Chapter 8
September 2016
Sarah and the kids returned to the command post around ten o’clock that morning. Thunderstorms had not rematerialized, so it was safe for the searchers to be out. The sky still refused to relent—though its bite had weakened—as mist gravitated to downpour and back again.
Memory was a misplaced faith; we believed in our pasts only as far as we remembered them. In the back of an unmarked police car, Sarah thought back to the memories that had poured forward the previous evening.
The first time Matthew had vanished suddenly from her life, even though it was temporary, was after he had told the story about his friend Kwan. Watching from the car as forest and lakes whooshed by, she reimagined that night and saw the street buried in a killing snow and a man who could slip away without breaking through the icy crust.
Sarah stepped out of the car and into a scene from a movie: volunteers scurried around like a swarm of newly hatched blackflies. Officer Dubé, clearly tired but focused, greeted Sarah. She was perfect for the role, Sarah thought, as the officer spewed updates about search grids and probabilities. Behind her, volunteers piled into waiting vehicles, getting ready to bushwhack their way inch by inch through dense undergrowth. There were forty-five volunteers now. Forty-five bodies, all looking for one.
The rest of the day was spent with the kids back in the trailer. Each time the door opened, Sarah’s body stretched tighter, a notched bowstring held taut by an unseen archer. She thought about calling work, checking in, but what could she say? I may need a few extra days. I’ve lost my husband. No. Better to use what little energy she had to resettle the kids, whose expectant heads popped up with each rush of air from the door.
At lunchtime, they poked at dried sandwiches and clutched cans of sickly sweet pop. “Charlie, eat up, buddy.” Sarah pushed the sandwich closer to him.
Picture of misery. Sarah hadn’t really understood that aphorism until this moment: her exhausted children trapped in a stifling box, where every hushed voice and whiff of air carried disappointment. It was almost enough. Enough for her to seek out Boychuk and tell him everything. Tell him about Matthew’s absences, his recent moments of short temper and the epic fight that had led to this weekend away. Almost.
Mumbling vague words about fresh air to the concerned eyes watching her, Sarah wrenched open the door of the trailer and stumble-walked to the dock. Moisture hung in the cool air, though no rain fell. Sarah looked out at the lake. She felt like she had aged overnight, with dark circles under her eyes and hollowed-out cheeks greeting her in the mirror that morning. And yet her bones still held her upright.
“We don’t think he’s in there,” Boychuk said as he came up from behind. His chin pointed at the lake. “We’re pretty sure he’s on foot, but the heavy rain is making it hard to track. We’re making some assumptions that he probably headed for the rapids near where we found the canoe.”
Boychuk’s tedious efficiency ground away at Sarah’s makeshift shell. “What does that mean?” she said.
“It means your husband has likely gone into the woods, and if he wants to be found, there’s a chance we’ll find him.”
Sarah reeled on Boychuk. Anger, always coursing under her skin lately, burst out. “What the hell are you talking about? Why wouldn’t he want to be found?”
Silence stretched in the liquid air. Boychuk held Sarah’s challenge.
“I know it’s hard to hear, Sarah, but we don’t know enough to close any doors. No one saw him leave, and we have no idea what Matthew’s state of mind was when he got into the canoe. We wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we didn’t at least consider the possibility he doesn’t want to be found. It doesn’t happen often, and from everything you’ve told us, I don’t think it’s the case here. But it’s not unheard of. Some people simply choose to disappear.”
Boychuk placed a gentle hand on Sarah’s shoulder. She stood taller under the weight and curbed an impulse to shrug his hand off. Despair and anger clawed for her attention: despair won. She released a breath, let her shoulders collapse in the wake.
“We’ve doubled the number of volunteers and have a helicopter on standby for when the clouds lift enough. If we can get something in the air, we can cover more ground. I don’t want you to give up, Sarah. Not yet. You need to stay strong.” Sarah could only nod at the empty clichés.
“Okay,” she said.
Boychuk explained more technical details. Sarah caught none of it. The officer used terms like probability of containment and possibility of success . The only thing she took away from the monologue was that the chances of finding Matthew were diminishing.
Two days, Boychuk had mentioned the day before. Most people were found within forty-eight hours. It was now twelve hours to that arbitrary cut off. How much time before words like recovery overtook rescue . Boychuk didn’t need to explain what that meant.
Sarah and the kids headed back to the hotel toward twilight. The searchers would continue for another hour or so, but their hope was thinning; the excited morning buzz had fallen to a murmur. Returning volunteers avoided making eye contact with Sarah and looked away when they caught a glimpse of the kids.
Sarah sat in the passenger seat of an SUV, Boychuk at the wheel. Woods and rock flew by out the window; she kept her eyes on the ribbon of blacktop. She felt shriveled, like a dead leaf at the end of autumn.
“Hope is a good thing, Sarah. It’ll light the darkest night,” Boychuk said. “I’ve seen people with a lot less experience than Matthew make it back.” Sarah leaned into the folksy drawl of his voice. Though not tall, there was a solidity to Boychuk, as if everything extraneous had been carved away, leaving only the solid rock and roots at his core. He spoke only when needed, yet his presence was undeniable.
“How often?” Sarah asked. Her dry lips cracked with the effort. His silence was all the answer needed.
“Is there anyone you can call?” Boychuk said. “Family or a friend? Family members can be our best friends, but best friends can be family. You shouldn’t be going through this alone, Sarah.”
“My parents are dead.” Sarah turned to look at Boychuk, a pathetic challenge in her gaze.
His chin dropped a little and his shoulders flattened on a long exhale.
“My sister,” she said in a murmur. “I have a sister.”
Stepping out of the shower later, Sarah threw on the same clothes she’d been wearing for the last three days. The smell of sweat and stale camp smoke turned her stomach. She tore off the T-shirt and wrapped herself in a clean towel. Clutter filled the room: muddy shoes kicked off at the door, empty chip bags and pop cans scattered across the small desk. Her eyes landed on the kids, both asleep in the same bed. Had they eaten today? What had they done? Had they driven back with her and Boychuk? She couldn’t remember. They must have, but she didn’t remember.
Eventually, Sarah crawled across the floor to the small nightstand between the beds. She picked up her phone, yanked it from the charging cord. It felt heavy and unwieldy in her hand. It had been almost two years since Sarah had last called her sister. And it had been thirty-six hours since she’d woken up in the tent without Matthew.
Muscle memory allowed her to dial the numbers she knew in her heart but could not have spoken out loud. She heard the dull warble of the phone ringing.
Once, twice ... it rang five times before she heard the click.
“Hello?” Sarah heard the familiar voice but couldn’t speak. “Hello,” it said again. “Anyone there?”
“Don’t hang up.”
“Sarah?”
“Ya, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” Izzy’s question was like a whip, quick and sure.
“It’s Matt, Izzy. He’s missing. I need help.”