Emmy & Oliver Read Free Page B

know that your friend Oliver might never come home?”
    â€œWhat can you tell us about Oliver, sweetheart? Do you think he wanted to be with his dad more than his mom?”
    â€œDid Oliver say anything to you? Did you know that his father was going to take him?”
    I’m not sure when I started to cry, but when my dad came storming out of the house,I was in full-blown hysterics. He grabbed me up and told all the newscasters to go fuck themselves (which definitely did not make it into the seven o’clock broadcast), then carried me back inside. Soon after, he taught Caro and Drew and I some Beatles songs and told us that whenever we saw people with cameras, we should just sing those songs.
    At the time, I thought it was just fun to sing really loud, but then I realized what an evil genius my dad is. To broadcast Beatles lyrics, you have to have the rights to the songs, which costs somewhere around a billion dollars. So whenever we popped up singing about yellow submarines or Lucy in the sky with diamonds, they couldn’t use the footage.
    We’ve done that ever since. Works like a charm.
    â€œWhich song?” Drew asked, unbuckling his seat belt like he hadn’t just commandeered his car like a rocket. “I vote for ‘Hello, Goodbye.’ It’s appropriate.”
    Neither Caro nor I disagreed, so we hurried out of the car and up my driveway as the anchorpeople dashed toward us. I recognized some of them—the ones that hadn’t been promoted to better jobs in San Francisco or Houston or New York—and they were already eyeing the three of us, painfully wise to our wacky sing-alongs.
    â€œâ€˜You say goodbye and I say hello!’” we sang. What we lack in talent, we make up for with enthusiasm and nefarious glee. “‘Hello, helloooooo! I don’t know why you say goodbye, I say hello!’”
    We were barely done with the first chorus before we made it through the front door of my house, where my mom was waiting.
    â€œOh, honey!” she wailed, grabbing me up and then hugging Drew and Caro as an afterthought. “They found him! He’s alive!”
    I hadn’t seen either of my parents cry in years. When Oliver was taken, there were whispered conversations and stressful quiet moments, but they never cried. I think they thought they had to be brave for me and strong for Maureen, Oliver’s mom. But now my mother was weeping against my shoulder and I hugged her tight, not sure what to say.
    Drew was better in these situations than I was.
    â€œDon’t worry, Mrs. Trenton,” he said. “Oliver’s in New York. If he can make it there, he can make it anywhere.”
    She started to laugh through her tears and she let go of the three of us. “Drew,” my mother scolded, “this isn’t a time for jokes.” But she was still laughing and Drew just winked at me.
    â€œMom,” I said, “is it true? Really, this time?”
    My mother nodded and used a ragged tissue to wipe at her eyes. “Maureen called us an hour ago. She’s already on her way to the airport to get him. She said . . .” My mother stopped to stifle a sob. “She said he’s six feet tall and has dark hair.”
    I just nodded, but I knew what my mom meant. When Oliver left, he was barely as high as my shoulder and had blond highlights from spending summers outside in our backyards.
    â€œWhat about his dad? Is he—?”
    â€œThey don’t know,” my mother said. “Apparently, he wasn’t home and he hasn’t come back since. They’re looking for him now, though. I’m sure they’ll find him.” (I wasn’t so sure. My mom had been saying that for ten years about Oliver: “I’m sure they’ll find him.” )
    â€œYour dad’s on his way home from work now, Em.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “Are you kids hungry?”
    â€œYes,” Drew and Caro