Have You Seen Gregory?

“Phillip, where’s Gregory?” Five-year-old Phillip is standing next to the couch playing with some toy. I’m sitting on the couch, apparently watching Sesame Street all by myself.

“I don’t know,” he answers, hardly looking up.

I jump up off the couch, scanning the family room. Gregory is a rambunctious, hard-to-pin-down two-year-old who is always on the go. I am fourteen and don’t want to be on the go while I babysit for a measly dollar an hour.

“Phillip, help me look for him,” I command, disguising my panic with a mask of authority.

We set off looking in every room of the house, in every cupboard (Gregory has a reputation of hiding in cupboards) and under every bed. We look in every nook and cranny we think his little body can fit.

No Gregory.

Shit.

“Do you think he might have gone out the sliding door, Phillip?” I ask though I know the answer. That little guy has slipped out the sliding glass door which is about ten feet behind the couch I had been sitting on when I thought we had all been watching television. Now Phillip and I have wasted precious moments searching the house giving Gregory more time to get further away.

I glance out of the glass door to the backyard. No sign of Gregory. If he’s not in the backyard, I’m doomed. How can I look beyond the backyard for Gregory if I have to keep an eye on Phillip? If Phillip tags along, it will slow down my search. And crap, the boys’ mom might get home before I find Gregory. What would I do? How do you explain to a mom that you lost her kid? Should I be calling the police?

“Come, on, Phillip,” I say, taking hold of his hand. “Let’s go find your brother.”

I’ve made my decision but I’m still hesitant. There’s a possibility that Gregory is still in the house and we just haven’t found him. He could come out of his hiding place after Phillip and I have left, and he’d be all alone. Abandoned by his so-called “babysitter.” Without question, I had been “sitting” when “baby” Gregory escaped. Then his mom would come home to find Gregory watching Sesame Street all by himself. And then, of course, all hell would break loose.

I’ve gotta find this kid!

I open the sliding door to the backyard and standing there is Eliot’s mother, about ready to knock. Maybe she has Gregory?

Eliot lives next door to Phillip and Gregory. I am his and his brother Shane’s regular babysitter.

“Oh, hi,” I say. She doesn’t have Gregory.

“What’s the matter?” She asks. Apparently, anxiety is written all over my face.

“I can’t find Gregory,” I blurt out, a little relieved to share my burden but well aware that by doing so, she will undoubtedly question my competence as a babysitter for her two boys.

“Oh, dear,” she says. “I knew you were here babysitting so I just came over to see if you could babysit Eliot and Shane tomorrow, but let’s find Gregory first.” Her saying “let’s” is like her throwing a life preserver to me just before I’m about to drown. “Have you checked the house?” She asks.

“Yes, Phillip and I looked everywhere. I think he escaped out of this door.”

“How about I stay here with Phillip and you go look for Gregory. I think I’d check the Smith house first; Gregory likes to go visit their pool.” Okay. First of all, this lady is super calm in what I would call an utter emergency. I’m relieved, though, that Gregory has escaped before when he wasn’t under my watch. But come on! A pool?! Talk about a child safety hazard! And finally, I think, crap. I know Mr. Smith (name changed) and by all accounts, he is an angry man. A man I hardly want to approach to ask if he’s seen Gregory. I imagine the mean, old coot probably had a scowl on his face on the happiest day of his life, walking his new bride down the aisle twenty years ago…

The Smiths live catty-corner behind Gregory and Phillip’s house. I can see a small break in the shrubbery in the back corner of the lawn where Gregory likely made his escape. I’m familiar with this neighborhood because my family lives in it. We live on the next block just east of the street Phillip and Gregory live on and the Smiths live on the block just west of the boys’ street. I know exactly where I’m headed.

I thank Eliot’s mom and run to the corner of the yard, through the bushes, and into the Smiths’ side yard. I see no sign of Gregory. I haven’t started calling his name yet. I think by doing so it will make this situation even more scary than it already is. I suppose there’s also a part of me that doesn’t want to alert the world that I’ve lost a kid. I’ll wait until I check out the Smiths’.

I walk to the Smiths’ front yard and stop about ten feet from their front porch. Their front door is open, and I can see through their screen door right into their kitchen. I can’t believe my eyes.

Sitting around their kitchen table are Mr. and Mrs. Smith and two other adults. And Gregory. The adults are laughing and playing with the toddler as though they’re his grandparents, not seeming to question why a two-year-old is out gallivanting around all by himself. What the hell?

I climb onto the porch and knock on the door.

Mr. Smith stands up and comes to the door. His face is impassive. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“I’m here for Gregory,” I say in a small voice. “I’m his babysitter.”

“I want to talk to you,” he says as he comes out the door. He motions for me to follow him to the front lawn. Just give me the kid, already!

“Listen here, young lady,” he admonishes while he points a finger at me. I feel blood rushing to my face. I’m horrified. And angry. I also make a mental note that at fourteen, I am taller than this angry man. “Do you know how much danger you put Gregory in?” He yells. “We have a pool! He could have drowned! You should never have let him out of your sight. What kind of babysitter are you? He could have gotten into our yard and drowned! I’m going to have to tell Gregory’s mom.” (I know he says more but in the interest of my mental health, I opt to stop listening.)

I am mortified. How humiliating to be standing in this guy’s front yard while he yells at me. But now, along with my shame, I am really, really mad at this bozo. How dare he yell at me! Why didn’t he call Gregory’s house as soon as he showed up at their place? And isn’t it his responsibility as a pool owner to keep a closed fence around his pool to keep little buggers like Gregory out of harm’s way?

And anyway, he’s not Gregory’s dad and he’s not my dad. He has no right to yell at me for losing Gregory.

 I feel bad enough already.

The short man probably expects me to cry but I’m not going to. He probably wants me to cry, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. Besides, I’m too relieved to cry. Gregory has been found and he is safe. God bless America!

The two of us walk back up to the porch and all the adults give Gregory sweet waves and “good-byes”, as though he’s a regular visitor. I pick Gregory up and carry him back home. This kid needs a leash.

Eliot’s mom is sitting in the backyard with Phillip. “You found him! Hey, what’s wrong?” Again, my face gives me away.

“Nothing. He was at the Smiths like you thought. Mr. Smith kinda yelled at me,” I explain, with tears threatening to fall.

“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s a big grouch. It’s all right.” And then she adds, “I better get back home. Are you up for babysitting tomorrow afternoon around two?”

I can’t believe she would want me! “Sure. I’ll be there at two. Thanks so much for your help.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. That Gregory is a handful.”