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 into the kitchen. “There’s leftover crêpes.”
Crêpes! Caro mouthed at me, grinning. I stumbled along behind them, discreetly wiping sand off my ankles while my mom’s back was turned.
My mom had the kitchen redone several years ago and it looks like a Martha Stewart showcase combined with an operating room. There are shiny gadgets that completely befuddle my dad and me, and yet it’s somehow warm and inviting. I like to hang out in there, just so long as I don’t touch anything and accidentally get puréed.
“Do you think Oliver’s dad will follow him here?” I sank down into a chair next to Drew, who looked as worried as I felt. “I mean, Oliver’s been with him all this time. To be separated now, that has to be hard.”
“His dad?” Caro said. “That’s who you feel bad for right now? Seriously?”
“No, I feel bad for Oliver,” I told her. But I felt kind of bad for everyone and I didn’t know why.
“Is there Nutella in this crêpe?” Drew asked.
“Here, mine’s Nutella. Switch with me.” I swapped the plates around before Drew could say anything. Caro muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “people pleaser,” but gave me an innocent look when I glanced at her.
“Does he know that Maureen’s remarried?” I asked. “Or about the twins?”
“Oh, man, that’s going to be a shock,” Caro said, digging into her snack.
“I’m sure Maureen will tell him all about Rick and Molly and Nora,” my mom reassured us. “That’s not exactly news that she can hide.”
“Do you think he even remembers us?” Drew asked. “It’s been ten years.”
“Don’t say that,” I snapped before I could stop myself. Drew’s fork froze in the air as he stared at me. My mom was watching me across the kitchen, too. I had seen that look too many times over the years, the “oh my God, is our child damaged beyond repair?” look, and I was in no hurry to see it again.
“Of course he remembers us,” I said. “Why wouldn’t he? We remember him. How could he forget us?”
Both Caro and Drew blinked at me, but I glanced away and tried to calm down. For years I had imagined Oliver coming home, what it would look like, and it never involved crêpes or him not remembering us. I crossed my fingers and knocked my hand softly against our wooden kitchen table, Oliver’s and my secret way to undo a jinx. We had made it up two weeks before he disappeared and I wasn’t about to let it go now.