photo editing? How much did that tourist get for selling them to that Tell-All rag?
A man entering the restroom looked at Ted sympathetically. Ted exited quickly, not wanting to engage in conversation. If those photos turn out to be phonies, I’ll look despicable for attacking Zan the way I did, he thought in near despair. I’m supposed to be a master of public relations when it comes to crisis management.
He had to talk to Melissa. He would meet her. He had time to go home, change his shirt, and meet her at Lola’s. If the media was waiting outside, he would tell them that, on reflection, he abjectly begged Matthew’s mother’s pardon that he had been so quick to believe she had abducted their son.
Bracing himself, he walked out the lobby door where, as he had expected, camera crews were waiting for him. A microphone was stuck in his face. “Please,” he said, “I want to make a statement but can’t if you won’t give me room.”
As the shouted questions diminished, he took the microphone from the hand of one reporter. His voice firm, he said, “First, I must apologize to Matthew’s mother, my former wife, Alexandra Moreland, for my unspeakable behavior this evening. Both of us are desperate to find our little boy. When I heard that there were photographs in existence showing that Matthew’s mother had taken him, I quite literally lost it. A moment of reflection would have made me realize that those photos have got to be fake, or doctored, whatever name you want to give it.”
Ted paused, then added, “I am so sure that the photos are a hoax that I am going now to meet my client, the talented and beautiful Melissa Knight, for dinner at Lola’s Café. As you can see, in my unfortunate response to hearing about those pictures, I spilled wine on my shirt. I am going home to change, then to Lola’s.”
Ted could not conceal a tremor in his voice. “My son, Matthew, is five years old today. Neither his mother nor I believe that he is dead. Someone, perhaps a lonely woman who desperately wanted a child and seized the opportunity to steal him, is with him at this moment. If that person is watching us, please tell Matthew how much Mommy and Daddy love him and long to see him again.”
The reporters kept a respectful silence as Ted walked to the curb where Larry Post, his high school friend and long-time driver, was holding the car door of the backseat open for him.
14
A fter Josh left her, Zan went upstairs, double-locked the door of the apartment, and stripped off her clothes, wrapping herself in her warm old bathrobe as she had done when she woke up in the morning. The message light was blinking on the telephone. She walked over and turned off the ringer. For the rest of the night, she sat in the bedroom chair with one single light shining on Matthew’s picture. Her eyes searched each feature of his face longingly.
The spike of hair that by now had probably developed into a cowlick. The hint of red in that mop of sandy hair. Was he now an outand-out redhead?
He had always been a friendly child, sunny and welcoming to strangers, not like some children who are naturally shy at age three. Dad was an extrovert, Zan thought. So was Mother. What happened to me?
So many of those months after they died are a blur. Now they are saying that I took Matthew out of his stroller that day.
“Did I?” she whispered aloud.
The shock of the question, the enormity that she could actually voice it, stunned her. She forced herself to ask the logical next question. “But if I took him, what did I do with him?”
She had no answer.
I would never have hurt him, she told herself. I never laid a finger on him. Even when I had given him a “time out” if he was behaving badly, my heart would melt for him, sitting in his little chair, looking so miserable.
Is Ted right? Do I wallow in self-pity and want other people to pity me? Does he mean that I’m one of those crazy mothers who harm their children because they need
A man entering the restroom looked at Ted sympathetically. Ted exited quickly, not wanting to engage in conversation. If those photos turn out to be phonies, I’ll look despicable for attacking Zan the way I did, he thought in near despair. I’m supposed to be a master of public relations when it comes to crisis management.
He had to talk to Melissa. He would meet her. He had time to go home, change his shirt, and meet her at Lola’s. If the media was waiting outside, he would tell them that, on reflection, he abjectly begged Matthew’s mother’s pardon that he had been so quick to believe she had abducted their son.
Bracing himself, he walked out the lobby door where, as he had expected, camera crews were waiting for him. A microphone was stuck in his face. “Please,” he said, “I want to make a statement but can’t if you won’t give me room.”
As the shouted questions diminished, he took the microphone from the hand of one reporter. His voice firm, he said, “First, I must apologize to Matthew’s mother, my former wife, Alexandra Moreland, for my unspeakable behavior this evening. Both of us are desperate to find our little boy. When I heard that there were photographs in existence showing that Matthew’s mother had taken him, I quite literally lost it. A moment of reflection would have made me realize that those photos have got to be fake, or doctored, whatever name you want to give it.”
Ted paused, then added, “I am so sure that the photos are a hoax that I am going now to meet my client, the talented and beautiful Melissa Knight, for dinner at Lola’s Café. As you can see, in my unfortunate response to hearing about those pictures, I spilled wine on my shirt. I am going home to change, then to Lola’s.”
Ted could not conceal a tremor in his voice. “My son, Matthew, is five years old today. Neither his mother nor I believe that he is dead. Someone, perhaps a lonely woman who desperately wanted a child and seized the opportunity to steal him, is with him at this moment. If that person is watching us, please tell Matthew how much Mommy and Daddy love him and long to see him again.”
The reporters kept a respectful silence as Ted walked to the curb where Larry Post, his high school friend and long-time driver, was holding the car door of the backseat open for him.
14
A fter Josh left her, Zan went upstairs, double-locked the door of the apartment, and stripped off her clothes, wrapping herself in her warm old bathrobe as she had done when she woke up in the morning. The message light was blinking on the telephone. She walked over and turned off the ringer. For the rest of the night, she sat in the bedroom chair with one single light shining on Matthew’s picture. Her eyes searched each feature of his face longingly.
The spike of hair that by now had probably developed into a cowlick. The hint of red in that mop of sandy hair. Was he now an outand-out redhead?
He had always been a friendly child, sunny and welcoming to strangers, not like some children who are naturally shy at age three. Dad was an extrovert, Zan thought. So was Mother. What happened to me?
So many of those months after they died are a blur. Now they are saying that I took Matthew out of his stroller that day.
“Did I?” she whispered aloud.
The shock of the question, the enormity that she could actually voice it, stunned her. She forced herself to ask the logical next question. “But if I took him, what did I do with him?”
She had no answer.
I would never have hurt him, she told herself. I never laid a finger on him. Even when I had given him a “time out” if he was behaving badly, my heart would melt for him, sitting in his little chair, looking so miserable.
Is Ted right? Do I wallow in self-pity and want other people to pity me? Does he mean that I’m one of those crazy mothers who harm their children because they need
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