Another pause.
“Yes.
That ticket was canceled six days ago.”
“Who canceled it?”
“The booking account holder.”
My mother had insisted on making the reservations herself.
She had told me it would be easier to keep the family together on the same itinerary.
I had transferred her the full amount for Abigail’s airfare, baggage fee, and part of the rental SUV.
“What happened to the ticket credit?” I asked.
The representative hesitated.
“It was applied to changes on the remaining reservation.”
“What changes?”
“Two upgraded seats, priority boarding, and lounge access for four passengers.”
My mother had canceled an eight-year-old’s ticket and used the value to improve everyone else’s vacation.
Then she had loaded Abigail into the SUV anyway.
She had dressed her for the airport, packed her suitcase, let her believe she was going, and waited for an opportunity to remove her before they reached the terminal.
The sickness had not caused the abandonment.
It had made the abandonment convenient.
I asked the representative to email me the booking history and note that the canceled passenger was a child who had been left beside a highway by the other travelers.
Her tone sharpened immediately.
“Is the child safe now?”
“She is with me.”
“Have you contacted law enforcement?”
“Not yet.”
“You should.”
I already knew she was right.
But first I called my mother.
She answered on the third ring.
Airport announcements echoed behind her.
“Did you find her?” Linda asked, sounding annoyed rather than concerned.
“I found her standing alone beside an empty highway.”
“I told you there were people around.”
“There was no market.”
“It must have been farther down the road.”
“There was nothing for miles.”
My father said something in the background.
Linda covered the phone, then returned with the patient voice she used whenever she wanted to make me feel irrational.
“Megan, she was perfectly safe.
We could see traffic.
Someone would have stopped if she needed help.”
“She is eight.”
“She is old enough to follow instructions.”
“What instructions did you give her?”
Silence.
“Did you tell her to stand there until I arrived? Did you wait until you knew I had the location? Did you call the police or an employee at this imaginary market?”
“We were catching a flight.”
“You canceled Abigail’s ticket six days ago.”
The airport noise seemed to disappear from the call.
Linda did not answer.
“I have the cancellation record,” I continued.
“The credit paid for your seat upgrades and lounge passes.”
My father took the phone.
“You had no right to go digging through our reservation.”
“I paid for her ticket.”
“You gave your mother money.
What she did with it was her decision.”
