But what if I were just a child?
The thought made some visceral understanding move in me, because my salvation as a human had come from being a mom. Each birth had been baptism by my own blood, each baby a redemption by sudden, utter, overwhelming love—really, my only experience of ever falling in love. I had raised two sons, and I remembered what it was like for boys around thirteen, fourteen years old, still thinking in terms of absolute rules without compromise, still believing in a kind of magic whether white or black, still thinking the world revolved around them, that they were the axis of the universe. But that also meant everything that went wrong was somehow their fault. At that age a boy was still vulnerable, still very much a child, but trying to act like a macho man, to be one of the gang, and if he showed tender feelings, somebody was sure to call him a sissy—
Oh, my God.
All in a moment, and with a stab of pain as if the knowledge had raped my heart, I understood Justin. He couldn’t contact his parents because he had not yet been a parent himself. He honestly thought he deserved punishment for having gotten into trouble, or even worse, that Mom and Dad must not love him or want him anymore. He felt smelly and slimy, like garbage, toilet paper, worse than worthless. He did not know that, even after the passing of time, he was still a victim. He knew only that the worst thing in his world was to be so fundamentally screwed.
• • •
Immediately after she saw Justin’s face on the TV screen and heard the announcer respectfully airing the ad, Amy left Chad in front of the TV and ran upstairs to what used to be the guest bedroom but was now the Justin Bradley Search Headquarters. There, amid walls covered with posters for community rallies, she sat down at the computer flanked by gray metal file cabinets loaded with printouts, clippings, phone tips, leads, ideas for possible leads, contacts with the police, all the paperwork generated by the search for Justin, and, most recently, guardian angels hand carved from cypress knobs. She knew they freaked Chad out and she didn’t expect him to come in. Even before the advent of the angels, he had often said he felt mildly claustrophobic in the small room with piles of scrap paper by the printer, boxes of flyers on the floor, folding tables for multiline telephones dedicated to 1-800-4JUSTIN. But to Amy it was the one room in the house where she felt most at home.
The phones started to ring even before she had grabbed a pen and a long pad of yellow legal-sized paper. Tips came in so fast that Amy had to put several people on hold. Fervidly she hoped they wouldn’t hang up. Just as she thought, angrily, that Chad ought to be helping her no matter what he thought of her and the TV ad, she heard him coming up the stairs. Amy tried to catch his eye and smile a thank-you, but he wouldn’t look at her; he just got to work. Talking to callers, he sounded plastic polite, like a telemarketer.
Within ten minutes, the spate of phone calls slowed to a stop. Amy sat back to review sheet after sheet of yellow paper scrawled with—with nothing of any use, really. Calls from people who thought they might have seen Justin someplace a month ago or six months ago if they could just remember where. Also there had been the vague insights of earnest self-proclaimed psychics, which she no longer bothered to write down.
She took a deep breath, then lifted her eyes to face the man who had always been her true love. “You got anything, honey?”
He shot her a look that said clearer than words, No, are you kidding? “Amy,” he told her, “the only reason I’m here is if somebody had hung up, you would have thought for sure that call was the one.”
“Well, it could have been,” she retorted before she could stop herself. “Sweetie, it’s not over. There could be more calls. If just one good lead comes in—”
He turned his back on her and walked out of the room.
“Just one person!” she shouted after him. “All it would take is just one person!”
FIVE
Feeding me a pink salami sandwich on cheap white bread for lunch, Justin wouldn’t look at me or speak to me.
“There’s no reason for you to be angry,” I said.
He gave me no response except silence and averted eyes. Just the same, something about the stillness of his face told me he wasn’t angry, not really. He just didn’t want to talk to me anymore. Didn’t want to get to know me as a friend. Didn’t want to care about anything that happened to me.
Which meant he did care.
It also meant I had to shatter his silence so he would care more.
“Justin,” I began, “did your parents beat you?”
“No!” Shocked, he not only yelled, but he faced me. “Hell, no, my parents are good people! They would never beat us. They—” His voice cracked.