I hadn’t driven Route 9 in 20 years, not since my seven-year-old son vanished from a rest stop while I was buying him a Sprite. Last week, a blown tire forced me back onto that road, and a stranger made sure I didn’t leave it with the same answers I’d had before.
I am 50 years old, and my life has been split in two since 2006.
Before Daniel.
After Daniel.
Before, I was a mother driving down Route 9 with my seven-year-old son beside me, listening to him beg for a Sprite like it was medicine.
After, I was the woman whose son disappeared from a rest stop while she was inside for less than two minutes.
I was buying him a Sprite. I turned around, and he was gone.
The police searched hard at first.
Dogs. Helicopters. Volunteers.
Men with clipboards asking me the same questions until the words stopped sounding real.
“What was he wearing? Did he know to stay by the car? Could he have wandered off?”
After a while, the search lost some momentum.
Then the few other customers lost interest. Then it became a file in a drawer.
I stopped driving Route 9 after the first anniversary. I could not breathe on that road.
I couldn’t see a rest stop sign without hearing my own voice calling his name.
Last Tuesday, my GPS rerouted me because of a wreck. I did not understand where it was sending me until I saw the sign.
Route 9.
My hands went slick on the wheel.
I wanted to turn around. I didn’t.
Twenty miles in, my back tire blew.
I got onto the shoulder and just sat there, both hands locked on the wheel, crying so hard I could barely see.
Not because of the tire. Because the road had me again.
A knock on the window made me jump.
An older man stood there in a worn coat and split boots, gray beard moving in the wind. He looked like somebody the road had kept.
I cracked the window.
“You all right?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
He looked at the back of my car.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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