My sister said it wasn’t healthy. “Laura, you can’t freeze time,” she told me, lingering at the doorway as if crossing the threshold might break something. I answered, “You don’t get to redecorate my grief,” and she walked away with tears in her eyes.
Catherine vanished from her kindergarten playground at four years old. She wore a yellow dress dotted with daisies and two mismatched barrettes because “princesses mix colors.” That morning she had asked, “Curly noodles tonight, Mommy?”
Frank hoisted her backpack with a grin. “Spaghetti with curlies. Deal.” I called after them, “Your red mitten!” and Catherine held it up through the car window. “I got it!”
It took ten minutes. One moment she stood in line for juice boxes; the next, she had disappeared. When the school phoned, I was at the sink rinsing a mug, thinking about nothing that mattered.
“Mrs. Holloway? We can’t find Catherine,” Ms. Dillon said, her voice trembling. “What do you mean you can’t find her?” I demanded. “I turned my back for a second,” she said quickly, and I was already snatching my keys.
The playground looked painfully ordinary. Children were still shouting, the swing chains still squealed, and the sun shone without mercy. Frank stood by the slide, rigid, staring at the mulch.
I seized his arm. “Where is she?” His lips parted and closed before he managed sound. “I don’t know,” he whispered, his eyes turning glassy.
