What Does Terror Feel Like?

We weren't separated for very long, but it was the most terrifying five minutes of my life. When Serena was 2, and Cairo was 1, they spent their days at the home-based Academic Fun Pre-School Day Care not too far from our apartment in the West Roxbury section of Boston. Dishon and I both worked for Boston Public Schools. Our routine was that he would drop the kids off in the mornings, and I would pick them up when I came home from work.
Dishon and I shared a car back then, so on most days I took the 1 bus to the Orange Line (train) to the 34 bus, picked up the car from the parking space in front of our complex where Dishon would leave the car for me, and I'd drive to pick the kids up.

The sun sets earlier in the winter months, so by the time I picked the kids up, it was pretty dark outside.  Those of you who've raised children close in age know how hard it is to wrangle little people to the car by yourself, but I usually managed pretty well. I'd usually carry Cairo in one arm, and Serena would toddle along next to me holding my other hand, as I balanced their baby bag on one shoulder. Serena usually stood next to me as I buckled Cairo into his car seat and then I would buckle her in next to him, but on this day, when I turned around to pick her up and put her into her car seat, she was nowhere to be found. 

Academic Fun is just off of Washington Street in Dedham. Although there is a circular driveway in front of the house, there is nowhere to park on the street, as Washington Street is very busy with cars regularly zooming past, especially during rush hour. To keep from blocking the circular driveway while I loaded the kids into the car, I usually parked the car along the edge of the cul-de-sac behind Academic Fun's playground.

I tend to freeze in an emergency. When I couldn't find Serena, I had no idea what to do. I had to shake off the feeling of disbelief and the myriad questions that flooded my mind and figure out what to do. Did someone snatch her? They couldn't have. I didn't even see anyone else out there with me. I would've heard someone come up behind me and take my child. Did she somehow get into someone's shed? Was she crying for help, and I couldn't hear her? I tried to be still and listen for her voice, or her screams, but I heard nothing but the cars zooming by. Was someone driving away with her while I stood there? I didn't want to leave Cairo in the car by himself, but I needed to find her. I screamed her name over and over again, but she didn't answer. I tried to pray, but it was hard to form words. The only words I could put together were, "Please help me!"

Since she wasn't in the cul-de-sac, I went back toward the house to see if she had tried to go back inside. She loved it there. That would make sense. That's what I hoped. As I rounded the playground fence no more than 10 feet away, I saw her. I felt both relief and horror. She was standing at the edge of Washington Street with rush hour traffic flying past her. There was no more than about a foot separating her from the oncoming cars. She was too small and it was too dark for drivers to see her. If she took one more step, our little girl would be gone. Not just gone, but gone in a way that I was sure would compose the images of my nightmares for the rest of my life. Gone. Gone? Gone.

This little girl who we prayed for, and waited for, not sure if I'd ever know the miracle of carrying a child inside me . . . 27 months of trying to start our family, months of bed rest because my doctor was afraid that something was wrong . . . being induced a month early, and discovering, with great relief, that she was perfect . . . and I adored her. This little girl who loved her little brother, delighted us with her spunk, awed us with her intelligence . . . this couldn't be how her life was going to end. 

I felt like vomiting. Suppressing all of the frantic, hysterical instincts welling up inside of me, I crept over to her so I wouldn't frighten her into any sudden moves by calling her name. I grabbed her and held onto her so tight. I don't know if I've ever cried the way I did in that moment. I tried to get her to look at me, but she was experiencing her own terror. Being that close to the blinding headlights of the oncoming cars made it so that she couldn't see me, even as I held her. She looked all around me, but not into my eyes. Cairo was alone in the car, so I ran back over holding Serena, and buckled her into her car seat. Filled with gratitude, regret, fighting off imagining what could have happened that night, I drove my children home. 

When I am writing my novel, and I am describing the emotions of the characters, I want to tap into these raw, authentic emotions. That will make the story more real to the readers.