I had not driven on Route 9 in two decades, not since my seven-year-old son disappeared from a rest stop while I was inside buying him a Sprite. Last week, a blown tire forced me back onto that road, and a stranger made sure I did not leave with the same unanswered questions I had carried for years.
I am fifty years old, and my life has been divided into two halves since 2006.
Before Daniel.
After Daniel.
Before, I was just a mother driving along Route 9 with my seven-year-old boy beside me, listening to him plead for a Sprite as if it were the only thing that could save him.
After, I became the woman whose child vanished from a rest stop while she was inside for less than two minutes.
I was buying him a Sprite. I turned back around, and he was gone.
At first, the police searched with everything they had. Dogs. Helicopters. Volunteers. Men carrying clipboards, asking me the same questions over and over until the words stopped feeling real.
“What was he wearing? Did he know to stay by the car? Could he have wandered off?”
Eventually, the search slowed.
Then the few customers who had been there stopped caring.
Then my son became paperwork in a drawer.
After the first anniversary, I stopped taking Route 9 altogether. I could not breathe on that road. I could not pass a rest stop sign without hearing myself screaming his name.
Last Tuesday, my GPS redirected me because of an accident. I did not realize where it was taking me until the sign appeared.
Route 9.
My palms went slick against the steering wheel.
I wanted to turn around.
I did not.
Twenty miles later, my rear tire blew.
