Leaving the House Where We Grew Up

Beginnings

Sitting at the kitchen table, the same fixture the family of four used to gather around on an almost nightly basis, Allen and Jane Pines posed in deep concentration, doing their best to paint the picture of what had occurred for the officer to record in his notes.

"So you got up, checked his room, and he was gone?" the officer asked Allen.

"No, no, I got up," she spoke up quietly, hands gathering warmth from the coffee within the mug she clutched. "Allen was on the phone with the school."

"Gotcha. You were getting things figured out with the school and, at the same time, you find out that your son took off, too. That's gotta be rough," the officer summarized with a healthy dose of genuine empathy.

"It was. They both have some...emotional issues they're working through and we really want to get them back. We're both really worried about them," he explained, his wife's hand reaching over to hold his arm for support.

"And I'd love to help you, I would. Trust me. I have two teenaged boys that drive me up the damn wall, but if they disappeared in the middle of the night, I'd lose my mind," Officer Bromley began, the metering of his wording hinting there would be a qualifying statement on the heels of his commiseration.

"That sounds like you're going to add on a 'but'..." Jane guessed.

"But," the officer restarted, with a light guffaw, "unfortunately, there's not much the police can do about this."

"What? Why?! Our son is missing! He's not of sound mind; he's not even emancipated! How is that not a reason to put out a search for him??" his father begged, dumbfounded.

"He may have mental struggles, but unless he was committed at the time of his departure or has shown himself to be a danger to others, we can't really act on it. Emancipated or not, he's eighteen. It's one thing to have control over his finance and education. He is still free to roam so long as he isn't supposed to be in a supervised, mental heath facility."

"We kept him at home for that reason! We didn't want him being locked up in a state hospital. We felt he'd do better at home. I mean, I have the paperwork to have him officially committed in the kitchen. I can go get them; his therapist said she'd have no problem getting them signed off on," the father bargained.

"Won't do any good at this point. You can't section him retroactively. Besides, now that he's eighteen, in the state of California, he'd have the right to appeal the decision. Without knowing where he is — and again, without having a history on record — it's a non-starter. I'm sorry," the officer apologized.

The gravity of the polite refusal was a blow to Allen's already jangled composure. He had assumed that, perhaps, after taking the morning to relax and talk things over with an officer, some avenues would open up that would at least give him hope at bringing his son back home. Digesting the officer's considerate reasoning, he knew those leads were now colder than his first cup of joe, one he hadn't even touched yet, not wanting to further aggravate his jitteriness in front of the officer.

"The best thing you can do is watch your accounts. Since you are the primary holder of his financial means, the moment he pulls money out, you'll have his location," the lawman encouraged optimistically.

"What about contacting his therapist?" Allen asked, brushing over the suggestion, deeming it not effective enough. "It might not be a legal issue, but surely they could put out a description so that if someone sees him, they can call a number and-"

"Sir, that's not going to go anywhere. Without genuine concern over what he might do to someone else, the authorities' hands are tied now that he's an adult," the patient patrolman repeated.