I’d asked her if she was all right. She said she was, but she was scared. She asked where her daddy and I were.
I told her to stay right there, that Daddy and I were coming right now to get her. I told her that I loved her and not to be afraid. That we were coming for her.
Antonio had gotten back on the phone and said that Lynn appeared just fine aside from some kind of pain on the back of her head. I begged him to keep her safe, which he promised to do.
Then, he paused. I heard it too, even over the phone. The loud knocking on the door.
And then he got you on the phone. I heard your voice and I couldn’t help but cry in relief. We told you we were coming for you. Then we heard something at the door.
The Mexican man whispered that someone was outside. He went to go check and came back and said there were men in suits at the door.
Dr. Martin told him to hide, right now. To take you and the adults and hide.
We just stood there, waiting. I shouted for him to tell us that you were OK. But there was only silence.
I need to stop now. I’ll write more tomorrow, if my heart can take it. I pray, maybe tonight, you’ll dream of your mother.
To have that kind of hope, that kind of relief, of knowing that your missing child is alive and apparently well, and then in the next moment have it all plunge into deeper fear and confusion, is an experience I would not wish on the devil himself. But that’s exactly what happened. Antonio had gone to check to see who was knocking, said it was men in suits at the door, and then nothing.
We’d frantically had the operator call the number again. But each time, she said the line was dead. The glimpse into the welfare of my daughter had closed.
Bud had exploded, and I hadn’t blamed him. Shouting, demanding an explanation for what the hell just happened, ordering me to go pack a bag and that Dr. Martin would get in his truck and drive us to our daughter right now.
Dr. Martin tried to remain calm, explaining that the man on the phone was a journalist he trusted who had grown up near Olvidar and had heard stories of people showing up on the beach without memories after lightning storms. That he’d moved there to write a book about the town, but when he started inquiring about it, his house had burned down.
I kept fighting the urge to do as Bud instructed, to throw our things together and just get on the road. Mexico, I kept thinking. How will we ever get to Mexico?
Dr. Martin could clearly see we were panicking and cut to the chase: Antonio had read an article he’d written, about his theory that lightning strikes were incinerating people and making them look as if they disappeared. Antonio had written him about the strange occurrences in Olvidar, how he thought the theory was wrong. That they’d begun to talk by phone. And together, they’d come up with the idea that people weren’t burning so quickly that there was nothing left of them, but rather vanishing. And reappearing in Mexico.
I am going to ask for some more of the medication and try to sleep now. It’s the only time I have peace, when the drugs deafen the pain and rid my brain of the ability to remember.
Nov 10, 1951
Lynn,
You smiled at me when you woke today! It was a real breakthrough. You asked for honey on your toast. I told you I would get you anything you wanted. Could it be that maybe—just maybe—that there is hope for us as a family?
Every time I start feeling bad, feeling sorry for myself and missing your mother so much that it hurts, I think about how your mother heard your voice on the phone and that it went dead. I thought that it would be the last time we would ever hear or see you. But now, you are in your bed asleep and I can reach out and touch you. You are real and here with me. It is worth reliving this so you can one day know what your mother did to bring you home.
I know what Dr. Martin must have thought of us that morning. Practically kids ourselves, just nineteen when we had you. Could we even begin to understand what he was saying? I’ll admit, my mind is like a fog sometimes, it takes me a minute to understand some things. But not your mama. She is as sharp as a tack. He learned that fast.
CLASSIFIED SSA AUTHORIZED READERS ONLY LYNN STANSON FILE
October 30, 1951
YUCATAN, MEXICO
Sometimes they allow me to leave my windows open for a brief amount of time, so I can feel the breeze off the ocean. It’s never for long—they worry it will get too humid in the room despite the fans, that I will sweat too much under all these casts and bandages. It’s one of the first things I ask for each day, to open the windows. It reminds me of the first day we landed in Mexico, when I still had hope.
They ask me to detail as much as I can about Dr. Martin, and the organization he belongs to. But the truth is I know very little. He never discussed them by name, and I was never privy to his quiet phone conversations with them. I only know they must have had a wealthy member, or maybe several, otherwise we wouldn’t have had access to the small propeller planes that took us from Nashville to New Orleans. And finally, to Mexico, after an agonizing two-day wait, while Martin’s colleagues scrambled to find another plane.
We landed, and headed directly for the beach at Olvidar. I had to keep reminding myself that this wasn’t some sort of lagging nightmare, that this was all really happening. That my little girl was here somewhere, taken from our woods and dropped somehow in this poverty-stricken piece of the world.
Bud had grown so quiet at this point I knew he was at the breaking point. Most of our communications were had when I reached out for his hand, and he held it with a fierceness that renewed my strength.
In broken Spanish, Dr. Martin repeatedly asked anyone if they knew Antonio Borges. Even I, who could not comprehend their words, could tell by watching their faces that they didn’t want to answer.
We made our way to the beach, a sprawling stretch of emerald and blue spilling onto white.
It was empty. No people, no witnesses.
Then I saw the children. They were sitting in the shade of several palm trees, watching us. I gave them a small wave, and they didn’t respond.
Dr. Martin approached them. I feared they might sprint at the sight of three strangers approaching.
Almost frantically reading through the pages, William flipped to the next and stopped. The handwriting was different, and the letter was addressed this time to Bud Stanson. The return address was from St. Louis, Missouri, and the name of the sender was of the professor so often mentioned in his great-grandparents’ letters: Dr. Rex Martin.
BUD STANSON
1 EVELYN ROAD
NASHVILLE, TN 37205
REX MARTIN
ST. LOUIS UNIVERSITY
1 NORTH GRAND BOULEVARD
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI 63103
Dec 1, 1951
Bud,
I will continue to write you, even if you do not respond. This exercise may be more for me at this point. To detail this so there is no loss of memory. I have not been feeling well as of late.