Vanishing Girls (15 page)

“Looks like it. But we’ll get a volunteer in to read to Abby, I think.”

Abby looked at me again and as her gaze lingered, I had the strangest feeling she was reaching out.

“What if I read to her a little bit until the volunteer gets here?”

Sasha sighed; she must not have been used to visitors being quite this pushy, or maybe she just didn’t see a problem with the idea, but she didn’t push back.

“I’ll be on the floor for the next hour or so, and you’re with him, so I guess it’s okay.”
Him
being Billy who, despite Abby’s seeming discomfort, was an NYPD detective and as such qualified as official protection. It would also, obviously, offer Billy a chance to observe Abby a little longer—and whether the hospital liked it or not, she was potentially a key witness in a serious investigation.

Sasha handed me the book on her way out, and I pulled the guest chair close to Abby’s bedside. Billy tucked himself into a corner, out of her vision, turning himself into a nearly invisible observer. I opened to the bookmarked place where Father X had stopped—Chapter Seven: “The Man with Red Eyes.”

Abby’s blank gaze stayed glued to the textured grayish squares of the dropped ceiling as I read aloud to her. I’d forgotten how much I loved this novel about Meg’s stubborn journey into the fifth dimension in search of her missing father. In fact, I now recalled that when I’d read the book in middle school, I had been so enchanted that for a day or two I actually imagined myself to
be
Meg. Her intelligence and courage inspired me: She was a girl hemmed in by the misogyny of midcentury America, but she was uniquely stubborn, intelligent, and courageous; she didn’t skew to the obvious if she thought her own ideas were better, and she didn’t take no for an answer. Reading the novel in the 1980s, I didn’t see what the big deal was until my mother explained how unusual it was when
she
was a girl, back in the fifties, to be taken seriously in any way. Visiting Meg’s world again made me tingle with an old, familiar excitement of discovery. And a vivid memory I’d forgotten until now: I had decided, back then, that if I ever had a daughter I would name her Margaret and call her Meg. How had I forgotten that when I did have a daughter and named her Cece, short for Cecilia, in memory of my first husband Jackson’s late mother? We’d had other things on our minds then; his mother had just passed away, and we missed her.

Tomorrow was New Year’s Day, the due date of my lost pregnancy. Would I have remembered to name my new baby girl Meg?

I read for almost an hour before Abby drifted off to sleep. Then I looked over at Billy, leaning into his quiet corner of the room, arms folded across his chest. Calm now. Thinking. When I couldn’t find the bookmark, I dog-eared the page and set the book down on the chair. I didn’t want to make any noise so left the chair where it was. Billy followed me out of the room.

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” I said as we walked down the hall. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Throwing a big party at my place. Sorry, you’re not invited.”

In all the years I’d known him, he’d never once thrown a party of any kind.

“You’re not spending the night alone at the Brooklyn Inn. You’re coming over to our house for some champagne. When the clock strikes midnight, we’ll let you leave.”

“Taking me hostage?”

“If necessary.”

We reached the elevator. Suddenly he looked at me.

“Isn’t tomorrow the day Chali’s kid’s supposed to fly in?”

“Yup.”

“Are you going through with it?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Think the uncle will put her on that plane?”

The elevator door dinged open. Billy stepped in first.

“We’ll see.” I joined him and pushed the button. On the ground floor, the doors yawned open onto the cavernous, bustling lobby. We walked into the crowd, toward the main entrance. Through a wall of shining glass you could just see the murky image of a shoveled path bordered by mounds of slushy gray snow.

“Karin, you can’t get your daughter back this way. You know that, right?”

There was no relevant answer to that question, as far as I was concerned.

“I said I’d be waiting, and I will.”

We passed through the revolving door into a gust of cold air, but I didn’t zip my jacket; I walked right into it.

Chapter 14

I
paced the area just beyond the bay of luggage carousels, the closest they allowed you to get to arriving passengers. My head pounded from drinking too much champagne last night; Billy and my mother had hung out with us in our living room until one
A.M
., playing game after game of cards. After that, Billy walked home and Mom went to sleep on the sofa bed in our living room. No one had bothered trying to talk me out of my mission today; they all knew me, and understood that I planned to go to the airport, regardless of any commonsense arguments that it would be a fool’s errand. But still, I knew what they were thinking. Mac’s parting words when I left the house at just past noon rang in my ears:

“If you can, swing by the car wash after the airport. The car’s crusty after all that snow.”

He assumed I wouldn’t have anything better to do after leaving the airport, because Dathi (obviously) wouldn’t be getting off that plane.

Her Air India flight was due in at two thirty-five in the afternoon. After customs and luggage, I figured the soonest she’d appear would be about three-thirty. I decided to wait until six o’clock, at least, in case she was held up for any reason inside the airport. She was only twelve. I was sure she had never traveled this far alone before, if she had traveled at all. Did she expect Chali to meet her at the gate? What would she do when no one was there? I had no idea what to expect of this child; I knew so little about her. I didn’t even know if she understood that her mother was dead. It wouldn’t have surprised me at all if Uncle Ishat had taken the money and left the bearing of bad news to me.

But I knew what I wanted to believe; what I needed to believe: that she was on that plane, approaching New York right about now; that she was following instructions, buckling her seat belt and preparing to land; that she was waiting in a line of passengers in the aisle to start moving toward the hatch; that she was in the detachable tunnel making her way into the belly of the airport; that she was somehow finding the right lines and the right counters and presenting the right paperwork, getting all the right stamps of approval; that she was standing at the correct luggage carousel waiting for her suitcase to wend its way to her; that she had the physical wherewithal to hoist it off the moving conveyor belt, or the gumption to ask someone for help.

I had worked up a sweat pacing for so long, and held my coat draped over an arm. When I dropped it and a man accidentally stepped on it, I tugged so hard it surprised him. The sharp look he gave me could have cut glass. My eyes rimmed with tears—I was so nervous and felt like such an idiot, waiting around an airport for a girl I didn’t know, who would never appear—that instead of saying something, the man closed his mouth and walked away. I was sure he thought I was crazy.

Was I?

Finally I found an empty seat on an otherwise crowded bench, folded my coat on my lap, rested my head against the wall, and closed my eyes. Over and over, I reviewed the litany of documents Chali had arranged to smooth Dathi through this trip: passport, visa, plane ticket, a letter stating that she had permission to travel alone, complete with a notary’s stamp obtained from an official at the Indian Consulate. Grandma Edha had even gotten a local doctor to write a letter stating that Dathi was in perfect health. My mind searched for potential holes in the paperwork, something that might snag her on her long journey and prevent her from arriving—if she had ever left. I don’t know how much time had passed in these obsessive thoughts, when I heard it:

“Karin Schaeffer? Karin Schaeffer?”

I leaned forward. Down at the far end of the row of benches was a girl, calling my name.

“I’m Karin Schaeffer!” I stood up and started walking.

She smiled tentatively before turning around to drag her suitcase forward on a strap. It didn’t appear to have wheels, but it wasn’t very big and she seemed to manage fine.

“Dathi?” I asked, almost close enough to touch her now.

“You were expecting another girl?” Her round face erupted into a smile. She had big, crooked teeth and black eyes that shone like wet coal. Her skin was smooth and lighter than her mother’s, but her hair was as thick and black and she wore it just as Chali had: swept off her face in a ponytail. She was dressed in a full yellow skirt and a gauzy black shirt embroidered with white thread in a complicated symmetrical design that looked like a flower but wasn’t. She wore dangling silver earrings with white beads at the ends, and on her feet, newish black sneakers. She wasn’t pretty, exactly, but she was beautiful. She seemed to glow.

“I’m so happy to see you! You have no idea.” I couldn’t help myself: I wrapped her in a big hug, which she instantly returned . . . another relief, because among my pile-up of worries had been that even if she did arrive she wouldn’t want anything to do with me; I would be a disappointment in the way of seeing her mother. And then I would have to break the news. Her hair was so soft, and she smelled like the same sandalwood incense I’d burned at Chali’s, cleaning out her apartment.

“Oh, I
do
have an idea,” she said, squeezing me. “I am quite happy to see
you
.”

And then I realized that she knew. But still, I had to ask.

“Your uncle, did he explain—?”

“No, but I saw online after Granny had her heart attack. She wanted to tell me something before she passed on. I think her heart exploded trying to tell me such a terrible thing. I have had a
very
bad few weeks. But my mother trusted you, so I trust you. And here I am.”

I wondered how Granny had learned about Chali’s death. But the stillness of Dathi’s face, the depth of her eyes, told me not to pursue it. She had made it here. I could hardly imagine what she had endured these past weeks. Losing her grandmother. Dumped on an uncaring uncle. Learning that her beloved mother had been murdered. Sold to a trafficker. On the run, alone, in a country merciless to girls like her. In time we would talk about it; but not right now.

She reached for the suitcase’s looped handle and tugged it forward along the polished floor.

“How was your trip?” I tried to take the suitcase from her, but she resisted.

“No, I can do it. Please.”

I let go and backed off, though it made me uncomfortable that this slender child was hauling a suitcase while I was empty-handed. When we got outside, I realized she had no coat. I tried to give her mine, but she refused.

She stopped automatically at the first line of people we came to for a bus, and looked at me hesitatingly.

“I have a car, it’s parked over there.” I pointed to a metered lot in the near distance.

“Luxury!” She started pulling her suitcase in that direction. “At home I walked everywhere. I had hopes for a bike but Granny told me not to spend our money that way; she told me when I got to America to live with my mother things would be different. Everyone in America has a bike. No problem. In India things are not so easy for most people. But look: Today is my lucky day! Driving home in your car, and driven by Uncle to the airport in his Nano. Red, still shiny new. You should see him: he’s like a king in his little car.” Her laugh was filled both with humor and disdain. She got her uncle’s picture. And now I knew what he’d done with the money he’d gotten for her.

She helped me load her suitcase into the back of our MINI Cooper. Then she stood by the driver’s side and waited for me to unlock the door. For a moment I was startled, before understanding.

“Dathi, here the driver sits on the left and we drive on the right side of the road.”

She grinned and her eyes rolled up in her head. “Of course you do. How stupid of me! Granny had a video of
The French Connection
and how many times have I imagined myself sitting beside Popeye Doyle racing under the canopy road in his old car.”

I was momentarily startled that she knew the movie so well. “You mean the chase scene under the elevated highway?”

“Yes! In Brooklyn. I am really quite excited to be going to Brooklyn.” She beamed at me as I unlocked the passenger door, slipped right in, buckled up, and waited for me to start driving.

“You know,” I said, navigating out of the parking lot, “Popeye Doyle’s car wasn’t old when the movie was made. Things have changed a lot since then.”

“Of course.” Gazing through the car window, she seemed to study everything she saw: the multitude of cars driven by people of every nationality; the roads looping toward and away from the gigantic airport; the constant roar of airplanes overhead. “Forty years have elapsed since Mr. Doyle’s escapades in that funny rust-colored car.”

“Was it rust?” I asked. “I remember it more as red.”

“Shall we say rusty red?”

We laughed and I felt something wonderful happen between us, as if we had clasped hands and jumped through a looking glass together.

“Agreed,” I said.

“I have the video with me, in my suitcase,” she announced. “We will watch it and we will see whose memory is sharper, though I venture to say it will be mine.” She winked at me so fast I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it.

“We don’t have a VCR. We have a DVD player. We can rent it on Netflix, how’s that?”

“Netflix?”

I explained, realizing that it was just the beginning of a long, steep learning curve.

“So you’re a fan of police movies?” I exited the lot onto the Van Wyck Expressway.

“Just
good
ones,” she said with a note of seriousness that was charming coming from a girl her age. “Film noir of that era interests me, in particular
Klute
and
Chinatown
, but I have yet to see everything.”

“No one has,” I said, “or hardly anyone, but we’ll work on it.”

“So, I’ll live with you, then?”

I glanced at her long enough not to crash the car.

“Yes.” I felt a little dizzy promising that, as if I had jumped off the edge of a very high cliff. I had no idea what the laws were for international adoptions, or if Mac would even agree to it. For all I knew, he was right and this
was
kidnapping. The only thing that was really clear was that a journey had begun, and it could take us anywhere. I would start making calls tomorrow. Hire a lawyer, if I had to. Whatever it took.

“Where is my new school? Can I walk there? Or shall I take the bus? Or will I ride a bike to school?”

Did I imagine it, or had her eyes really twinkled when she said
bike
? She was asking questions faster than I could think of answers. By now, before we were even home, I knew I had a remarkable child on my hands. The thought of Dathi being trafficked into prostitution seemed ridiculous and unbelievable. My imagination was already spinning future professions for her: She could be a researcher; a diplomat; an executive. But I told myself to calm down and slow down; first things first: She needed a winter coat.

W
hen I came in the ground-floor entrance with Dathi and her suitcase, Mac’s first words, called from upstairs, were “Did you remember to get the car washed?”

Dathi looked at me. “Shall we go back out?”

“That’s just my husband,” I told her.

I heard Mac’s footsteps cross to the top of the stairs, and the pitter-patter of Ben’s steps following. They stood together and peered down at us.

“Mac, Ben?” I steered her to the foot of the stairs, and we looked up together at my startled family. “This is Arundathi Das. Dathi, meet Mac MacLeary, my husband, and our son, Ben.”

Her smile radiated up the stairs at Mac, who stood there looking stunned, with Ben clinging to his legs. Dathi resembled her mother; I could only imagine what my little boy made of this.

“Is that Ben, short for Benjamin?” Dathi asked, with a note of humor in her voice. “Or just
short
.”

Ben’s giggles escaped at first like a hiss of steam, then erupted into full out laughter.

“In my village there is a boy who is a dwarf, just your size, but he is fourteen years old!”

She followed me upstairs, keeping a polite distance; but when she passed Ben, who had held his ground at Mac’s legs, her hand darted out and she rifled her fingers through his hair. He giggled again. Her hand shot to his underarm for a quick tickle—and just like that, he belonged to her.

Mom was sitting on a chair by the windows with the newspaper on her lap, catching the last of the daylight. She peered over her reading glasses and her mouth dropped open, just for a moment, when she saw us. But she quickly gathered herself, pushed herself to standing, and came over to meet our visitor.

“Chali’s daughter.” Mom’s eyes teared as she took Dathi’s slender hand and clasped it between her own. “Welcome.”

Dathi bowed her head, just slightly. “Mrs. . . . I don’t understand the names here.”

“I’m Pam,” Mom said. “Technically Mrs. Castle, but Pam to you, dear.”

Dathi nodded. “Pam.”

“I was Karin Castle, growing up,” I explained. “And then I was Karin Schaeffer, when I got married the first time. My husband is Mac MacLeary, I didn’t take his name, but Ben did. I know that’s all pretty confusing.”

Dathi smiled, shrugged; she had heard every word, got it, and was ready to move on. “My mother told me that things were different here, but that I would like it once I adapted.”

“Bright girl,” Mom commented, and gave me a thorny look:
Trafficked into child prostitution, this kid? No way
.

“You must be tired.” She took Dathi’s hand and led her to the couch. “How long was your flight?”

“Fourteen hours and a little more. I slept a bit on the plane.”

Ben jumped up next to Dathi to occupy the opposite side of the couch, getting closer, but not too close. Mac was a harder sell. It didn’t take him long to get me alone in the kitchen.

“I admit, she’s a charmer,” he began, “but she’s a human being; you can’t just take her in like a lost pet. Maybe it’s fine that you got her this far, she’ll be safe now. But don’t mislead her into thinking she’s now part of this family.”

“Then whose family will she be part of?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to call the Indian Consulate on Monday and find out what to do.”