Love You More

14

When Sophie was almost three, she locked herself in the trunk of my police cruiser. This happened before I ever met Brian, so I had only myself to blame.

We were living across the hall from Mrs. Ennis at the time. It was late fall, when the sun faded earlier and the nights were growing colder. Sophie and I had been outside, where we’d walked to the park and back. Now it was dinnertime, and I was fussing in the kitchen while assuming she was playing in the family room, where the TV was blaring Curious George.

I’d made a small salad, part of my program to introduce more vegetables into my child’s diet. Then I’d grilled two chicken breasts and baked Ore-Ida French fries-my compromise, Sophie could have her beloved fries as long as she ate some salad first.

This project took me twenty, twenty-five minutes. But a busy twenty-five minutes. I was occupied and apparently not paying attention to my toddler because when I walked into the family room to announce it was time for dinner, my child wasn’t there.

I didn’t panic right away. I’d like to say it was because I was a trained police officer, but it had more to do with being Sophie’s mom. Sophie started running at thirteen months and hadn’t slowed down since. She was the child who disappeared in grocery stores, bolted away from park swing sets, and made a quick beeline through a sea of legs in a crowded mall, whether I was following or not. In the past six months, I’d already lost Sophie several times. In a matter of minutes, however, we always found each other again.

I started with the basics-a quick walk through our tiny one bedroom. I called her name, then for good measure, checked the cupboards in the bathroom, both closets, and under the bed. She wasn’t in the apartment.

I checked the front door, which, sure enough, I’d forgotten to bolt, meaning the entire apartment complex had just become fair game. I crossed the hall, cursing myself silently and feeling the growing frustration that comes from being an overstretched single parent, responsible for all things at all times, whether I was up to the challenge or not.

I knocked on Mrs. Ennis’s door. No, Sophie wasn’t there, but she swore she’d just seen Sophie playing outside.

Outside I went. Sun had gone down. Streetlights blazed, as well as the spotlights on the front of the apartment building. It was never truly dark in a city like Boston. I took that to heart as I walked around the squat brick complex, calling my daughter’s name. When no laughing child came running around the corner, no high-pitched giggles erupted from a nearby bush, I grew more concerned.

I started to shiver. It was cold, I didn’t have a jacket, and given that I remembered seeing Sophie’s raspberry-colored fleece hanging next to the door in our apartment, she didn’t have a coat either.

My heart accelerated. I took a deep, steadying breath, trying to fight a growing well of dread. The whole time I’d been pregnant with Sophie, I’d lived in a state of fear. I hadn’t felt the miracle of life growing in my body. Instead, I saw the photo of my dead baby brother, a marble white newborn with bright red lips.

When I’d gone into labor, I didn’t think I’d be able to breathe through the terror clutching my throat. I would fail, my baby would die, there was no hope, no hope, no hope.

Except, then there was Sophie. Perfect, mottled red, screaming loudly Sophie. Warm and slippery and achingly beautiful as I cradled her against my breast.

My daughter was tough. And fearless and impulsive.

You didn’t panic with a kid like Sophie. You strategized: What would Sophie do?

I returned to the apartment complex, performed a quick door-to-door canvass. Most of my neighbors weren’t home from work yet; the few that answered hadn’t seen Sophie. I moved fast now, footsteps with purpose.

Sophie liked the park and might head there, except we’d already spent an afternoon playing on the swings and even she’d been ready to leave at the end. She liked the corner store and was positively fascinated by the Laundromat-she loved to watch the clothes spin.

I decided to head back upstairs. Another quick walk-through of our apartment to determine if anything else might be missing-a special toy, her favorite purse. Then I’d grab my car keys and tour the block.

I made it just inside the door, then discovered what she’d taken: The keys to my police cruiser were no longer sitting in the change dish.

This time, I hauled ass out of the apartment and down the front steps. Toddlers and police cruisers didn’t mix. Forget the radio, lights, and sirens in the front. I had a shotgun in the trunk.

I ran to the passenger’s side, peering in from the sidewalk. The interior of the cruiser appeared empty. I tried the door, but it was locked. I walked around more carefully, heart pounding, breathing shallow as I inspected each door and window. No sign of activity. Locked, locked, locked.

But she’d taken the keys. Think like Sophie. What button might she have hit on the key fob? What might she have done?

Then I heard her. A thump, thump, thump from the trunk. She was inside, banging against the lid.

“Sophie?” I called out.

The thumping stopped.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, Sophie. Mommy’s here. Honey,” my voice had risen shrilly, despite my best intentions. “Are you all right?”

“Mommy,” my child replied calmly from inside the locked trunk. “Stuck, Mommy. Stuck.”

I closed my eyes, exhaling my pent-up breath. “Sophie, honey,” I said as firmly as I could. “I need you to listen to Mommy. Don’t touch anything.”

“ ‘Kay.”

“Do you still have the keys?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Are they in your hand?”

“No touching!”

“Well, you can touch the keys, honey. Hold the keys, just don’t touch anything else.”

“Stuck, Mommy. Stuck.”

“I understand, honey. Would you like to get out?”

“Yes!”

“Okay. Hold the keys. Find a button with your thumb. Push it.”

I heard a click as Sophie did as she was told. I ran to the front door to check. Of course, she’d hit the lock key.

“Sophie, honey,” I called back. “Button next to it! Hit that one!”

Another click, and the front door unlocked. Expelling another breath, I opened the door, found the latch for the trunk and released it. Seconds later, I was standing above my daughter, who was curled up as a pink puddle in the middle of the metal locker holding my backup shotgun and a black duffel bag filled with ammo and additional policing gear.

“Are you all right?” I demanded to know.

My daughter yawned, held out her arms to me. “Hungry!”

I scooped her out of the trunk, placed her on her feet on the sidewalk, where she promptly shivered from the chill.

“Mommy,” she started to whine.

“Sophie!” I interrupted firmly, feeling the first edge of anger now that my child was out of immediate danger. “Listen to me.” I took the keys from her, held them up, shook them hard. “These are not yours. You never touch these keys. Do you understand? No touching!”

Sophie’s lower lip jutted out. “No touching,” she warbled. The full extent of what she’d done seemed to penetrate. Her face fell, she stared at the sidewalk.

“You do not leave the apartment without telling me! Look me in the eye. Repeat that. Tell Mommy.”

She looked up at me with liquid blue eyes. “No leave. Tell Mommy,” she whispered.

Reprimand delivered, I gave in to the past ten minutes of terror, scooped her back into my arms, and held her tight. “Don’t scare Mommy like that,” I whispered against the top of her head. “Seriously, Sophie. I love you. I never want to lose you. You are my Sophie.”

In response her tiny fingers dug into my shoulders, clutched me back.

After another moment, I set her down. I should’ve set the bolt lock, I reminded myself. And I’d have to move my keys to the top of a cabinet, or perhaps add them to the gun safe. More things to remember. More management in an already overstretched life.

My eyes stung a little, but I didn’t cry. She was my Sophie. And I loved her.

“Weren’t you scared?” I asked as I took her hand and led her back to the apartment for our now cold dinner.

“No, Mommy.”

“Not even locked in the dark?”

“No, Mommy.”

“Really? You’re a brave girl, Sophie Leoni.”

She squeezed my hand. “Mommy come,” she said simply. “I know. Mommy come for me.”

I reminded myself of that evening now, as I lay trapped in a hospital room, surrounded by beeping monitors and the constant hum of a busy medical center. Sophie was tough. Sophie was brave. My daughter was not terrified of the dark, as I’d let the detectives believe. I wanted them to fear for her, and I wanted them to feel for her. Anything that would make them work that much harder, bring her home that much sooner.

I needed Bobby and D.D., whether they believed me or not. My daughter needed them, especially given that her superhero mother currently couldn’t stand without vomiting.

It went against the grain, but there it was: My daughter was in jeopardy, lost in the dark. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

One a.m.

I fisted my hand around the blue button, held it tight.

“Sophie, be brave,” I whispered in the semi-darkened room, willing my body to heal faster. “Mommy’s coming. Mommy will always come for you.”

Then I forced myself to review the past thirty-six hours. I considered the full tragedy of the days behind. Then I contemplated the full danger of the days ahead.

Work the angles, anticipate the obstacles, get one step ahead.

Brian’s autopsy had been moved to first thing in the morning. A Pyrrhic victory-I had gotten my way, and in doing so, had certainly stuck my own head in the noose.

But it also fast-forwarded the timeline, took some of the control from them and gave it back to me.

Nine hours, I figured. Nine hours to physically recover, then ready or not, the games began.

I thought of Brian, dying on the kitchen floor. I thought of Sophie, snatched from our home.

Then I allowed myself one last moment to mourn my husband. Because once upon a time, we’d been happy.

Once upon a time, we’d been a family.