“Feeling better now?” my husband asks me.
I try in vain to offer him a smile. “Yeah. I think you’re right. I must be coming down with something.”
I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been here. At least an hour, maybe more. After I calmed down, it took three different agents to help us locate our bags. Now we’re waiting near some back office for the airport workers to grab our luggage and wheel it out to us. I forget how many times I’ve apologized to Russel for ruining his vacation.
“You and the kids should go on without me,” I insist, but of course he won’t leave me.
He’s already called his parents. I have no idea what he told them, nor do I want to. I just want to go home. Get out of here. I feel like every pair of eyes is staring at me.
What was it about that man on the airplane that got me so freaked out? The Hawaiian shirt? The way the girl he was with looked so uncomfortable?
I should tell someone. Maybe.
But tell them what?
Hey, there was this weirdo on the plane traveling with a teen girl and … I don’t know. I just didn’t like the way he looked?
It’s ridiculous. Just like it’s ridiculous for me to even think about telling Russel about why I started to panic. I know my husband. If he knew about Henry, he’d just pity me and worry about me, and I’d feel even more suffocated under his loving care. That’s exactly what happened after I escaped Henry’s basement and tried to live back home.
I try to remember how long it’s been since I called my mom, but I can’t. Her birthday was three months ago, but I know I missed it.
“Mommy?” Annie grabs my hand. “I need to go potty.”
I’m thankful for something to do. Something that only I can do. I remind myself that I’m an adult. I’m the responsible one. I’m probably just coming down with the flu or something like that. Russel already asked me after we got off the plane if I thought I was pregnant. I wish my outburst could be chalked up to some kind of hormonal imbalance.
I should be so lucky.
I tell Russel I’m taking Annie to the bathroom, and while I wait outside her stall, I have a little time to think. Take a few deep breaths, try to compose myself. I’m not in any danger. Nobody is trying to capture me or force me to wear someone else’s clothes and pretend to be their murdered daughter.
I’m safe. I’m here with my family. I’m a grown woman, a wife, a survivor.
Nothing can hurt me here.
Annie starts humming a song to herself, one clue out of many that she’s going to take her sweet and precious time. The bathroom isn’t crowded, and I pace the length of the stalls. Anything to get my mind off that airplane, that teen girl I saw. The one with scared, haunted eyes.
Suddenly I’m dizzy. I know my mind’s about to send me right back to Henry’s basement. I’ve got to get control of myself.
My breath comes in choppy spurts. “I’m going to be in the stall right next to you,” I tell Annie, and I shut the door behind me. Something about the enclosed space makes me feel more at ease. Less exposed.
There’s a small poster taped above the toilet paper.
It is estimated that at least twenty thousand minors are trafficked in the United States every year.
My stomach flips once. Twice. I press my palm against my abdomen to try to stop the sloshing.
Questions you can ask yourself if you see something suspicious: Does the potential victim in question act confused, submissive, or afraid?
“I can’t reach the toilet paper,” Annie calls to me. I manage to find the voice to tell her I need a minute.
Do they avoid eye contact?
The image of that girl on the plane flashes again in my mind. I tell myself I’m overreacting. I’m projecting my own experience and trauma onto a situation that’s none of my business.
Is the potential victim wearing appropriate attire?
It’s this question that literally sucks the breath out of my lungs.
“Mommy!” Annie whines.
“Just a minute.” I need to think. Was that what finally gave it away? A T-shirt and shorts? There was no crime in dressing inappropriately for the season.
I squeeze my eyes shut, compose my breathing as best as I can, then unlock the door. I help Annie finish and wash up, and I hold her hand as we make our way back to her father. Russel’s standing with our luggage. I can’t tell if he looks tired or annoyed or concerned. I’m dizzy. My mind can hardly focus on anything.
“There’s a problem,” I tell him as soon as I’m at his side. “I need to talk to someone from security.”