoulder and had blond highlights from spending summers outside in our backyards.

What about his dad? Is he—?

They don’t know, my mother said. Apparently, he wasn’t home and he hasn’t come back since. They’re looking for him now, though. I’m sure they’ll find him. (I wasn’t so sure. My mom had been saying that for ten years about Oliver: I’m sure they’ll find him.)

Your dad’s on his way home from work now, Em. She dabbed at her eyes again. Are you kids hungry?

Yes, Drew and Caro chimed together. My mom runs a catering business so there’s always food around. They like to take blatant advantage.

Come on, come on, my mom said, ushering us