A few days into the trip, I notice the host father seems to have stopped posting pictures on Facebook. This is disappointing, since I am going out of town for a few days and won’t have access to Skype. I tell The Child she can call me if she needs to or wants to.

The father calls me one evening. He leaves the house and goes to sit in his car so we can speak privately. The Child is being difficult, he says, and he would like my advice in managing it. She’s arguing about things, and going off by herself, he says – but not in a safe way. She takes the paddle boat and goes off where she’s been told not to. She refuses to wear her life vest one day, or to go somewhere with the group another day. She argues and snaps and storms out of the room sometimes.

What I want to say is, send her home, but although everything seems to have been planned to the last detail, there is no escape plan.

Instead I say she’s exhausted and make suggestions: she doesn’t handle the unexpected well, I suggest, so it really helps to prepare her for what’s coming next. Tell her ahead of time, and then issue regular time warnings as you get ready to leave. The more tired she is, I tell him, the more she needs help with this.

It worked in third grade. It worked when I was still Mommy.

I receive many such calls over the next few days, and when I talk to her, I ask what’s going on. The conversations are not private, though. They are always on Skype, in the living room, where everyone else seems to be. She has a headset on, so they can’t hear me and I ask her questions. But all she says is: This isn’t how I thought it would be. This isn’t really fun.

She glances at people around her as they walk by, to let me know she cannot say what she wants to.

I get texts from her, sometimes happy sounding: we’re at a waterfall, it’s beautiful!  But when I talk to her later and ask how she’s doing, she only says, it’s okay, but I’m not really having fun.

I try to coach her to put a smile on her face: She’s there as a guest, all expenses paid – and clearly her presence and her misery is ruining everyone’s trip. Make the most of it, I tell her. Maybe it’s not what you expected, but try to enjoy it anyway. You’re doing fun things, right? Try to enjoy them.

She can’t seem to find either her sense of fun, or the words to tell me what is wrong.

The next day, I send The Child a text, but receive no reply. I know she is headed out for Niagara Falls, and a few hours later, a picture appears on the host father’s Facebook page. The Child seems happy and wet on The Maid of the Mist. She was just tired the night before, and all is well now.

That evening, The Child calls me on Skype. The computer in the cabin is set up in the living room, so as she talks, people are walking around her; her friends pop in to coo when I hold up The Siamese for The Child to see, so she doesn’t feel so far away. She’s visibly happy and relieved to see me, as I am to see her. She tells me about the present she bought me, at a cow-themed store: A Doctor Moo t-shirt.

Cool! I tell her. What did you get?

Oh nothing, but I knew you would like the Doctor Moo shirt, she says.

She brought her babysitting money with her, along with some birthday money she saved, and all she can think to buy is something for me.

The few days, they go visiting around the family’s cabin, and swim in the lake there. The Child looks tired when I talk with her on Skype, and happy, or maybe relieved, to see me.

I deliver The Child to her friend’s family the day before she is to fly away with them: First to Buffalo, then a drive to Niagara Falls, and then up to Canada. She spends the night at her friend’s, and she is giddy with excitement over it all. A trip with her friends, on a plane!

She texts me the next morning at 4am: We’re going to the airport!!!!

Have fun! I text back. I love you!!

Love you too!!!! comes the reply.

I go back to sleep, and a few hours later, go to work. I check the airline website a few times, but her flight seems to be fine.

That evening,  The Child calls. It’s 9pm where I am and midnight in upstate New York, where she is. She’s been traveling since 4am.

She whispers into the phone to me: I’m scared, I’m scared. Her voice cracks; she tries not to cry.

I’m wondering why nobody else is there to comfort her in person, or why they are all still awake.

Where are you? I ask.

In the hallway at the hotel.

Who is with you? I want to know.

Nobody. Everybody is asleep, but I couldn’t sleep, so I went in the hallway so I wouldn’t wake anybody up.

My fingers are cold and stiff and long to touch her.

I’m scared, Mommy. I miss you.

She’s crying now, and alone, in a hallway in a hotel. I am Mommy again, not Mom or Mother: she needs me, but I cannot get to her. I cannot get to her and my skin crawls with helplessness.

I wonder how she left the hotel room unnoticed and unsupervised, and remind myself that it is okay, the family has done nothing wrong, it’s not like The Child hasn’t snuck away from me once or twice. Except that I noticed when it happened, like I’m noticing now – and they are asleep, on the other side of a hotel door, on the other side of the country, where my little girl is and where I cannot help her.

I persuade her to go back into the room. Do you have your bunny? I ask, but then I realize she has probably left him behind, this stuffed purple rabbit that has comforted her since she was a baby – because she’s not a baby anymore. Her bunny is on her bed, so I take a picture of it and text it to her. Here is bunny to keep you company, I tell her. Please stay in the room.

I walk around the house and take pictures of all the pets and text those too. She doesn’t reply for a while, and then apologizes: The hotel has slow wifi. A little later she texts me a heart, and then eventually, a smile.