Christmas; I doubt, therefore, that he actually remembers her. He knows about her because of the homemade family tree on his wall, which he traces sometimes with a finger, chanting every name. Cousin Ashley, he knows, ismarried to Cousin Ron, and is the mother of his other cousins, Jeremy, Chelsea, Patrick, and Dominic. Cousin Ashley’s mother, he knows, is Aunt Lynn.
Now, Thomas raises his hands into the air in victory, and asks me how many days until we go.
----
—
I put him to bed. The weeks I’m home for his bedtimes, our routine never varies: bath, books, bed. We are frequenters of our local libraries—first in Port Richmond and now in Bensalem. Each librarian there knows Thomas by name. Each week we choose a stack of books to enjoy together, and every night I let Thomas select as many as he would like to read. Then, together, we sound out the words and describe the pictures, inventing scenarios, speculating about what will happen next.
The weeks I’m on B-shift, when Bethany puts Thomas to bed, I am under the impression that she does not read to him much, if at all.
Once he’s tucked in, I linger in his dim and peaceful room, thinking how nice it would be to let myself lay my head next to his on the pillow, to drift to sleep there, just for a little.
But I have work to do, and so I rise, and kiss my son’s forehead, and quietly close the door.
----
—
In the living room, I open my laptop—an ancient one of Simon’s that he gave to me, years ago, when he bought a new one—and open an Internet browser.
I have always resisted ‘social media.’ I don’t like being connected to anyone at all times, let alone relative strangers, people from my past with whom I have no reason to remain in touch. But I know that Kacey uses it—or at one time used it—frequently. So I enter Facebook into the search bar, and click on the link, and try to look for her there.
And there she is: Kacey Marie. The main picture on the page is of my sister holding a flower in her hand, smiling. Her hair looks the same as itdid the most recent time I saw her on the street, so it must be at least somewhat up-to-date.
Below, on the page itself, I don’t expect to find much. I can’t imagine updating her Facebook page is at the top of Kacey’s list of daily to-dos. But I am surprised to discover that her page is littered with posts. Many are pictures of cats and dogs. Some are pictures of babies. Strangers’ babies, I presume. Some are vague rants about loyalty, or fakery, or betrayal, that look as if they have been created by others for the purpose of mass-marketing. (Reading them, I am made aware, again and again, of how little I know, today, about my sister.)
Some—the important ones—are by Kacey herself, and these are the ones I scroll through most avidly, looking for clues.
If at first you don’t succeed . . . says one from last summer.
Anyone have a job for me??
I want to see Suicide Squad!
Rita’s!!! (Here, a picture of Kacey, grinning, holding a water ice in a cup.)
I love love, says one from August. Attached to it is a picture of Kacey and a man, someone I don’t recognize, someone skinny, white, short hair, tattoos on his forearms. He and Kacey are gazing into a mirror. He has his arms around Kacey.
He’s tagged in the photo: Connor Dock Famisall. Beneath it, someone has written, Lookin good Doctor.
I squint at him. I click on his name. Unlike Kacey’s, his page is marked private. I think about sending him a friend request, and then decide against it.
I enter Connor Famisall into Google, but there are zero results. I’ll run a search on his name in the PCIC database tomorrow, when I’m back in a police vehicle.
Finally, I navigate back to Kacey’s page.
The post at the top, on October 28, is by someone named Sheila McGuire.
Kace get in touch, it says.
There are no comments beneath it. In fact, the last time Kacey seemsto have posted at all is a month ago, on October 2. Doing something that
Now, Thomas raises his hands into the air in victory, and asks me how many days until we go.
----
—
I put him to bed. The weeks I’m home for his bedtimes, our routine never varies: bath, books, bed. We are frequenters of our local libraries—first in Port Richmond and now in Bensalem. Each librarian there knows Thomas by name. Each week we choose a stack of books to enjoy together, and every night I let Thomas select as many as he would like to read. Then, together, we sound out the words and describe the pictures, inventing scenarios, speculating about what will happen next.
The weeks I’m on B-shift, when Bethany puts Thomas to bed, I am under the impression that she does not read to him much, if at all.
Once he’s tucked in, I linger in his dim and peaceful room, thinking how nice it would be to let myself lay my head next to his on the pillow, to drift to sleep there, just for a little.
But I have work to do, and so I rise, and kiss my son’s forehead, and quietly close the door.
----
—
In the living room, I open my laptop—an ancient one of Simon’s that he gave to me, years ago, when he bought a new one—and open an Internet browser.
I have always resisted ‘social media.’ I don’t like being connected to anyone at all times, let alone relative strangers, people from my past with whom I have no reason to remain in touch. But I know that Kacey uses it—or at one time used it—frequently. So I enter Facebook into the search bar, and click on the link, and try to look for her there.
And there she is: Kacey Marie. The main picture on the page is of my sister holding a flower in her hand, smiling. Her hair looks the same as itdid the most recent time I saw her on the street, so it must be at least somewhat up-to-date.
Below, on the page itself, I don’t expect to find much. I can’t imagine updating her Facebook page is at the top of Kacey’s list of daily to-dos. But I am surprised to discover that her page is littered with posts. Many are pictures of cats and dogs. Some are pictures of babies. Strangers’ babies, I presume. Some are vague rants about loyalty, or fakery, or betrayal, that look as if they have been created by others for the purpose of mass-marketing. (Reading them, I am made aware, again and again, of how little I know, today, about my sister.)
Some—the important ones—are by Kacey herself, and these are the ones I scroll through most avidly, looking for clues.
If at first you don’t succeed . . . says one from last summer.
Anyone have a job for me??
I want to see Suicide Squad!
Rita’s!!! (Here, a picture of Kacey, grinning, holding a water ice in a cup.)
I love love, says one from August. Attached to it is a picture of Kacey and a man, someone I don’t recognize, someone skinny, white, short hair, tattoos on his forearms. He and Kacey are gazing into a mirror. He has his arms around Kacey.
He’s tagged in the photo: Connor Dock Famisall. Beneath it, someone has written, Lookin good Doctor.
I squint at him. I click on his name. Unlike Kacey’s, his page is marked private. I think about sending him a friend request, and then decide against it.
I enter Connor Famisall into Google, but there are zero results. I’ll run a search on his name in the PCIC database tomorrow, when I’m back in a police vehicle.
Finally, I navigate back to Kacey’s page.
The post at the top, on October 28, is by someone named Sheila McGuire.
Kace get in touch, it says.
There are no comments beneath it. In fact, the last time Kacey seemsto have posted at all is a month ago, on October 2. Doing something that
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