Read Online What Was Mine by Helen Klein Ross - Free Book Online Page A

nipple was being crushed between stones. I winced and pulled back and she resumed her crying, screaming louder this time, as if I had tricked her, which I suppose I had.
    I wished that those first weeks could have gone on forever, our tiny world of eating, sleeping, rocking, reading.
    It was as if Mia thought she was on a great adventure. She seemed to take pleasure in exploring new sights, new surfaces, new smells, new sounds. She didn’t take naps, though the books said she should. She hadn’t read those books. She slept through the night, though. I was grateful for that. I’d begin each day with a feeling of excitement, as I used to feel as a child on Christmas morning. I’d never been a light sleeper, but now I was out of bed at the first sound of her “talking” to herself in her crib in the morning, my heart somersaulting, hurrying to the nursery to take in the gratifying sight and scent of her, realizing anew—I was somebody’s mother!
    I’d sing her little songs and talk to her as I attended her toilette. Then, I’d settle her in a jump chair, I’d go to the front door, and after checking from the window to make sure no neighbors were about, I’d duck out and grab the paper from the front porch. I’d sit at the table feeding Mia and turning the pages slowly, cautiously, scanningheadlines for news of what had happened, closing the paper, grateful for yet another twenty-four hours with her.
    Generally, people in advertising consider PR to be a lesser profession, but my own estimation of the field rose considerably when I saw that after a few days of media attention the story was made to sink out of sight. IKEA was opening a new store in Los Angeles. They didn’t want bad publicity.
    Each day, she curled her tiny fist around my fingers, becoming more and more mine.

16
marilyn
    T he night of the day that Natalie was taken, state troopers brought in dogs to find her scent. They asked me to give them a piece of her clothing. I went to her room—it felt empty as a tomb—and stood in the middle of it, trying to see through tears, to find something to give the troopers. I didn’t want to part with a single thing that had been hers. Finally, I lifted the blanket from her crib. It was still a soft heap on the mattress. I hadn’t folded it after her nap. It had little lambs on it. Soft, so soft. I pictured them finding her, giving it to her. She would be comforted by something from home.
    Later, much later, I asked for it back, but they said they had to keep it sealed in a baggie, for dogs.
    The FBI was brought in. A police detective set up shop on our coffee table. Detective Brown showed up every day at 8 a.m., started making calls on a special phone they installed. Others would come by—neighbors, friends—and he’d assign them tasks for the day: paperwork, mostly, so he could do his job of trying to find Natalie. Whenever the phone rang, my stomach contracted. The detective quieted everyone. Everything stopped, so the only sound in the house was those long rings. I’d reach for the handset, fingers shaking, wondering if I was about to talk to Natalie’s kidnapper. We were expecting (dreading) a call for ransom. Tom and I had been told to sound calm and keep a caller on the line for as long as possible, sothe FBI would be able to trace the call. It had been decided that I’d answer the phone instead of Tom, my voice would be less threatening. Each time the phone rang, I’d reach for the handset, and try not to sob. But a ransom call never came.
    I nurtured hope, against odds, that someone would call to say our baby had been found unharmed, that they had taken Natalie by mistake, there’d been some terrible misunderstanding. But, of course, that call didn’t come either.
    For months, day and night, we searched for our baby. We couldn’t stop looking. Friends and neighbors, some we’d never met before, joined us in