“Oh! It’s Nanook!” It’s a husky stuffed animal that looks very loved. Its right front leg has a tear in the seam with stuffing coming out and its tail looks like it was sewn back on more than once. “You got this on the boardwalk. I had a dental convention in Atlantic City, so your father drove you kids up for the weekend and we went to Wildwood one night. You wanted this dog so bad, but you had to do that game where you shoot water in the fake clown’s mouth to blow up a balloon. Do you know that game?”
I decide that even post-kidnapping Nate would know that game, so I nod.
“Well, you felt bad about spraying water at the clown, so you didn’t want to play it but wanted the stuffed animal. I think your dad paidforty bucks for this thing just to bypass the game. Meanwhile Easton gladly sprayed the clown and won two prizes. Your dad also named him Nanook, but I don’t think we realized until after that it might be cultural appropriation since it’s an Inuit word. If you want to keep him, I’d consider a name change.”
She hands him off to me and I look at the fake blue eyes, trying to recall whether there was anything like either of these moments in my own childhood. My parents would never take me to Disney World. First, they didn’t have the money, but they also believed Disney was trying to corrupt children, pulling them further away from God. I’ve never even seen a Disney movie.
We did go to the carnival that was set up annually in the field between the church and the firehouse. But I didn’t get to play games. I’d work the church booth with my parents and collect donations or hand out prayer cards, cheap plastic rosaries, and small desk calendars with a picture of the church printed on them. Then they would let me spend the tickets we were “paid” with to go on some of the shoddily constructed rides.
And, yes, they had the water gun game.
Valencia pulls out every item in the box, explaining the stories behind them.
Nate’s baby book with pictures of the day he was born, four-year-old Easton kissing his forehead in a posed manner for the camera, and the first few years of Nate’s life. Class pictures from kindergarten and first grade. An old duck costume from the Mother Goose play he was in during first grade—“We thought you’d be taller than Easton, actually,” she says, holding up the flip-flops with orange plastic webbedfeet stapled to the thong. “We had to make these special for you because your feet were too big for the plastic duck shoes they bought.”
Listening to Valencia talk about Nate gives me conflicting emotions that I don’t know what to do with. On the one hand, I love listening to her talk about him. She does it with so much love and admiration, I can’t help but feel that same love from her. On the other, it makes me feel strange and uncomfortable because my real parents aren’t like this at all. They didn’t take any pictures of me growing up, they didn’t share fun stories—if they existed. My grandmother was the only person who ever showed me that family members could love each other.
It feels similar to all this.
And, yes, it’s not real and I have to keep telling myself that. BecauseI’mnot real. But sometimes—like when Valencia shows me the candid she took of Marcus cheering on Nate at peewee soccer—itfeelsreal. I know it’s not for me, but I wish it were.
For a second, I wish there were another world where I was born to the Beaumonts instead of to my parents. Even though Marcus was disappointed when he learned Nate didn’t like playing soccer, they supported Nate in whatever he wanted to do.
But then I remind myself we aren’t in that world, and Nateisreal. And he was kidnapped. Or even killed. And the person who did that might have been here earlier today.
Valencia looks up from the award Nate got in first grade—best line leader—her eyes glassy. She reaches out and rubs my neck lovingly.
“I want you to know that I’m proud of you. I always will be, no matter what.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I can’t speak because my chest is so full. So I nod. I want to believe her, but something won’t let me. It won’t let me trust that this is the truth coming out of her mouth, because Iknowthe truth.
Parents say they’re proud of you and they always will be, because they’re supposed to say that. But it’s not true. That unconditional love everyone spouts off aboutisconditional. Conditional on how they want you to live your life according to their own rules and beliefs.
I can’t help but wonder if six-year-old Nate ever did something that caused Valencia’s unconditional love to waver. If he hadn’t disappeared, would she even still feel this way about him?
She puts the award back in the box and glances at her watch. “I should get dinner started. Stay here and go through this stuff. See if there’s anything you want to pack away, throw out, or keep. Put whatever you don’t want to throw away in the box and we’ll put it in the attic with Easton’s stuff.”
Then she kisses the top of my head and leaves.
I find another photo, this one loose at the bottom of the box. It’s Valencia in front of a small office building with a sign that reads “Millbrook Dental Partners.” Valencia holds Nate in her arms while Easton stands beside her with his tongue out.
I want to believe Valencia that the Beaumonts had this picture-perfect little family, but something is stopping me. Maybe it’s my own trauma and, yeah, I should own that. It doesn’t feel like it’s that, though. My gut keeps telling me to run. That I can’t trust her. Can’t trust this family.
But I still can’t help butwantthat feeling of being loved by someone who is supposed to love you. And no matter how often I tell myself this is all fake, that need is still there. Whispering for me to let my guard down.
I only wish I had that love before this all happened. Maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation.
Twelve
Once Easton gets home a few hours later, the atmosphere of the house changes instantly. There are three voices downstairs—Easton, Valencia, and presumably JT. I’ve gone through a second box of Nate’s stuff, which held more stuffed animals, pictures, a participation trophy for soccer, and a karate outfit and white belt with a blue stripe of tape on it.
I put everything back in the boxes because I’m not throwing away any of Nate’s things, but also I might be able to use them later. If someone tells a story, I could come back up here and check the boxes to verify the truth.
When I get downstairs, Easton is drinking from a can of flavored seltzer, but his eyes lock right on me as if he heard me coming even over JT’s loud, boisterous voice.
He nods at me, but JT keeps speaking—about farming, apparently? He’s talking about crop yield and distribution rights to Valencia, who is doing her best to seem interested. I’ve only known her for two days, but even I can tell she’s just being polite.
She also locks eyes with me, but unlike Easton, it’s not in greeting; it’s aplease help melook.
