Rabbit Hole

by Kate Brody

For those unfamiliar with the case: Angie Angstrom (18F), a high school senior, disappeared some time between Fri 3.11.05 and Sat 3.12.05. The night she disappeared, she attended a local party at the house of a school mate. She drank with friends and was apparently very intoxicated. Friends at the party saw her arrive alone and leave alone (around midnight). She told some people that she was getting a ride home from her boyfriend, and it was confirmed by the family that Angie had not taken a car out of the house that night, though they didn’t know about a boyfriend. The police questioned dozens of partygoers, confirming this version of events. Three were asked to take a polygraph (host, host’s boyfriend, and a guest who was sober and remembered talking to Angie). Several people noted that she seemed “off,” like she was on drugs. Her younger sister, Theodora (16F), said that she saw Angie in the early hours of the morning at home. She claimed that Angie was not drunk/drugged. [Note: this information was late to come out—approx. five days into investigation. Police changed their focus at this point from the party to the Angstrom household given change of the last-seen location.] Morning of 3.12, Angie was not in the house. Her mother, Clare Angstrom (52F) called in missing persons at 7:30 p.m. No evidence of a struggle was found in the house or car. No one from the party had heard from her after she left. Other students say she had a cell phone (burner type/disposable), but ...

I read somewhere that most people die at twenty-five but are buried at seventy-five.

But what is so bad about that? What is so horrible about a warm bed and a softening body and the properly-timed tragedies of living? What could be so bad about giving birth and getting divorced and burying your elderly parents?

There is no accounting for the gulf between who we were and how we ended up. I can’t make it make sense.

Why would I create another vulnerable little person I can’t protect? Why would I expand my heart in a thousand ways that will only hurt? Kids are an enterprise for the lucky or the insane. After Wolf dies, after Mom dies, I will become invincible. I almost look forward to feeling that sadness, because that will be the bottom. And then I’ll be untouchable.

When we’re born, she told me, we can’t tell ourselves from our mothers. She said that when her son looked at her, he thought he was looking at himself. That when she held him, there was no distinction between them. Total unification. Mother as home. You have to learn that you’re alone. That comes later.