SARAH
David carries the shopping bags into the kitchen.
“You go and see Samuel,” Sarah says. “I’ll put the shopping away.” She takes the raspberry tart out from the top of the bag, putting it carefully on the table. It was expensive, but they bought it because it’s Sam’s favorite. Food, she thinks. How she used to fantasize about it, how it used to invade her dreams. And now they have it, whatever they want really. But she still feels empty.
“Sarah.” David stands in the doorway, his face deathly white.
“What is it?”
“He’s not in his room.”
“Look in the living room. He’s probably fallen asleep on the couch.”
“I looked. He’s not there.”
“He must have gone to the bathroom then.”
David shakes his head, staring at his feet.
“Go and look. He must be there.” She runs out into the corridor. The room’s not locked. She pushes the door open. It’s empty.
“Sam! Sam!” She runs back through the apartment, in and out of each room. Hoping against hope. “He’s not here!” She reaches out for David, her knees losing their muscle, turning to pulp, the ground slipping away beneath her.
He takes her by the shoulders, leading her to a chair in the kitchen.
“What are we going to do?” She gulps down air. It feels like she’s drowning. “We must call the police. Quick! Call them!” Her heart pounds in her ears, her veins pumping hard. “David! Please!”
“Sarah, we need to think this through. Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Friends?”
“What? Yes. There’s Zack. Let’s try him.” She jumps up, already halfway to the front door.
David runs after her, grabs her elbow, and pulls her back. “Sarah, wait. Please.”
“We have to hurry. He could be far away by now. Oh God! Where has he gone?”
“Calm down for a minute. Please.”
She brings her hand to her throat as if holding herself back. Then she’s dashing toward the door again. They’re wasting precious moments. She knows they have to find him before he gets too far. He’s so small, so naive, he doesn’t understand how cruel people can be, he doesn’t know about all the sick people out there.
“I’ll wait here in case he comes back,” David shouts after her.
She doesn’t stop as she runs to Zack’s. Zack himself answers the door.
“Have you seen Sam?” She doesn’t even say hello.
He frowns, shaking his head.
“Please, Zack. He could be in danger. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
Zack just shakes his head again. She searches his eyes for some kind of clue. Then his mother appears.
“What’s happened?” She frowns just like her son.
“Sam’s disappeared. Have you seen him?”
“No.”
“Are you sure, Zack? Think carefully. Please. Do you know where he might have gone?”
She waits for a reply, precious seconds ticking away.
Eventually he whispers, “He might have gone back to America.”
Of course! Where else would he go? It makes her want to laugh hysterically. America! How can he possibly imagine he could get that far? She’ll have to go to the police right now. She hesitates for a second, wondering whether to go home first. She decides against it. Time is vital.
She runs to the police station. Arriving there, she is breathless, gasping for air. It’s as though everything is in fast motion, everything except the officer sitting behind the wooden desk. He’s in slow motion. He stands, scratching his belly.
“My son has… has gone missing! Help me!” Her breath is raw, scratching at her throat.
Too slowly, he reaches a stubby finger out to a buzzer on his desk. Its shrill ring fetches another officer—a taller, leaner man. “Come this way, madame.”
She follows him into a small room. “Sit down.” He pulls out a plastic chair.
But she doesn’t want to sit down. She wants him to jump up and start looking for her son.
“Name?” he asks, his pen hovering over a pad of paper.
“Samuel Laffitte. Please, he’s only nine. We need to find him quickly.”
“Mrs. Laffitte, we can’t start looking for him till we have some details. I’m sure you understand.”
She nods, tears of frustration welling up. She swallows them and tries to answer his questions calmly and quietly.
He takes notes, looking up sometimes, creases growing between his eyes. “I think I should come to the apartment,” he says. “See if we can find some clues, and speak with the boy’s father.”
They drive to the apartment in a police car. He puts the siren on, which she takes as a good sign. He understands the urgency now.
David throws the door open before they have time to knock. “He’s taken his passport!”
“No! Please, no!” Sarah leans into the wall, clutching her stomach.
“Please stay calm. We’ll find him, Mrs. Laffitte.” The police officer turns to David. “What else has he taken? Money?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Do you have any idea about where he might be heading, given that he’s taken his passport?”
“California,” Sarah whispers.
“California?”
“His adoptive family is there. He’s only been living with us since the end of July.” David’s voice is flat, a monotone.
“Yes, Mrs. Laffitte explained the situation. Most unfortunate indeed.” The officer coughs. “We are lucky in that we know where he’s likely to be going, and in that way his options are limited. He won’t be able to take a plane, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try; kids don’t think that far ahead. So he could be heading for the airport, in which case it should be quite straightforward to find him. Or he could be going to a port. Or he could be on his way to visit Monsieur Beauchamp in prison—that option would be the easiest for us. We’ll phone through to La Santé to check.”
“But he doesn’t know which prison he’s in!”
“We need to explore all the options. Most kids come back within twenty-four hours, when they get hungry.” He pauses. “We’ll send a couple of men to the airport.”
Sarah wishes he’d just do it. Quickly. Crucial minutes are ticking away.
He continues, “We’ll phone through to Le Havre. They’ll be able to check the trains arriving and the boats leaving.”
“But Le Havre’s not the only port. What if he’s gone to Calais or Dunkirk?”
“True. We’ll phone there too, and alert police at the railway stations.”
“But what if he’s already arrived there and got off the train? We went out at midday and now it’s three o’clock. He’s had time to get there by now.” Sarah throws herself into a chair, her head spinning with all the possibilities.
“We’ll have our men check the boats leaving port. Don’t worry. We’ll get him back. Now, do you have a recent photo?”
Sarah gets up to fetch the photos Charlotte Beauchamp sent before they met Sam. There’s also his extra passport photo. She hands them over without a word.
The officer looks at the photos, then slides them into a leather wallet. “I’ll be in touch. Do you have a phone?”
“Yes,” David replies quickly.
“You need to stay here, in case he comes back. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
David sees him out.
Another sharp pain clutches Sarah’s abdomen, like a snake twisting itself around her intestines. She bends over, holding her stomach. In her head she whispers: Please, God, please. Forgive me. You saved him before. Save him again. I’ll never ask for anything else. Keep him safe. I will give him up. Please just bring him back, I beg you.