The Disappearance of Abigail Flynn
one.
If I was younger, the police probably would have sat up in their seats when they received the call from my mother. The adrenaline would hit them instantly, and the officer on the line would start making hand gestures to their colleagues, gathering them to spread the news that a girl was missing.
In less than an hour, the word would spread. The PTA moms would meet up, make posters, and start plastering them all over town. Walls, windows, street lamps, pin boards in cafés - no surface would be safe from the moms on a mission to spread the word of the lost little girl. The neighbourhood watch would gather, too, along with everyone who was able to volunteer. Together with the police they would make a plan: Group A would go search here, Group B would look around there, etcetera, etcetera. They would even send a group to comb the woods on the edge of town, just to be sure.
My mother would find herself sitting in our living room, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. There’d be a police officer there, asking questions and offering reassurance and coffee. ‘We’re doing our best to find your little girl, Ma’am. Is this the most recent picture you have of your daughter?’ My brother would join my mother on the couch when he eventually rolled out of bed. He would be able to tell something was wrong right away, but play off his own anxiety as just being frustrated that he couldn’t focus on playing his video games with all the strangers in the house.
The street that I live on would go dead quiet except for the police presence. Every once in a while a neighbour would peek out their window, hoping to either catch some sort of the excitement or, more importantly, spot me. Maybe I was just in someone’s backyard playing hide and seek by myself, or going on some sort of imaginary adventure like kids do. If they found me, they’d be a hero. And if I wasn’t... Well, no one really wanted to think too hard about the fact I might have been kidnapped, or worse. But it was still there, in the back of everyone’s mind, threatening to destroy the peaceful image of our community.
In the early afternoon, all the church ladies would start dropping by, offering my mother large containers of home baked comfort food. Since they couldn’t go out and join the search parties or put up posters, this was their way of trying to offer support. And my mother would thank them, her voice wavering from all of her raging emotions. The older ladies would give my mother a hug and let her know they were praying for our family and my safe return.
I imagine it wouldn’t take them too long to find me. My discovery would come right before our local evening news. The anchor, Poppy Schmidt, would interrupt all the local stations, looking serious but like she could have just walked off the stage of a beauty pageant. Behind her, the volunteers would hug and shake hands and pat shoulders. She’d announce after a day on edge, the community finally found me and I was on my way to be reunited with my mom. Just like that, the small town would feel like it finally let go of that breath it had been holding in.
But that’s not how it happened.
The thing about going missing when you’re seventeen is that there’s probably more explanations than when you vanish at seven. I could have just run away, or spent the night at someone’s and forgot to tell my parents. I am probably out with friends or with a boy or causing mischief. No one’s first thought is that I’ve been kidnapped or gotten lost somewhere. They all think that I’ll turn up with a little time. Even good girls like me do stupid things sometimes. After all, isn’t that what teenagers do?
So when my mom called the police station at 8:45 on Saturday morning, the officer who answered took one look at the clock and said, “Well, she’s probably just at a friend’s. If you really want to file a report now, you’re welcome to. But she’ll probably come home later. You know kids, they like to sleep in.”
Normally, that dismissive tone would have had my mother on the defensive in a heartbeat. But I guess, when you’re filled with anxiety and you don’t actually know why and you really don’t want to be right when something inside you is telling you that something is wrong with daughter, you’ll try to accept any reasonable, safe explanation. I can’t blame my mother for not pushing then, even though I wish she would’ve.
If she had, maybe things would have turned out differently.
In less than an hour, the word would spread. The PTA moms would meet up, make posters, and start plastering them all over town. Walls, windows, street lamps, pin boards in cafés - no surface would be safe from the moms on a mission to spread the word of the lost little girl. The neighbourhood watch would gather, too, along with everyone who was able to volunteer. Together with the police they would make a plan: Group A would go search here, Group B would look around there, etcetera, etcetera. They would even send a group to comb the woods on the edge of town, just to be sure.
My mother would find herself sitting in our living room, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. There’d be a police officer there, asking questions and offering reassurance and coffee. ‘We’re doing our best to find your little girl, Ma’am. Is this the most recent picture you have of your daughter?’ My brother would join my mother on the couch when he eventually rolled out of bed. He would be able to tell something was wrong right away, but play off his own anxiety as just being frustrated that he couldn’t focus on playing his video games with all the strangers in the house.
The street that I live on would go dead quiet except for the police presence. Every once in a while a neighbour would peek out their window, hoping to either catch some sort of the excitement or, more importantly, spot me. Maybe I was just in someone’s backyard playing hide and seek by myself, or going on some sort of imaginary adventure like kids do. If they found me, they’d be a hero. And if I wasn’t... Well, no one really wanted to think too hard about the fact I might have been kidnapped, or worse. But it was still there, in the back of everyone’s mind, threatening to destroy the peaceful image of our community.
In the early afternoon, all the church ladies would start dropping by, offering my mother large containers of home baked comfort food. Since they couldn’t go out and join the search parties or put up posters, this was their way of trying to offer support. And my mother would thank them, her voice wavering from all of her raging emotions. The older ladies would give my mother a hug and let her know they were praying for our family and my safe return.
I imagine it wouldn’t take them too long to find me. My discovery would come right before our local evening news. The anchor, Poppy Schmidt, would interrupt all the local stations, looking serious but like she could have just walked off the stage of a beauty pageant. Behind her, the volunteers would hug and shake hands and pat shoulders. She’d announce after a day on edge, the community finally found me and I was on my way to be reunited with my mom. Just like that, the small town would feel like it finally let go of that breath it had been holding in.
But that’s not how it happened.
The thing about going missing when you’re seventeen is that there’s probably more explanations than when you vanish at seven. I could have just run away, or spent the night at someone’s and forgot to tell my parents. I am probably out with friends or with a boy or causing mischief. No one’s first thought is that I’ve been kidnapped or gotten lost somewhere. They all think that I’ll turn up with a little time. Even good girls like me do stupid things sometimes. After all, isn’t that what teenagers do?
So when my mom called the police station at 8:45 on Saturday morning, the officer who answered took one look at the clock and said, “Well, she’s probably just at a friend’s. If you really want to file a report now, you’re welcome to. But she’ll probably come home later. You know kids, they like to sleep in.”
Normally, that dismissive tone would have had my mother on the defensive in a heartbeat. But I guess, when you’re filled with anxiety and you don’t actually know why and you really don’t want to be right when something inside you is telling you that something is wrong with daughter, you’ll try to accept any reasonable, safe explanation. I can’t blame my mother for not pushing then, even though I wish she would’ve.
If she had, maybe things would have turned out differently.