Excerpt: 'Come Back: A Mother and Daughter's Journey Through Hell and Back'

June 13, 2006— -- It was every parent's worst nightmare: Claire Fontaine came home one night to discover her 15-year-old daughter, Mia, had vanished.

That night began a long struggle for both mother and daughter, one that took them through drug abuse, self-mutilation, depression and nearly 20 months of separation while Mia was enrolled in two different "behavior modification" institutions to try to help her overcome her drug problems and other difficult issues.

While Mia searched for herself, Claire struggled to figure out how this could have happened to her family.

Both Mia and Claire recovered and have now chronicled their family's struggle in, "Come Back: A Mother and Daughter's Journey Through Hell and Back."

You can read an excerpt of their book below.

To protect their identities, the real names of both mother and daughter have been replaced by pseudonyms.

Chapter One

It is its own religion, this love. Uncontainable, savage and without end, it is what I feel for my child.

She signs everything she gives me, "Your one and only daughter, Mia," or, "Your One, True Child, Mia." Curled into my lap, she reads about the baby bird that fell from the nest and can't find her mommy. Mia squishes into my chest, "I'm glad I came out of your egg, mudder."

From the moment I take her out into the world, we hear it, every day - those eyes! Mia has huge, blue-gray eyes, with pale blue whites, framed by a mass of amber curls. But the brows leap out above them - they're thick, wide, shiny dark swoops. Like the brows of ancient Persian women, painted in profile. "My God, where did she get those eyes -- is she adopted?" "Are those brows real?" "She's not yours is she"' This we hear often; it frightens her. She has no idea we look nothing alike. She thinks we are identical.

My fear that the constant ogling will make her vain seems confirmed when I overhear her, at age 4, at the bathroom mirror, murmuring, "Those fabayous eyes! She is so gordzuss." I wince, moving to the door to have a little talk on the importance of inner beauty, then stop, still unseen by her. She's referring to Betty Ann, the doll that was once mine, smiling down at her. She then scowls at the imaginary idiot who'd dare question their relationship, "Of course, she's mine! Mine, all mine!"

I step back in silent mirth, happy that what she takes from those encounters is how much I love her. Before I had Mia, I had never deeply loved, nor felt loved deeply. I was unshared.

Mia is fifteen now and she and I are in the clouds above Austria. The sun has not risen and she is spread across her seat and mine, asleep. I watch her sleep, as I have done nearly every night of her life. We are on our way to Eastern Europe. Not to see castles or rivers or onion-domed villas. Not to see long-lost family. Not even to see each other. I am leaving her there.

Mia will be locked up. She is broken now. Thin, pink scars beribbon her thighs and stomach, her ankles are bruised by a felon's leg shackles, her wrists by handcuffs. She is medically malnourished and made up like a whore. Inside, she is dark and damaged and gone. I don't know if I'll ever see her again, my one true child. My desperate hope is that she can be repaired, even badly patched. Mostly, though, I simply hope they can keep her, that she not escape, as she has done again and again and again and again. Each time to do worse things with worse people, criminals finally. The only thing left would be death, hers or someone else's.

I look down at her, both of us just skin and bone and thin, little breaths. What's left of me staring at what's left of her.

January 30, six months ago to the day, I am absurdly happy. I'm adapting a book I love into a screenplay for an Oscar-winning producer; my husband, Paul, is my best friend and tomorrow we're putting in a bid to buy our first home. Most of all, I'm Mia's mom. The wise, funny, sparkling Mia who still wants lullabies and butterfly kisses each night. My mother is flying in tomorrow to visit; Mia hasn't seen her Bubbie in two years. It's a cold, gray day. Mia woke early with a sore throat and fever. I made her favorite soup before I left because I know I'll be working past her bedtime tonight for the first time in her life. The story outline of the screenplay is due tomorrow.

The book I'm adapting is beautifully written, but has no dramatic structure, no story to film. Creating one has been my task. It tells of a woman who has lost a child and found herself in another world, foreign and hostile.

Mia calls my office twice to tell me she loves me. There's something in her voice, subtle. It's not her usual, comfort-me sick voice. This voice is tender, as if I am the one in need of comfort. She calls again at nine in the evening to ask for a lullaby. I've sung them to her across the nation. Hushabye, my little darling and I'll see you in the morning.

I have no idea.

I drive home after midnight, feeling a sense of good fortune. I'm pleased with what I've written, I'm buying a house tomorrow, I have the weekend free to spend with my family. The rain has cleaned LA's dirty sky and the moon and stars are brilliant. As I walk to my back door, I see that Mia's bedroom window is open, the one by her bed. It's freezing outside. I come in asking Paul about her. He's still at his drafting table. He's a graphic designer and has a deadline tomorrow, too.

"I checked her twenty minutes ago, she's sound asleep."

"With the window open?"

He looks up from his drawing, puzzled. "Of course not."

We walk back to check on her, wondering if she opened it because of her fever. Her room is dark, ice cold, the curtains billow softly at the open window. Paul goes to shut the window as I go to her bed to check her forehead - but she's not there.

"Paul, where's Mia?"

Paul checks her bathroom.

"She's not in here -- "

We're suddenly a tornado of fear and sound -- hollering Mia!Mia!Mia! -- slapping on lights -- whipping through rooms and closets -- ohmyGodohmyGod, she's gone, someone's taken her -- someone's kidnapped my daughter, my baby girl!

The laws of physics and biology change. Air thickens, has substance, like oil. Light is suddenly crystalline, astringent, my pupils screw down. Paul falters, he sits on the bed like a dropped marionette. I run to call the police but nothing cooperates. Bowels and knees collapse, lungs shrink, lips move but my tongue is sand, useless. I can't stand up or walk, but suddenly I can float.

From above I see this: a Polaroid by Hieronymus Bosch, a tableau with two figures agonized and contorted, reduced to an animal state.

We see it at the same time, on her desk. In her tiny writing. My call to the police will be different. No one has taken Mia. She has taken herself. I can't breathe.

"Dear Mommy and Paul,
Please read this with an open mind and don't freak
out or worry. I need to experience real life...People out there are more real, they'll take care of me. I'll be okay, I have a Swiss army knife and mace ... Please don't feel guilty, I couldn't have asked for better parents ..."

I'm not freaking out, I'm wild. I am dancing with shock, I'm terrified. What people, what life, out where?! This is madness, delusion, it's the fever, she's lost her mind! My precious child is alone on the streets with a Swiss Army knife and no mind. Back off rapist with HIV, go away drifter with a blunt object, I have a retractable corkscrew and nail file!

I want to holler, pound, smash. I have sprung back to life, my synapses are on fire, my legs feel bionic, my lungs could amplify her name across Los Angeles. I want to fly over the city with infrared Mia-seeking vision.

The police officer in my kitchen stares at the letter, saying, "She doesn't seem angry, she seems to love you very much."

Of course she loves us, we're great parents, she's a great kid, why do you think we're in such shock! I want to grab him and shake him, I'm already doing the math: Time = Distance! Every minute we stand here, she gets farther away!

He looks at her photo and we know what he's thinking. Girl like that on the street. She is striking, exotic. She's a target is what she is.

"...I'm sick of life, everything seems so pointless...I've
been pretty screwed up for a while, this will solve stuff.