“Sure, we’ll keep an eye on him,” they said. “Go ahead, take her in to the bathroom.”
Her tiny hand clutched mine, gritty with sand. Both monogrammed totes sat sentry next to the playground bench and the two mothers. The squeaks of the swing chains hung in the cold air, mingling with happy shrieks and sneakers squealing down plastic slides. It was the usual comforting cacophony of happy children and chatting mothers.
Silence greeted us in the school building, and I waited in the bathroom while A did her business. We washed our hands quickly in the freezing water that gushed too quickly from the tap, spattering our shirts.
Her tiny hand in mine was slippery, not quite dry from the rough brown paper towels. I clutched it until we got to the gate, and she slid away from me and ran to the sandbox.
Wiping my hands on my jeans, I noticed the playground had quieted. The swings hung empty. The air was still but for the murmur of the mothers’ voices.
I rejoined them and we talked, eyes roaming; lifeguards on land. Was that a flash of a green shirt? Was that his laugh?
“Where’s G?” I asked them.
“Oh, he was right here just a second ago….”
Three heads swiveled as one as I called his name.
“There he is,” one sad, as a blond head and green shirt appeared over the edge of a climbing wall.
Sun glinted on hair that was too dark and too long, on green that was a shade too green, and I remembered: G does not play on the climbing wall.
Too still, too sharp, too bright.
Sometimes, a mother knows.
I ran to look behind every tree, under every slide, around every corner.
“G!” I yelled. “G!”
The totes mocked me, side by side, as I grabbed A’s tiny hand, gritty again. My other hand groped beside me, a reflex, seeking her twin and finding thin air. The world was unbalanced, and as it began to whirl around us, I felt G in my arms as an infant. Downy tufts of hair, that sweet milky scent, his laughing gurgle.
Around us, four mothers raced in circles, each yelling for my son. Each getting only silence in return. One turned to run to the mostly empty parking lot, and as she did, I saw my own look of panic mirrored in her eyes.
A’s hand was my sea anchor, and I clutched it until I heard her, “Mommy, ow!” And then, she noticed her other half was gone. She began to look back and forth, frantic, like a spectator at Wimbledon on fast-forward. “MOMMY! Where’s my brother?”
She pulled her hand free of mine and raced the edge of the playground like a greyhound. “G! Where are you? G!”
Never apart. Two swaddled burrito shapes, nestled into one crib, faces turned to each other. Smiling toddlers always holding hands. Must kiss each other goodnight before every nap and every night. Two parts, but one whole.
One gaping hole.
One hole where I failed as a mother, where someone snatched my precious boy right off this safe haven of a playground, beneath the noses of two of my friends.
“We’ve got him!”
“He’s right here!”
My heart.
Exploded.
Because the first one to the boy in the green shirt was his twin sister.
Ggah. I haven't had that moment with son yet, but I'm dreading it. I know it has to happen at least once.
It was truly terrifying. While he was playing, he decided he had to go to the bathroom, too, so he ducked into a door to another part of the building and went. The door was behind a piece of playground equipment so the moms watching him couldn't see him go in. It was also supposed to be locked.
Now for the fun of explaining to the kids that there are “bad guys” in real life. I hate that we live in a world where it's necessary to do this at such a young age. But I understand it, and so I'll do it.
Hoping your moment is far, far away.
Oh my gosh. My heart burst reading this. It stopped. It started. It found it's way directly into my throat. You captured the panic perfectly.
When my son disappeared in the hardware store, I couldn't breathe — I just ran and ran around calling and terrified. He was behind the kitchen cabinets.
The picture of your A getting there first made my heart melt.
@Law Momma, thank you. I felt it again while I wrote this. Utter, abject panic.
@Alex, that moment is the worst. That feeling of utter helplessness, where all you can do is call the child's name and flap around like a bird…it's awful.
As for A, that was what got me, too. Seeing her panic at realizing I was scared, seeing her looking truly incomplete without her brother, then seeing her run to him. I could cry thinking of it.
Okay, my heart is pounding just reading this. I can imagine. I really can.
Great ending though – both the outcome and the writing.
this was a LITERAL exploded moment…it was so vivid…so real! in fact, I found myself racing through it…much as you were racing to find G. Excellent pace and tone!
plus, I am a sucker for word play…so whole becoming hole? I die of love.
@mamarobinj–yay! I don't usually make it my goal to panic people, but I wanted you to feel the moment. So pounding hearts are good!
@Katie, so glad you liked the whole becoming hole. It was my favorite part and I was hoping someone would enjoy it. Seriously, your assignment just brought this out somehow, in a much different way than I normally would have written it. Thanks for the inspiration!
oh… I held my breath.
truly. I've been there, too. scary as hell.
How terrifying! I'm sorry you had to go through that. My heart was in my throat the entire time just reading it.
Too scary…and of course the first one to him was his sister. That's just how they operate. I have b/g twins too and it's amazing the intuition that I've started to witness.
I was absolutely sick to my stomach reading this until all was resolved. And then had tears in my eyes at the bond between your two children.
Nothing touches that stomach-dropping realization that your child is missing. Thank God you found him. How sweet to see how close those two are.