Then my oldest brother, Charles, came forward and held me by the arms. “I have felt so terrible, not only because I wasn’t there to protect you, but because the last thing I ever said to you was to tease you about some stupid little thing. I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry. But I promise, never again will I say good-bye without telling you I love you. That will always be the last thing that I say whenever we say good-bye again.”
And he was right. He always says that now. It is one of the reasons that I love him and why I am so glad he is my brother.
Another officer stepped into the room. “We need to take you to hospital to do a checkup,” he said.
Once again, I was separated from my family. But this time, my mom came with me. She wasn’t leaving my side again.
We were rushed out a back door of the police headquarters and into a white van with darkened windows. I couldn’t believe how many people were waiting, hoping to get a glimpse of me. There were hundreds of reporters and photographers and well-wishers along the road. I was shocked. It seemed incredible! All of them were there for me!
At the hospital, I was poked and prodded and tested in pretty much every way you can imagine. But I didn’t mind so much because I was with my mom.
After the examination, I had to give up the clothes that I was wearing. The police wanted to keep them for evidence. I was more than happy to get rid of them. They were a piece of another life, another world. I wanted to put it all behind me. Besides, they were so filthy and disgusting—castoffs from a homeless camp—I hated to even touch them anymore.
But what was I going to wear out of the hospital? I couldn’t leave in just a gown. My mom and a couple of the hospital staff rustled up a white sweatsuit and some white booties for my feet. The outfit was far too small, and I felt ridiculous, but there was nothing else to do.
Holding hands, my mother and I made our way to another private door on the back side of the hospital and climbed into the waiting police van.
On the way home, the officers were wondering how to get me into my house without subjecting me to the massive crowd that had gathered outside. They talked about driving into the backyard, but there was no way that was going to work. They eventually settled on just driving into my garage and not letting me get out of the van until the garage door had come down.
Turning onto the street that led to my house, I saw for the first time all of the media and other people who had come to celebrate my return. It was nearly overwhelming. Once again I had to wonder that all of those people were there for me.
We pulled into the garage and I waited in the van. But I could hear a hundred voices, shouting, crying, calling out my name. I shook my head in disbelief.
Walking into the house—my house!—I stood in the middle of the living room and took a long look around. It seemed like I had died and gone to heaven. The lights were so bright! The carpet was so soft! The furniture was so beautiful. My family stood inside the room and looked at me. To me, they were a vision. I was so glad to be home!
“Well … what do you want to do?” my mother asked.
The answer was really easy. I wanted to take a bath!
Mom took me upstairs and led me toward my bedroom. Walking in, I was shocked to see that all my clothes were exactly as I had left them on the night I had been taken. I turned to my mother. “Mom, you couldn’t even fold my clothes for me?” I teased.
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. She looked away, embarrassed, then turned back and wiped her eyes. “Elizabeth, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.” She had to pause to clear her throat. She shook her head sadly. “Every time I came in here to organize your things, I started crying. It was too hard. It was too painful. I simply couldn’t do it. I don’t know if you’ll ever understand.”
I reached out and held her. And as I did, a thought came into my mind: Your mom did her best. She has tried so hard to be so strong.
We picked up a few things in the room, then I took a beautiful bubble bath. It felt better than anything I had ever felt before.
By then, it was time to go to bed. My parents gathered us around to have our family prayers. There were plenty of thanks to be given. It was a beautiful thing. After prayers, I got up, said good night to my parents, and started walking up to my bedroom. Both of my parents just stared at me.
“We were thinking,” my dad said with a bit of hesitation, “you know, maybe we’d pull your mattress into our bedroom and you could sleep by us on the floor.”
I almost laughed. “No, Dad. No more floors for me. I want to sleep in my own bed.”
They only looked at me. They were not satisfied.
“Mom, Dad, I promise I’ll be here in the morning.”
It turned out that I hadn’t convinced them. I woke up several times that night to see them standing in the darkness, checking to make sure that I was safe.
The next morning, I woke up before my brothers or sister did. After struggling to find some clothes that fit me—I had grown a lot over the past nine months—I got dressed and went downstairs.