With a man who must have been her husband. A girl about ten years old. And a younger girl, about seven.
With a gap-toothed grin. The caption read, The last photo of our complete family. Rachel went missing two weeks later.
We never stopped hoping. I stared at that little girl’s face. At my face.
Oh my god, Ashley whispered. Jess, you need to meet with her. I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
With trembling fingers, I typed out a message. Mrs. Anderson, this is Jessica from the pharmacy. I think we need to talk.
Three days later, I sat across from Carol Anderson at a small cafe on Hawthorne. She’d responded to my message within minutes. Suggesting we meet somewhere public, but quiet.
I’d barely slept since the pharmacy encounter. Spending my nights staring at photos and searching for memories that didn’t exist. Carol arrived carrying a large tote bag and a manila folder.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. Like she’d been crying for days. Maybe she had been.
She sat down carefully, as if sudden movements might scare me away. Thank you for meeting me, she said softly. I know this must be overwhelming.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. She pulled out the manila folder first, spreading its contents across the small table. Newspaper clippings, missing person flyers, police reports, an entire life documented in desperate searches.
This was in the Denver Post, she said, pointing to a headline. Local girl vanishes from backyard. The article was dated June 3rd, 1998.
We’d just moved to that house. New neighborhood. I thought the fence was secure.
She showed me another clipping. Rachel Marie Anderson, age 7. Brown hair, green eyes, 42 inches tall, 45 pounds, wearing a yellow sundress with butterflies. Left-handed.
Scar above right eyebrow. Birthmark on left shoulder. My hand went unconsciously to my shoulder.
The police thought she wandered off and got lost, Carol continued. Then they thought maybe she’d been taken by someone. We had volunteers searching for weeks.
My husband took a leave from work. We hired private investigators. She pulled out a photo album next, the one I’d seen glimpses of on Facebook.
This was Rachel’s first day of school. She was so excited, insisted on wearing her new light-up shoes even though they didn’t match her dress. Page after page of a life interrupted, birthday parties, Christmas mornings, a trip to the zoo.
In every photo I saw myself, not someone who looked like me. Me. This was taken the morning she disappeared, Carol said, her voice breaking.
She showed me a Polaroid of a little girl eating cereal, grinning at the camera with milk on her chin. She was going through a phase where she wanted photos of everything. I must have taken 50 pictures that week alone.
I don’t remember any of this, I whispered. You were so young. Trauma can affect memory, especially in children.
Carol reached into her bag again and pulled out a small stuffed elephant, worn and faded with age. This was yours, your favorite toy. You called him Peanut.
You wouldn’t go anywhere without him. I stared at the elephant. Something stirred in my mind, not quite a memory but an echo of one.
The feeling of soft gray fur against my cheek. My daughter Emma found him under Rachel’s bed a week after she disappeared. I’ve kept him all these years, hoping someday I’d be able to give him back to you.
This doesn’t prove anything, I said, but my voice was weak. Lots of kids have stuffed elephants, Carol nodded. You’re right, that’s why I brought this.
She pulled out a DNA test kit. I already took mine. If you’re willing, we can know for certain.
I stared at the kit. Such a small thing to hold such enormous truth. What happened to your husband, I asked.
David died five years ago. Heart attack. He never gave up hope, but the not knowing destroyed him.
Every time the phone rang, every time someone knocked on the door, he thought it might be news about Rachel. She wiped her eyes. He would have been so happy to meet you.
And Emma? She’s 37 now, married with two kids. She was 10 when you disappeared. She blamed herself for years, thought she should have been watching you better.
It affected her whole life. She became a social worker specializing in missing children cases. I picked up the DNA kit with shaking hands.
How long for results? Two weeks if we pay for expedited processing. Two weeks to know if my entire life was a lie. I opened the kit and followed the instructions, swabbing the inside of my cheek while Carol watched with tears streaming down her face.