I once believed that parents always came back.
It took me a long time to understand how wrong an eight-year-old could be.
My name was Matthew Marsh now, but that name belonged to a life I had not yet begun when my parents left me behind.
The day it happened was cold.
February 1994.
Dayton, Ohio.
I remember riding in the back of my father's station wagon and rubbing my hands together because the heater barely worked.
My mother, Evelyn, sat in the passenger seat.
My father, Arthur, drove.
Neither of them talked much.
I didn't think anything was wrong.
Children don't always recognize the end of something while it's happening.
Sometimes they are too busy thinking about what they might get to eat when they arrive.
I had a small coat on.
I remember that because I kept pulling the sleeves over my fingers.
My mother looked back at me once.
She didn't smile.
She didn't ask whether I was cold.
She simply turned toward the window again.
When we reached the Greyhound station on the east side of Dayton, my father parked outside.
I thought we were going somewhere.
Maybe visiting relatives.
Maybe taking a trip.
I had no reason to believe otherwise.
My mother opened my door and told me to get out.
I followed her through the entrance.
The station was crowded.
People carried bags, held children's hands, and hurried toward the ticket counters.
I watched a little girl holding a stuffed rabbit.
I remember wishing I had brought one of my toys.
My mother led me toward a wooden bench near the lockers.
Then she pointed at it.
"Stay right here."
I sat down.
She stood in front of me with her handbag hanging from one shoulder.
I asked what we were doing.
She said my father needed to purchase tickets.
I asked where we were going.
She told me she would explain later.
Then she placed a granola bar in my hand.
"Just wait."
I looked at the wrapper.
It was already slightly crushed.
I remember smoothing it against my knee.
My mother repeated that I wasn't supposed to leave the bench.
Then she walked away.
I watched her disappear into the crowd.
I wasn't frightened.
Not yet.
Ten minutes seemed like a reasonable amount of time to wait for someone.
I had no watch.
I counted buses instead.
One pulled away.
Another arrived.
A man dragged a suitcase past my shoes.
A woman stopped to read the departure board.
I kept looking toward the entrance.
My parents would return.
That was what I believed.
After a while, I opened the granola bar.
I ate slowly because I didn't know when I would get another one.
The station smelled strange.
Wet clothing.
Old cigarette smoke.
Cleaning chemicals.
And the heavy smell of diesel whenever the doors opened.
I rubbed my hands together again.
My mother still hadn't returned.
I started looking for my father's station wagon through the glass.
I couldn't see it.
I told myself he had probably moved it.
Then I told myself they were buying something.
Then I decided they must have been standing in a long line.
Children are good at making excuses for people they love.
Even when those excuses hurt.
A woman who worked near the information desk approached me.
She had a kind face and a name tag pinned to her shirt.
"Are you waiting for somebody, sweetheart?"
I nodded.
"My parents."
She looked around.
"Where are they?"
"Buying tickets."
She asked whether I knew when they would be back.
I told her ten minutes.
That was what my mother had promised.
The woman smiled, but something about her expression changed.
She walked away.
I didn't understand why.
I waited longer.
The granola bar wrapper was folded into a small square in my hand.
I kept looking at the entrance.
Every time the doors opened, I sat up straighter.
Every time they closed, I felt a little smaller.
Another bus left.
Then another.
The station became less crowded.
I began to wonder whether my parents had forgotten which bench they had left me at.
It sounded silly even to me.
But I was eight.
I didn't have another explanation.
The information desk woman came back.
"What's your mother's name?"
"Evelyn."
"And your father's?"
"Arthur."
She asked whether I knew their telephone number.
I did not.
She asked whether I knew where we lived.
I knew the house.
I knew the road.
I couldn't remember the full address.
She crouched in front of me.
"Matthew, I think we need to make a phone call."
I shook my head.
My mother had told me not to move.
I didn't want to get into trouble.
The woman looked toward the entrance again.
Then she went to speak with someone.
I remained on the bench.
Waiting.
That was the only thing I knew how to do.
By evening, the station had become almost empty.
The lights above me made a faint buzzing sound.
My legs were cold.
My stomach hurt.
I had stopped looking at the departure board because I couldn't understand why the buses mattered anymore.
I wanted my mother.
Not the granola bar.
Not a new coat.
Not a trip.
Just my mother.
I wanted her to walk through those doors and tell me I had misunderstood.
She didn't.
Instead, two police officers arrived.
One spoke to the woman at the information desk.
The other approached me.
He crouched down so we were at the same height.
"Hey, buddy. What's your name?"
I answered quietly.
"Matthew."
"Do you know where your parents are?"
I looked past him.
For one last time, I checked the entrance.
Then I looked back at the officer.
"They're coming."
He didn't tell me I was wrong.
He only nodded.
And that was when I began to understand that the adults around me knew something I didn't.
I held the empty granola bar wrapper in my fist.
The police officer gently asked me to come with him.
I looked at the bench.
I thought my parents might come back while I was gone.
So I asked whether we could wait a little longer.
He didn't make me.
But he didn't leave me there either.
That night, I left the Greyhound station with people whose names I didn't know.
My parents had brought me there.
The police took me away.
And the wooden bench stayed behind.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: The Stranger Who Entered the Wrong Room and Asked Me a Question Nobody Had Thought to Ask
The Little Boy Who Believed His Parents Would Return, Even After Everyone Else Had Stopped Waiting
Part 1 of 24
