The sound of rocks from the driveway clattered off the bottom of Tom’s car as he drove at a ridiculous speed away from the cabin. I handed the baby who was your father to Shirley and ran for my kayak, her shouting after me. I hear the sound of my feet slapping the wooden dock, the emptiness of the lake, how impossibly calm the water remained while inside of me a panic was rising.

Looking for You

I glance from the doors of the elementary school to the chain-link fence to the large gate at the opposite end of the playground. It’s a security gate, wide enough for cars to pass through, and at the end of the day all the children leave that way. I walk quickly to the gate and look for you, hoping to see you wandering up the alley. When I don’t see you, I turn and face the playground, the school. I check the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.

Pearl, I think again. Why?

I watch the other parents and children shuffle out, some driving, most walking, winding their way up the alley or down the street. The children are jumpy, their voices squealing with pent-up energy, while their parents walk beside them, most of them with shoulders hunched from working first shift or third shift, or from not working, or from days spent waiting. I search for you among the forest of backpacks and blue jeans. Soon the expanse of pavement stretches empty except for a few teachers standing in a huddle by one of the doors, chatting at the end of another day.

Ms. Howard comes around the building. She always does one last sweep of the schoolyard before going back inside. I have seen her do this a few times. She might be a bit of a nag, but she’s a meticulous nag. Very thorough.

“Ms. Howard?” I say with relief, and she turns, sees it is me, and gives me a flat smile. I wish you would not have made me ask Ms. Howard for help. “Have you seen Pearl?”

Her head cocks to the side as if I’m speaking another language. “I’m sorry?”

“Pearl came out. I spoke with Ms. Pena. When I turned around, Pearl was gone.”

“Oh no,” she says.

Part of me feels that she says it ironically. She’s not surprised at all that I have lost you again. Misplaced you. But I try to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe her “Oh no” was genuine.

“Is she running again?” she asks.

Ms. Howard is referring to a time period a few winters ago when you used to run away from me. At first your escapes filled me with worry, which soon became anger and eventually only embarrassment. When I realized that I couldn’t make you stop leaving, I fastened a bracelet around your wrist that you couldn’t take off, one that had our address and phone number on it. People all over our small city called or brought you home to me.