Picture Us In The Light(92)

On the plane, the two of them sitting stiff and frozen in their seats, their grief too huge to fit into the whole vast land beneath them, my mom said, “Our daughter is dead.”

My dad protested. He wanted to try again. But my mom insisted: now I was all they had in life. I was their only child. Their daughter was gone, and now they had a son who needed them, who had no one else in the world, and so they would give her up. They would consider her dead, and they would bury her.

They didn’t know whether the adoption agency would have contacted the parents whose names were given out. Maybe they did, and maybe that’s why the Ballards were so instantly wary of my parents. Either way, the Ballards had gotten that photo of them; they’d gotten a picture of the rental car’s license plate. It was only a matter of time before the authorities showed up at their registered address in Texas.

And so they went to California, where they weren’t expected, to be close to her. Even if they could never see her, even if their paths would never cross, something in them pulled them closer. California was big enough and Asian enough that no one would find them there; no one would think to look for them. They would go and change their names and change their identities, and they’d give up everything for their son. For me. They’d hope to cross paths with her someday, maybe, but then life went on, and that dream sputtered and died.

They knew the Ballards were still looking for them. There was the plainclothes detective who’d come by right before we left Texas, the police report they saw. There was the blog post Sheila Ballard wrote and then deleted (then deleted the whole blog) about how they’d never feel safe and she’d never relax until my parents were behind bars.

It’s not that I didn’t feel my sister there, even before my mom told me she was dead, because I did. I felt the way they grieved, but I was always wrong about what it was for. I thought it was for a dead sister whose body had long ago broken down, her molecules dissipating back into the world, but I was wrong. It was the grief of parents who chose one child over another, who chose me as the one who lived.





It’s six in the morning when I slip past my mom, who’s passed out on the couch, and walk out to the concrete stairwell and call Harry. He’s probably not up yet, but it’s the longest I could possibly wait. I haven’t slept all night.

He’s groggy when he answers. I say, “Did I wake you up?”

“No.”

He’s lying. I can’t tell from his voice, though, if it’s just that or that he doesn’t want to talk to me. Maybe, unlike me, he hasn’t been waiting for his phone to ring.

I tell him all of it, keeping my voice low, watching a pair of birds descend onto the dumpsters in the parking lot below. I feel like I’m talking forever. I can feel the force of his silence emanating back at me—that he’s stunned within it, at a loss, for once, for words.

Or maybe I’m wrong there. Maybe it’s just that I already lost him.

“I need to know if it’s her,” I say. “I can’t just sit here and wonder.”

“What are you going to do? Are you going to talk to her?”

I found out she’s stationed at the Tule Field Station on a fellowship. It’s in the Modoc National Forest, just outside Alturas, way up in the far northeast corner of the state four hundred miles from here. “She’s in California. I have to find a way to get to her.”

Silence on his end again. “Where is she exactly?”

“Near Oregon. It’s seven or eight hours by car.”

“Ah.”

The thing about asking someone for something huge is that you can’t take back the request—if they turn you down, you can’t ever pretend away that gap between what you stupidly thought they might give you and what you’re actually worth to them. I jam my free hand into my pocket and kick at a pebble on the concrete. “Will you take me?” I say to him, before I lose my nerve. “I know it’s far, but if it is really my sister—”

“It’s eight hours?”

“Yeah.”

He could hang up on me, and I’d probably deserve it. He could also make me wait, or he could try to extract something from me first. He does neither one.

“Yeah, sure, of course I’ll take you,” he says instead. “Just say when.”



I shower and pack an overnight bag just in case while I’m waiting for Harry. I try to contain the noise as much as I can, peeking out every couple minutes to check whether my mom is still sleeping.

In my room, I write a note: Going to Alturas with Harry. I’ll be careful, I promise. Don’t be worried. My phone lights up with Harry’s text telling me he’s downstairs.

I haven’t lived here long enough to learn the creaky parts of the floor, and I stay light on my feet. I hit a loud spot near the kitchen and freeze. My mom stirs, and my heart explodes against my chest. I stand perfectly still. She stays asleep.

I get to the door and reach for the deadbolt, turning it slowly and cringing at its soft metallic click. My mom stays asleep.

I turn the knob and the door creaks open. The couch springs groan.

“Daniel?” My mom sits up, squinting at me. “What are you doing?”

My heart slams into my throat. “I’m—” My voice cracks. I cough. “I’m taking out the trash,” I lie. She doesn’t have her glasses on; she can’t tell what I’m holding. I imagine her panic when she finds my empty bed, my phone and wallet gone, how she’ll hold her breath each time footsteps come falling down the hallway.