Missing Persons by Clare O'Donohue Page B

door.
    There was a poster taped to the door, a photo of Theresa, with the words “Have you seen our daughter?” above the photo. I couldn’t imagine being reminded of a lost child every time I walked in or out of my house, but then, the Morettis probably didn’t need the poster to remind them. They needed it to remind everyone else.
    Theresa’s mom, Linda Moretti, welcomed me as if I were an old friend. She even had coffee and a dozen or so pastries waiting on the kitchen table.
    “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” I said as I grabbed a cheese Danish.
    “No trouble. I own a bakery. My son works with me. He made these. He’s a genius with pastry.”
    He was. The Danish was flaky and just sweet enough to be a perfect complement to coffee. While I was eating, Andres and Victor arrived. I asked them to set up the lights and camera in the Morettis’ living room, and while they did that, Linda and I sat in the kitchen. Since I’m usually meeting the interview subject for the first time on the day of the interview, it’s important we establish a relationship right away. Sitting in front of a camera can be very intimidating and people tend to clam up. I need whoever I’m interviewing to feel they have an ally in the room. And since it usually takes about an hour for the crew to be ready anyway, it’s the perfect opportunity to create that bond.
    “My husband died about six years ago,” Linda told me. “There are times when I wish he were here to go through this with me, and other times when I’m just grateful he didn’t live to see this.”
    “I can understand that. This has to be a nightmare for you.”
    She nodded and turned her attention to more than two dozen photos and home movies she had collected for me. That was more than I could have hoped for. We love using home movies when there’s a show on a murdered or missing person. It’s haunting to watch a happy person open presents on Christmas morning, knowing they didn’t make it to Easter.
    Linda had made a copy of each of the movies and put the photos on a disc, but she wanted to show me anyway, so I would know her daughter. I dutifully sat and listened to each story, asking easy questions and offering sympathetic smiles. Theresa’s life, at least in the photos, did seem as ideal as they come. Loving family, big group of friends, close-knit community. There was nothing in smiling image after image to suggest what cruel turn her life would take. Sitting there, I found myself caught up in the same question Linda was asking. Why?
    “This is the last photo of all of the three of us together.” She held up a picture of Theresa flanked by her mother and a young man. The man, who I assumed to be her brother, was in his early twenties and had a tired, almost angry expression. The women were smiling. They were all dressed up, with presents in their hands, maybe guests at a wedding or a similar celebration.
    “This must be so hard on you and your son.”
    She sighed. “You know, in a way, it’s brought us closer. We understand how precious life is, and we just want to spend as much time together as we can. My son came to work with me after Theresa disappeared. He was going to move to the North Side, but when it all happened, he decided it was more important to stay close to home.”
    She put the picture down and went on to the next one. As she showed me each photo, she told me a little bit about her daughter’s life. I listened and asked questions. I could see that it was the first time in a long time that Linda had indulged herself this way, and she was a little hesitant.
    As I’ve learned since the separation, friends and family are all ears for the initial few weeks. The person in pain can call at odd hours, burst into tears at dinner, cancel social plans at a moment’s notice, or just talk on and on about their loss. But too much emotion makes people uncomfortable. Little by little, friends and family begin backing away. They start saying