you were contemplating your own curse, your lifetime of remembering.
What is a search if not a dual exercise in hope and helplessness? It is hope that makes the search possible, helplessness that makes it simultaneously absurd. I want to believe that, buried deep within the gray matter, inside the complex folds of cerebral cortex and corpus callosum, hippocampus and amygdala, there exists a single detail, a minute piece of knowledge, a precise and crucial memory, that is sufficient to save a missing child.
Like Funes, the memory-laden hero of Borges’s famous story, the one thing S. desired most was simply to forget. What I want, above all, is to remember, to see with absolute clarity the events of that day on Ocean Beach. I would gladly trade a lifetime of memories—birthdays and Christmas mornings, first dates and splendid vacations, wonderful books and beautiful faces—for the one memory that matters, the one that would lead me to Emma.
11
T HE COMMAND post is housed in the Castro, in an empty shop space that was donated by a good Samaritan. Passersby are greeted by Emma’s eyes, staring out from dozens of flyers papering the windows. Volunteers sit at long tables, stuffing envelopes and answering phones. Everyone is wearing the same uniform: a white T-shirt with Emma’s face on the front, and under the picture, the words
Have You Seen Emma?
On the back, in large black letters, an 800 number, and beneath that,
www.findemma.com
.
Most of the volunteers are Jake’s students, but there are others: teachers, friends, a few people I know from the photography world, strangers who responded to our postings on craigslist.
One week has passed since Emma disappeared. While I’ve been out frantically searching the streets, running one direction and then another, Jake has been organizing the troops. His approach has been methodical, rational, planned—as is his approach to everything.
A grid map of the Bay Area, dotted with multicolored pushpins, covers most of one wall. Phones rings, voices rise and fall. A pimply kid with perfectly combed hair is giving instructions to a group of teenagers.
“Post these flyers anywhere you can in the shaded area,” he says. “Coffee shops, bookstores, supermarkets, you name it.” He passes around a shoebox filled with buttons bearing Emma’s photo. “Wear these. Take a few extra to pass out. We want her face to be on everybody’s mind.”
The group disperses, and the kid comes over and shakes my hand.
“Abby Mason,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I’m Brian.” He has the overconfident yet somewhat charming demeanor of a class president or chairman of the Young Democrats. “Do you want a canvassing zone, or are you here to see Mr. Balfour?”
“Both.”
Brian gives me a stack of flyers and a map. “Our Colma person didn’t show up. Had a track meet. You can fill in.” He produces a photocopied map, blocking out a tiny portion with an orange highlighter. Each square inch of the map represents ten square miles. I imagine my square as a vast maze filled with shops, apartments, houses. Ditches, Dumpsters, cars, bushes.
Jake spots me and comes over.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Not since we last talked.”
That was half an hour ago. We’ve been living on our cell phones. A constant back and forth, exchanging information, encouragement. There have been dozens of leads, but the cops don’t know which ones to follow. Some guy in Pescadero thought he saw her in a Chinese restaurant at the same time she was spotted by a jogger in Oakland, a 7-Eleven clerk near Yosemite, and a postal worker in San Diego. Jake’s ex-wife, Lisbeth, still hasn’t been located.
“I hope they’re together,” Jake told me when this whole thing began. “I never thought I’d say that, but, God, I hope they are. At least—”
He didn’t finish his sentence, but I knew what he was thinking. If his ex-wife was behind it, at least Emma would still be alive.
I’m remembering what
What is a search if not a dual exercise in hope and helplessness? It is hope that makes the search possible, helplessness that makes it simultaneously absurd. I want to believe that, buried deep within the gray matter, inside the complex folds of cerebral cortex and corpus callosum, hippocampus and amygdala, there exists a single detail, a minute piece of knowledge, a precise and crucial memory, that is sufficient to save a missing child.
Like Funes, the memory-laden hero of Borges’s famous story, the one thing S. desired most was simply to forget. What I want, above all, is to remember, to see with absolute clarity the events of that day on Ocean Beach. I would gladly trade a lifetime of memories—birthdays and Christmas mornings, first dates and splendid vacations, wonderful books and beautiful faces—for the one memory that matters, the one that would lead me to Emma.
11
T HE COMMAND post is housed in the Castro, in an empty shop space that was donated by a good Samaritan. Passersby are greeted by Emma’s eyes, staring out from dozens of flyers papering the windows. Volunteers sit at long tables, stuffing envelopes and answering phones. Everyone is wearing the same uniform: a white T-shirt with Emma’s face on the front, and under the picture, the words
Have You Seen Emma?
On the back, in large black letters, an 800 number, and beneath that,
www.findemma.com
.
Most of the volunteers are Jake’s students, but there are others: teachers, friends, a few people I know from the photography world, strangers who responded to our postings on craigslist.
One week has passed since Emma disappeared. While I’ve been out frantically searching the streets, running one direction and then another, Jake has been organizing the troops. His approach has been methodical, rational, planned—as is his approach to everything.
A grid map of the Bay Area, dotted with multicolored pushpins, covers most of one wall. Phones rings, voices rise and fall. A pimply kid with perfectly combed hair is giving instructions to a group of teenagers.
“Post these flyers anywhere you can in the shaded area,” he says. “Coffee shops, bookstores, supermarkets, you name it.” He passes around a shoebox filled with buttons bearing Emma’s photo. “Wear these. Take a few extra to pass out. We want her face to be on everybody’s mind.”
The group disperses, and the kid comes over and shakes my hand.
“Abby Mason,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I’m Brian.” He has the overconfident yet somewhat charming demeanor of a class president or chairman of the Young Democrats. “Do you want a canvassing zone, or are you here to see Mr. Balfour?”
“Both.”
Brian gives me a stack of flyers and a map. “Our Colma person didn’t show up. Had a track meet. You can fill in.” He produces a photocopied map, blocking out a tiny portion with an orange highlighter. Each square inch of the map represents ten square miles. I imagine my square as a vast maze filled with shops, apartments, houses. Ditches, Dumpsters, cars, bushes.
Jake spots me and comes over.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Not since we last talked.”
That was half an hour ago. We’ve been living on our cell phones. A constant back and forth, exchanging information, encouragement. There have been dozens of leads, but the cops don’t know which ones to follow. Some guy in Pescadero thought he saw her in a Chinese restaurant at the same time she was spotted by a jogger in Oakland, a 7-Eleven clerk near Yosemite, and a postal worker in San Diego. Jake’s ex-wife, Lisbeth, still hasn’t been located.
“I hope they’re together,” Jake told me when this whole thing began. “I never thought I’d say that, but, God, I hope they are. At least—”
He didn’t finish his sentence, but I knew what he was thinking. If his ex-wife was behind it, at least Emma would still be alive.
I’m remembering what
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