I want to add that there’s nothing impressive about a psychologist who failed to help her own child.
“Wouldn’t it have been something if you worked here? We do great things for the kids, and your skill sets would find the perfect home.”
“Maybe if I lived in town.” I don’t want to dampen her enthusiasm, but I’d never work in a place that reminds me so much of what may have happened to my daughter.
We turn a corner, passing several dorm rooms until we arrive at one positioned at the very end of the hallway, with a narrow window beside the door.
Through it I catch sight of a group of children playing volleyball on the beach. Their bare feet kick up sand as they lunge for the ball. Beyond them, the tide rolls in and out, and farther still, a white sailboat cuts through the blue water while two seagulls circle overhead, their wings silver in the sun.
“We’re here,” Megan says finally. “This is the room. Ready?”
I nod and she unlocks it. The room is dim, so she pulls back the blinds to let the light in.
There’s really not much to see aside from four bunk beds covered in baby-blue sheets, two bare desks, and three wardrobes. One of the wardrobe doors is half-open and I spot a few empty hangers inside.
“Which bed?” I ask through my tight throat.
“The one by the window.”
I hold my breath as I scan it for any sign that Sadie was here, but of course there’s nothing. “Doesn’t anyone stay in here anymore?” It feels a little cold and untouched.
“Of course. We just don’t have enough kids right now to fill all the rooms.” She folds her arms as though she feels the chill too. “Shall we get back to the other side? You should get some rest.”
“Would you mind if I stay a moment in here…alone?”
“Sure. I’ll step outside.”
The moment she walks out, I grab the notebook and pen I shoved into my jeans pocket before leaving my room and scribble a quick note. If Megan sees me do this, she’ll think I’m crazy, but I have to do something. The alternative is this crushing helplessness.
Sadie Sutton, if you see this, call me. We want you to come home, please. We miss you. Mom
Even though my number hasn’t changed in six months and she knew it by heart, I write it down anyway then slide the note beneath one of the mattresses, tucking it just far enough to be hidden.
“Feel any better?” Megan asks when I emerge. I force a nod.
“I’m glad.” She embraces me with an unexpected intensity that leaves me a little breathless.
As we walk back in the direction we came from, I stop and turn to look back. “I’d really love to see the room we used to stay in.” I actually thought she would show it to me without my prompting. “Room seventeen, right?” I ask, already changing direction.
Without waiting for her answer, I’m moving, my feet remembering the way, past the next corner, toward the fire exit. Muscle memory guides my steps.
“Judy, wait!” Megan hurries after me, catching my arm. She’s breathing hard. “That room—it doesn’t exist anymore.”
I stop. “What do you mean?”
“It’s in the process of being repurposed. It will be turned into a recreation room. In fact, this entire hallway is under renovation. We’re currently in a restricted area.”
I frown at her. “That’s odd. The map still shows it as a dorm room.” I push forward, my legs unsteady beneath me. “I just want one peek. Won’t take a minute.”
My pace quickens despite the dizziness, and as I round the corner, memories flood back. That first night in room 17, the pond glimmering outside the window, the unfamiliar safety of walls around me, the luxury of closing my eyes without fearing what might happen while I slept on the streets.
“The signage needs updating. We should really get you back to your room. You don’t look well.”
I push forward until I reach a stretch of hallway cordoned off with red caution tape, strung loosely from one wall to the other.
A plastic-covered notice dangles from the center of the tape.area closed: construction underway.
Ignoring the warning, I duck beneath the tape.
