Tonight I watched Gone, Baby, Gone on DVD. I rented it last week, but have put off watching it because I knew it would be heavy and sad. (I read the book, by Dennis Lehane, a while ago and knew exactly what to expect.) A child abducted, a careless and screwed up mother, and lots of people looking for the girl, many of whom have motives that are conflicted.
The movie ended, a movie about a child gone missing from her bed, and I could think of nothing I wanted to do more than to kiss Girl and Boy.
I went to Girl’s room first. Her bed was empty. Thinking she had already wandered into my room, as she usually does at some point during the night, I looked in my bed.
It was empty.
Maybe she went to Boy’s room?
I checked her room again, to make sure she hadn’t fallen out of bed or wasn’t hidden under the covers. Still, no.
My heart started to pound. Hard. My breaths became shallow and tight. Where the hell is she?
I raced back to check the living room, in case she had curled up on the sofa or my chair while I was looking in other rooms. Not there.
Or in the dining room.
The last possible place to look, and the least likely, I thought, was my office. And there she was, curled up in my desk chair, sound asleep.
Dear god. Of all the nights.
When I picked her up, she wrapped arms and legs around me and her dark curls spilled over my shoulder.
“Can I sleep in your bed?” she whispered. It’s a common request, though I usually try to steer her back to her own room, since (at almost 7) she should probably stay in her own bed.
But not tonight.
I kissed her curls, wrapped myself around her little finger, and said yes.