29
They took so many walks together. Their first forays were only a mile or two. But within days, they’d begun stretching the distance, farther and farther, until they were walking five, six, seven, eight miles. Back roads, mostly. Blueberry trotting beside them, or just on ahead. Sometimes they drove to state parks, but more often than not, they left his house and just walked down the driveway. Sometimes they went right. Other times left. They held hands. He felt healthier than he had in many, many years—so many years, he could not pinpoint the last time he’d felt this euphoric blend of health and well-being.
Most days they visited Jessie. They went to movies together. Small-town cafés and diners. Baseball games: amateur baseball games played in tiny stadiums or well-maintained village diamonds. Cheap brown paper bags of popcorn all spotted in melted butter. Cold sodas in waxed paper cups. Admission was free or almost free, and Charlie settled right into that. That variety of small-town entertainment. The ways in which he had been raised, but had forgotten or ignored. All these families sitting together on the weather-beaten gray bleachers, with so little to their names, who still wanted to feel distracted from their jobs, their sorrows, their disappointments. Who still wanted to be entertained. Families who watched amateur baseball games with greater intensity than most fans at a major league stadium, those fans who might’ve shelled out a couple of hundred dollars, only to ignore the game on the field, right there in front of them, in favor of the nonsense on their phones.
He liked the evenings when they picked Jessie up and drove to the Carson Park baseball field, the green heart of Eau Claire. An old CCC-era baseball stadium. Henry Aaron had played here. Mature white pines embraced the field along the first base side. It was not uncommon to see an osprey soaring over the field as it returned to its nest above the banks of outdoor lights.
One day, when they had planned to visit Jessie, Vivian complained of a headache.
Well, would you mind if I visited her? Charlie asked. I mean, you’re all right here by yourself, aren’t you?
She was lying in their bed, the curtains drawn on the morning. Sure, I’m fine, she said. You two have fun.
All right, he said. Well, can I bring you anything?
No, no, no. Go on. I’ll text if I need anything. Tell her I say hello.
When he arrived at her group home, Jessie was playing checkers with another resident. Charlie sat down beside her and watched the game. When her last checker had been removed from the board, she sighed and leaned back in her chair, intertwining her fingers behind her head. He noticed that her fingernails were painted neatly, a nice glossy pink.
Well, Jessie, he said, would you maybe like to go somewhere? Anywhere you’d like. My treat.
Her face broke into a wide smile. She leaned forward in her chair and rubbed her hands together, Anywhere?
Anywhere. Anything you’d like.
Anywhere? she repeated devilishly.
Anywhere.
***
Pushing her cart through the aisles of Walmart, Jessie made a point of saying hello to just about everyone she passed. She took her time. Scrutinized the shelves. Handled boxes and packaging.
My friends will like these, she said, dropping a dozen coloring books into the cart and as many boxes of markers. Also: construction paper, glittery glue, scissors, tape, pens…orange soda, popcorn, peanut butter, chips, beef jerky…
My cart is full, she said to Charlie. It’s hard to push. She was stone-cold serious—clearly this was a problem, and his to fix, not hers.
Okay, he said happily, umm, let me think. Can you stay right here? I’ll run and get us another one. Or would you rather come with me?
But she was already standing in front of the sugary cereals, pointing at the colorful boxes, and sounding out the words, frosted toasted oat cereal with marshmallows…
I’ll be right back, he said to her.
He walked as quickly as he could to the front of the store. Walked past several gumball machines. A group of retirees was talking in front of the carts, and he stood there for longer than he would have liked before they noticed him and let him through. He snagged a cart and pushed it as quickly as could past other shoppers until he was back in the cereal aisle. But she wasn’t there.
He felt sweat immediately bead on his forehead, felt his pulse surge. Don’t worry, he thought, she couldn’t have gone far. He turned the empty cart into the next aisle, but still didn’t see her. He doubled back, glancing down the cereal aisle. She wasn’t there. He looked in the next aisle over. She wasn’t there either.
A panic seized him now, and he considered calling Vivian right then. No, no. That wasn’t necessary. She must be nearby, he thought. He pushed the cart faster. Went through every food aisle twice. Began asking other shoppers. Any Walmart employee he could find.
What’s her name? someone asked.
Jessie, he said.
Is Jessie a nickname?
Yes, he said, then, Her full name’s Jessica…Jessica…
But he’d forgotten it. He was fumbling, fumbling around inside his own old head. His memory. He knew her name, of course, but he couldn’t find it just then, couldn’t put his finger on it, as if he were trying to mine for the name of some old actor or actress, the name of a movie he’d seen many decades before… He couldn’t remember his own daughter’s name. Jessie, he thought—she was just Jessie. But that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t what they were asking exactly. He felt as if he were standing before some great web of ropes, some intricate knot, and he could not untangle the mess, no matter how hard he focused.
And who is she?
Well, she’s my daughter.
But you don’t know her full name?
Wait—now he knew. Now it popped, like a bubble in his mind: It’s Jessica. Jessica Ann Peterson. Please. Help me. She has Down syndrome.
Do you have a picture of her?
No, he said. No, I don’t.
You don’t have a single picture of your own daughter? Not even on your phone?
No, see I just… But it was no use. He couldn’t explain everything. It was too much. Too complicated.
Sir, are you okay? You seem pretty confused.
He pulled away from that person, heard them talking to another customer.
He stopped pushing the cart and began to move through the clothing department, through all the racks of clothing, through aisles of cheap socks and cheap underwear. Calling her name loudly.
Sir, someone said, sir, please. Stop. Who are you looking for?
My daughter. Jessie. Jessica. Jessica Ann. Jessie Peterson.
Okay, sir, how old is she?
He stopped. A large bald man’s hand was gripping his shoulder. A security guard. Or loss prevention. Some goon who foiled shoplifters. Charlie realized he was sweating profusely. His heart beating desperately. He wanted to cry. Can I just call someone? he asked. Can I call Jessie’s mom?
The man crossed his arms.
Please, just let me make a quick phone call. He motioned with one finger in the air—one.
The security guard shook his head, exasperated by whatever this situation was. Fine, he said, be my guest.
Vivian’s phone rang and rang but went to her messages. He tried his home landline too, but she did not pick up. He texted her, repeatedly, but she didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure how many minutes had gone by since he’d last seen Jessie. Ten, maybe twenty. He called her name again.
Hey, a woman said. An employee with a blue vest. I think I found her.
She was standing in front of a giant television screen, watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. That beautiful old cartoon. The dwarves were singing as they walked, and Jessie was laughing, imitating them.
Jessie, he said, rushing to her.
She ignored him or seemed to ignore him. She didn’t so much as glance at him.
Jessie. Jessica, he said. It’s me; it’s your uncle. Charlie. Remember?
She stopped marching and turned to regard him.
Jessie? Are you okay? Where is your cart?
She turned back to the television, mumbling the words of the dwarves’ song.
Sir? I thought you said you were her father. Hey?
I am her father, he insisted. But it’s complicated.
Maybe you should come with me, the big bald man said now, reaching again for Charlie’s arm.
No, that’s not necessary.
Yeah, well, buddy, I think it might be. The police are on the way. So, let’s you and me just go to my office, and we can straighten all this out.
I can’t leave her alone, Charlie shouted, his face burning red. Jessie, I have—
The female employee was standing beside Jessie now, touching her gently, asking her something in a tone so low Charlie couldn’t make out any of the words. He checked his phone again. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. The sweat was freely dripping off his forehead now, off his nose, soaking his armpits and his chest. He could see her, right there, but she was absorbed with the television. And suddenly he did not feel very well. His chest felt like it was tightening, like someone was cinching a corset around his ribs and stomach. He winced in pain.
Jessie, he said loudly. Jessie.
Her eyes never moved from the screen.
Sir, the security guard said forcefully, I don’t want to have to put my hands on you.
Can I—
But he was slipping down to the floor, to the dirty industrial carpeting, below the T-shirts hanging from fixtures, his legs useless, like sand beneath him. He felt his head bounce off the thin fabric, and then more pain, shooting through him like electricity. There was a child looking at him. A small child. Shorter than the bottoms of those shirts. She was waving at him now, but the look on her face showed only concern.
Now he closed his eyes, but he heard the girl’s voice saying, Mama, look—there’s a man on the ground, sleeping.