Journals serve several purposes. Among other things, I sometimes use mine to reflect on and heal memories. A case in point is the year when my two-year-old grandson went missing. That was the scariest day of my life. Like every parent whose child suddenly vanished, I lived my darkest fear. I envisioned missing child flyers with my baby’s face stapled on tree trunks, taped on store windows, and the Amber Alert system broadcasting citywide. The thought of my darling grandbaby frightened, alone, and defenseless in a world infested with child predators and other twisted evil-doers sickened me.
Although that unsettling event occurred over three decades ago, every time the memory of it resurfaces, as it often does, not only do I relive it, it sends a shiver down my spine as if it happened yesterday.
It was a late afternoon that spring day when my daughter, her two toddler sons, Ken and Donnie, aged one and two, and I walked to the mini-mall two blocks from my home. Like numerous other mini-malls in the city, the one in my neighborhood occupies about half a block and includes an aging market, dry cleaners, a nail salon, and four or five other frequently changing small businesses.
When we reached the mall, my daughter and I split up. She went to the market with the two little ones alongside her while I went to check out a recently opened Peoples Drug Store a few feet away. We agreed to meet outside the drugstore in five minutes. After browsing for a few minutes, I bought a few things and went back outside. My daughter was already waiting for me; Donnie was by her side.
Her eyes widened when she saw me, and I realized why after she asked me, “Ma, where’s Ken?”
“What? I thought he was with you,” I said.
“No,” She said. “I had Donnie; I thought you took Ken with you. He must have followed you.”
A knot began tightening in my stomach as fear gripped me like a vis.
She and I rushed back inside the stores we had just left. I searched aisle-by-aisle for Ken to no avail and then told myself that my daughter
had surely located him in the market, so I headed there. When my daughter saw me approaching without Ken, panic spread across her face. Suddenly, we were experiencing every parent’s worse nightmare.
Usually, when we took the kids out, we always held their hands. But, that day, for whatever reason, after we crossed the street and reached the mini-mall, we let loose their hands, letting them walk alongside us, ignoring what every parent knows – or should know – full well that if you are not gripping your child’s hand, you’d better not blink.
We decided to split up and look for Ken, going in opposite directions along the sidewalk. My daughter walked north, gently pulling Donnie along. I went south. My heart was racing. The street was uncrowded, making it easier to spot and study any small child I saw walking alone or accompanied by an adult. I glanced in the doorways of the few buildings on the block, returned to the mini-mall parking lot, and peered between the parked cars. And even though I figured it was a long shot that Ken had crossed the busy avenue, I looked to the other side of the street. He had to be on this block, I told myself. Fear was gripping me, so I could barely walk.
Suddenly frantic, I was about to tell my daughter that we should call the police when squealing tires made me freeze in place. I was afraid to look in the direction of the sound, but when I did, I was relieved to see a car driven by an impatient driver racing through the intersection to beat the light.
Seconds later, when I looked forward again, I spotted my precious little small fry. I don’t know where he came from, but Ken suddenly stood near the blue USPS mailbox a few feet away as if he dropped from the sky. With his back to me, he turned his head left and right, looking for us or perhaps trying to decide how to get home. A couple of pedestrians side-stepped him as he strolled toward the intersection.
“Ken!” I called him. He didn’t look back but maintained a snail’s pace as he moved toward the curb. As I hurried toward him, I looked at the traffic light facing us and was glad it was red. But, of course, traffic lights don’t mean a thing to a child who has never been outside alone and doesn’t know how to cross the street.
“Ken!” I shouted louder. He turned around just as I reached out and grabbed his arm. Although I didn’t intend to frighten him, it was obvious that I did. The little fellow’s big brown wide eyes welled with tears, and although he appeared to relax when he realized it was me, he gave me a pouty look. I was so glad to see him that I felt like doing a happy dance, but I didn’t. Instead, I picked him up, hugged him tightly, and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus!” as I stood him back on his feet.
Then, Ken muttered the heartbreaking words I will never forget, “Grandma, you lost me.”
“I’m so sorry, Ken. We didn’t mean to lose you.” I said.
I stooped and hugged him again as an elderly woman with a cane walked around us, and my daughter, who had been near the other end of the block when she heard me calling Ken, had joined us. She hugged her baby too.
As careful as we had always been with the children, I know my daughter promised herself, as I did, to be extra vigilant from then on. We never wanted to relive that horrifying experience again.
Ken is a grown man now and says he only remembers that day because he’s heard about it so many times. Whenever he visits me, and I start telling someone else about that frightful event, he playfully rolls his eyes as if to say, “Here we go again.”
I’m glad we can all laugh about it now because Ken’s story could have had a different and tragic ending.
