The Vanishing of Willa Sloan

By Andrea Dias

When fifteen-year-old Isabelle’s mother, Willa, vanishes in the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic, she is devastated. The investigation, overrun by unprecedented challenges, goes cold, forcing Isabelle to move on with her life without any answers or closure. Ten years later, Isabelle discovers that her mother secretly endured several years of sexual exploitation while studying at the Ballet National de Paris as a teenager. Completely shocked by this revelation, Isabelle can’t help wondering if these horrifying events are somehow connected to her mother’s disappearance. As Isabelle travels to Paris to dig into her mother’s unimaginably dark past, she learns the lengths to which her mother was willing to go in order to keep her secret traumas buried. Eventually, Isabelle is forced to ask herself the tough question: Do you ever truly know someone?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387965830

Book preview

The Vanishing of Willa Sloan

By

Andrea Dias

Cover Art by

Katherine Hill

Edited by

Dianne Brooks

Order this book online at www.LULU.com

Copyright 2022 Andrea Dias

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN:

978-1-387-96583-0

Part One

Chapter One: Isabelle

Georgetown, Washington D.C. 2030

The year 2020, as it was for so many, was definitely the worst year of my life. However, it wasn’t the sudden onset of the COVID-19 pandemic or its repercussions that traumatized my fifteen-year-old self. It was that in the midst of this turmoil, my mother completely vanished. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The odds of finding her were stacked against us from the very start. The search was hindered by a myriad of unusual factors that included the weather, the upcoming holiday, the lack of media coverage, and, most overwhelmingly, the pandemic. These factors severely hampered what should have occurred in those critical first twenty-four hours of the investigation.

Mom went missing on December 18th. It was the Friday before Christmas break and there was a rapidly approaching winter storm in the forecast. The residents of Georgetown were preoccupied with preparing for the holidays, tying up loose ends at work or school, and, if they dared to travel, getting out of town before the storm hit. Since COVID-19 was highly contagious, most were remaining socially distant in order to maintain the health and well-being of their immediate family. People were less inclined than they normally would have been to partake in any sort of mass search, even one for a missing mother from their own community. The events of 2020 had put so much stress on everyone that no one had energy for anyone else’s problems.

The news media, too, seemed categorically disinterested in my mother’s story. It didn’t matter that my mother was a pretty, white, stay-at-home mom in her thirties. Ordinarily, the disappearance of a person like her would be headline news. Mom should have held the same media attention as Lacie Peterson, Susan Powell, or Shanann Watts. Such a case would typically be a journalist’s dream, a story that would ordinarily lead to career advancement. But these times were all but typical. They were crazy and completely unprecedented. No missing person could compete with the major news stories of that time. The news was dominated by the second COVID-19 surge, the Black Lives Matter movement, and the spectacle that Donald Trump had created over his claims of a fraudulent election. Mom's disappearance was only a blip when compared to these all-encompassing features.

The pandemic was, by far, the biggest obstacle to finding my mother because it complicated every aspect of an already difficult case. Keeping the public safe from COVID-19 was the utmost priority. One woman’s disappearance was of little importance when compared to the millions infected and the hundreds of thousands of Americans dead. There were limited resources. It was a health risk just to send out the aid that was needed. Many of the agencies that were usually dispatched to help people in need were working with skeleton crews, many people having been furloughed or even let go. The risk of spreading the virus was ever-present, particularly for large groups working in close proximity to one another. In such a scenario, anyone exposed to the virus, symptomatic or not, would be quarantined for two weeks without any sort of replacement. People just weren’t available or in the mindset to help, and I’m still resentful of this. Had Mom disappeared at any other time, I’m confident things would have turned out much differently.

My memory surrounding Mom’s disappearance is patchy. I’m not sure if it was the stress or the shock or something else entirely, but my memories all kind of bleed together. It’s been really challenging to try to comb through the minutiae of those days that led up to her vanishing, desperately looking for some subtle clue that would break the case. COVID-19 had turned our lives into some bizarre version of the movie Groundhog Day, in which every day was mostly the same. When I look back, I don’t know if I’m recalling something from the day in question or if I’m remembering the details from some other day. They were all so similar.

I do, however, know that nothing stood out as being particularly peculiar. Anything abnormal would surely have stuck out in the daily monotony. To the detectives’ chagrin, my dad didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary either. There was no smoking gun, no person lurking in the shadows, no odd moments or odd behaviors. Mom had been her characteristic self, doing her routine things. She was an avid runner, and during the pandemic, her daily runs had become her solace in our now mundane lives. She didn’t appear particularly bothered or anxious. She had her moments, and she probably indulged in too much wine, but we were doing surprisingly well given the circumstances.

My family was lucky. My parents didn’t have many of the stressors so many others had to suffer because of the pandemic. Though the economy was in shambles, my dad, a defense contractor, had a stable and sizable income and my mom was there to assist me in what had become virtual school. Washington D.C. was not a place where people could thrive without high paying jobs. Most families needed dual incomes just to make ends meet in the best of economic times. Many of my friends’ parents had lost their jobs or had to quit due to health or child care concerns. Other families were struggling so much more than we were. Don’t get me wrong, it was emotionally taxing to watch the world around us change so drastically, but we were making it work. I was looking forward to Christmas, and I know Mom was too, even if we decided it would be irresponsible to celebrate with anyone outside our immediate household.

I distinctly remember decorating for Christmas that year. The pandemic had sucked so much pleasure out of our daily lives that our neighborhood planned to decorate our homes early to create a little cheer. For most, the only outing was a daily walk, and we wanted to give everyone something to see. Mom and I ordered holiday inflatables, lots of outside decor, and began our mission, Operation Christmas, the day after Halloween. Dad, however, thought it was ridiculous to decorate before Thanksgiving, whether we were in the midst of a pandemic or not. Mom and I did what we could to spruce up the outside, but the lights that usually adorned our three-story row house had to be hung by dad. By mid-December, we were still waiting on him to do it. Like every year prior, he would get to it when he got to it.

Mom and I next turned our attention to decorating inside. Dad teased us and watched as we lugged all the boxes up from our tiny storage area in the basement. Our two-bedroom home in Georgetown was small, and more modern inside than out. Even though it was just the three of us, we really didn’t have the space to get away from each other. That was the trade-off of city living. People could live in confined spaces because they spent most of their time outside their domicile. Cramped city housing certainly wasn’t conducive to being trapped inside for months on end. I, for one, was used to seeing my friends, going to school, and attending ballet classes at the Washington Ballet. I definitely did not enjoy being cooped up with my parents every waking hour of the day.

Being home all the time for nearly a year had created a bit of tension, but this particular day was full of excitement. I was eager to decorate the tree. I loved perusing the boxes of ornaments and decorations. This was nostalgic for me and often brought back memories from when I was little. I loved the ballerina ornaments the most. The Sugar Plum Fairy and Odette from Swan Lake were among my childhood favorites.

Mom had passed on her love of ballet to me, though she clearly wasn’t pleased that she had. For a woman who’d spent the majority of her life studying ballet, she certainly harbored a hatred for it now. I had to beg her to put me in lessons, and eventually Dad pressed her too. He didn’t see the harm in letting me try it out. I know Mom only relented because it was easier than having to explain herself. I saw the pain in her face every time I went to a class or rehearsal. I didn’t understand her reaction, and she would dismiss any questions I had regarding the subject. I’d gotten my way with the lessons, but I would pay for it by suffering her constant surveillance.

Mom became very over-protective. She was a constant fixture at the Washington Ballet, always observing me from afar. Most parents with students my age just dropped their dancers off and left. But not Mom. If she didn’t stay in the building to hover, then she sat in her car, waiting for me to finish. She did this even when my rehearsals lasted several hours. It wasn’t as if she was invested in my progress like some overbearing dance mom either. It seemed more like she was trying to safeguard me from something. The reason didn’t matter. Her hovering was embarrassing, and it drove me absolutely crazy. Once the pandemic hit, however, I was only able to do lessons virtually, so Mom eased the reins a bit. This allowed me to actually enjoy spending time with her.

I recall that on the day that Mom and I were gussying up our artificial tree, I lost my grip on one of the ornaments and it fell to the pine floor and shattered. I’d broken countless ornaments on this wood flooring throughout the years, but this time I cringed when I realized which one had been my latest victim. It was a glass globe that encased a snowy Eiffel Tower. I winced and braced myself for the disappointment on Mom’s face. I knew this was one of her favorite ornaments. Mom had spent many years in France, and this was a memento of her stays there. In her teens she’d spent several summers in Paris furthering her ballet studies, and later she attended a study-abroad program at the University of Bordeaux. That was years ago, and I often wondered why she’d never returned for a visit or why she refused to tell me anything about her time there.

Don’t worry about it, Iz, she said. It’s just an ornament. I don’t need it to remember my time in France. I saw a shadow cross her face, as it often did at the mention of France. Mom loved learning about France’s history, and she’d often tell me stories of past tragedies that couldn’t be found in my school textbooks. Mom, however, drew the line when it came to discussing her own past. Mom was incredibly private and reserved. She was nothing like Dad and me, two completely open books.

Promise you’ll take me someday. I want to see the Ballet National de Paris perform, and I want to see where you used to live.

One day, when you’re old enough to appreciate it, she promised.

Little did I know that Mom would soon disappear, that she would vanish, taking with her both my love of ballet and her promise of someday taking me to France.

Chapter Two: Willa

Paris, France 2002

I woke to the sunlight seeping through the gauzy curtains of Manon’s Parisian apartment. I really didn’t want to do it, but I knew if I didn’t get my run in now, I’d spend all day lying around with Manon, nursing our hangovers and accomplishing nothing. I had so much studying to do and needed to catch the four o’clock train back to Bordeaux.

In the last few years, I’ve learned the only way for me to cope with my many traumas is to keep utterly busy or to write about them. If I keep my mind occupied and my body exhausted, I don’t have any energy left to think or dwell on the things that happened to me. I believe this to be a pretty healthy coping strategy, so I don’t really see it as avoidance. The only time that I ever consciously let my mind go over the awful events is when I’m writing in my journal. It’s a type of catharsis. I don’t write regularly, but when I do, it’s as if I’m releasing my pain into the pages for safekeeping. I can then close the notebook and leave the anguish inside. Then, if only for a time, I find some relief. The pain always returns and the process of writing about my grief continues.

For day-to-day coping, the best course of action is to run my troubles away. I run eight to ten miles daily. During these runs, I can concentrate on the rhythm of my stride and the fatigue of my muscles rather than the troubling thoughts that plague my mind.

I slipped into my leggings and trainers, then tiptoed through the tiny apartment to the door. Manon Martin’s apartment is a fifth-floor walkup in the Marais. I love this vibrant part of Paris and all of its rich history. From first being Paris’s aristocratic center to later becoming the Jewish Quarter until World War II, these streets are filled with both beautiful architecture and landmarks of the past. It seemed crazy to think that I was now jogging down a street that Victor Hugo had once walked. I spent just about every free weekend here with Manon, trying to soak in every bit of Paris before my eventual return to the United States. Going back to the U.S. and leaving Manon was not something I wanted to think about, but my student visa would expire in a matter of months.

Manon and I met when we were fourteen. We were both ballet students attending a summer program with the Ballet National de Paris (BNP). She was the epitome of the French girls I’d always envisioned: strikingly beautiful, brilliant, and effortlessly cool. She was extremely talented. She didn’t have to work very hard on her ballet technique and didn’t spend extra hours in the studio the way I did. She was naturally gifted. Her only flaw, in my American eyes, was that she was a smoker. But in France in the late 1990s, who wasn’t?

Manon and I quickly became inseparable and we reconnected every summer that followed. We were like sisters, neither of us having any siblings. I had never met anyone who understood me so profoundly. With Manon, I could just be me. I never felt judged. I never felt the need to meet some predetermined expectation. Everyone else in my life expected something from me. Sometimes I didn’t want to fulfill those expectations, but I did so anyway. I had aimed to please from a very young age, which I suspect stemmed from having an absent father. I thought I had to please people to get them to stick around. Or at least to get them to care. But with Manon, it was different.

My mother, especially, had unattainably high expectations for me. Not because she was cruel, but because she realized my potential and wanted to push me to be my best. She also saw me as an avenue for making something of herself. Since my father was long gone and Mom had little interest in having more children, she put all her hopes and dreams into me. That is how I came to attend summer classes with the BNP. My mother thought it would be a great opportunity for both of us.  She was exhilarated at the notion of coming to Paris with me.

I went to the audition in Washington D.C. and a month later received my acceptance letter. Mom was absolutely ecstatic. She had never traveled outside the U.S. and was giddy with excitement. I, however, was a little more reluctant. I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay with some stranger in another country where I didn’t even speak the language. To my astonishment, I grew to adore France and became so attached to Manon and Grégoire that I never wanted to leave.

Going to Paris became a yearly tradition. Mom would fly out with me in the beginning of June, get me settled with my host, and then come to fetch me at the end of August. Many of the girls in the program were local, but the ones who weren’t stayed with designated hosts. Mostly these hosts consisted of instructors or BNP staff members who received a stipend to house us. This was markedly cheaper for the ballet company than finding a property to use as a dormitory. I was placed with Grégoire Archambeau, an instructor, choreographer, and the former ballet master of BNP.

Grégoire was one of the most beloved dancers in Paris, probably in the world for that matter. A true pillar of the dance community. My mom was particularly delighted that Grégoire was my host because he had a heavy influence in casting the summer showcase as well as recruiting for the company. She anticipated that my staying with him would allow me to receive a little extra attention. She wasn’t wrong. Nowadays, it would likely be seen as inappropriate to house a teenage girl with a single man in his fifties, but Grégoire was so renowned and respected that no one batted an eye.

As I continued my run down Rue de Turenne towards Place des Vosges, I pushed myself harder, despite a searing headache from too much wine and not enough caffeine. Manon and I had had a great time the night before. At least, it had been fun until we drank so much that we entered a state where all our demons returned. The night had ended with Manon in tears that she wouldn’t remember today. It had, in fact, become quite habitual for her to black out completely.

I turned down Rue de Rivoli and ran until I reached the Louvre, then I circled back up Boulevard Saint-Martin to Manon’s apartment. I stopped by Café Charlot, our favorite quintessential Parisian café, for a couple of café au laits and a croissant for Manon. I did this fully knowing she was unlikely to eat anything, but I had to make the offer. I buzzed myself into the outdoor courtyard, raced up the spiraling staircase to the fifth floor, and let myself in. Manon was still out cold from the night before. She, as usual, had gone even harder than I had, and I can drink most people under the table.

While keeping busy helped me to escape my troubles, Manon escaped with drugs and alcohol. She had an extremely high tolerance, and lately she appeared to be a bottomless pit. I knew she had a serious problem, but who was I to judge her? We had both suffered so much. If she was holding down her job and not letting the indulgence interfere with the important things, I wasn’t going to say anything. I wouldn’t do anything to push her away. We both needed our escapes.

It was just past midday, so I decided to leave Manon to sleep off the booze. I pulled out my laptop and curled up on the faded yellow sofa in the corner. Under the lone floor-length window, this modest couch served as both the living room and my bed when I visited. The apartment was cramped, to say the least. It was a tiny studio apartment with a small kitchenette and a bathroom that was actually decent sized when compared to the size of the actual living space. The bed, the couch, an Ikea wardrobe, and a couple of end tables was all the furniture it could hold.

The tininess was to be expected here in the Marais, especially on a dancer’s salary. Fortunately for Manon, she inherited this apartment from her grandmother. Grand-mère Lucie had raised Manon since her mother’s untimely death when Manon was a toddler. Manon’s father, like my own, had never been in the picture. Grand-mère Lucie and Manon stayed in this apartment during the summers when Manon attended BNP. This flat had been in their family for ages, but it was too small for it to be their permanent residence. They barely made it work each summer.

Grand-mère Lucie had died about a year ago after a long battle with breast cancer. Throughout that year she’d often struggled with pain management and eventually was put into hospice. I think Grand-mère Lucie had been holding on until Manon came of age because she took a sharp, downward turn shortly after Manon’s eighteenth birthday. She died a few weeks later, leaving Manon this apartment and the small property in Biarritz where she was raised. Now, barely nineteen, Manon was essentially family-less, except for me. It was Manon who suggested I do a study-abroad program here in France. I needed a visa, and the program seemed to be my best option for getting one. I knew she was having a hard time, and we needed each other. I'd do anything to come to France and support her. She’d done so much for me. It was my turn to be there for her.

At the time, I was in my first year, double-majoring in French and history, at Georgetown University. Attending Georgetown had been at the urging of my mother. Only the best university for me if I wasn’t to become a professional dancer. Georgetown had a study-abroad program with the University of Bordeaux, and while it wasn’t Paris, it was a perfect fit. Bordeaux, too, has a colorful history and was an excellent place to continue my collegiate studies.

After I’d given up on ballet, I’d become infatuated with France’s history, especially the little known atrocities that had occurred right here in Paris. These dark truths were part of Paris’s allure. The city of lights held many secrets, just like me. Manon, on the other hand, was still dancing and was a first soloist in a small, Parisian company. She probably could have secured a position in the BNP, but I think the memories it evoked were too much for her to face on a daily basis. Manon sold the property in Biarritz and took up the Marais apartment as her permanent residence.

I did schoolwork for an hour or two, and finally Manon began to stir.

Cou cou, Manon said, stretching. Her long, fair hair was a tangled mess. She was so slight she almost looked like a child wrapped in the duvet. I threw her the croissant.

I have to go soon. You basically slept away the whole day, I chuckled. It made me happy to know that sleep gave her some peace. Sleep rarely did so for me. Sleep was a time when my mind couldn’t be controlled by tasks and exercise. Sleep often took me to dark places.

I packed up my stuff, and Manon walked me down to the street, where she lit a cigarette.

I’ll see you next weekend, okay?

Of course, she replied and kissed me on either cheek. À bientôt.

I hated leaving her and always worried about her when I did. With all that had happened, and after Grand-mère Lucie died, she seemed so sad and lost. I was concerned that one day she would overdo it. She smoked like a train, drank like a fish, dabbled in drugs, and barely ate. It was baffling that she could carry on dancing the way she did. Ballet was very demanding, both physically and mentally. I couldn’t fathom someone excelling at it in her current state. But that’s who Manon is: an exquisite, tortured, enigma of a person.

I set off on foot to Gare du Nord, France’s largest railway station. I loved the walkability of Paris and the surprises I found down every narrow street. Not long ago, I discovered the bronze placards that adorn many of the stone buildings throughout the Marais. These placards are meant to highlight locations of historical interest, but I found it curious that they are so inconspicuous and go relatively unnoticed. Since most were markers of tragic events, I supposed their subtlety was no surprise. People often want to sweep terrible things under the rug in order to minimize the fallout.

Since the Marais had been home to over 9,000 Jewish families in the early 1940s, these streets have a very sorrowful past. The mass arrest of Parisian Jews, known as the Vel’d’Hive Roundup, was one of the most devastating events I’d ever read about. These Jewish-French citizens were kept in a stadium known as the Vélodrome d’Hiver for days in unimaginably horrific conditions. The stadium no longer exists due to a demolition that resulted from a fire in 1959, but the location is marked by a placard. Reading about the roundup was stomach-churning, but it also proved to me that life could continue after such horrors, even when it feels hopelessly impossible. I had to wonder if it were only possible to move forward because most harrowing events occur behind closed doors, shrouded in secrecy.

I considered how many people walked these streets, blissfully unaware of these placards and their city’s secrets. Many French citizens aren’t cognizant of the fact that it was the French police, their own ancestors, who had rounded up the Jews in this quarter. It wasn’t just the Nazis, whom history now deemed the only true monsters of World War II, who did appalling things. The Parisians were just as responsible for their fellow citizens’ deaths as the conquering army.  I was definitely saddened that I hadn’t learned anything of this sort in my American history books. I had to wonder why. I presume it’s that people fear the notion that ordinary people can be capable of such unimaginable cruelty. It’s just something our society doesn’t seem to be able to acknowledge.

This is why history interests me so much. I feel a drive to discover these terrible truths and little known stories for myself. It’s a slight comfort to know that I’m not the only one to have been subjected to cruelty. At the same time, I’ve also found that I’m not alone in harboring darkness within myself. No one really knows what they are truly capable of, and I won’t ever rely on anyone to tell me the truth. I’ve come to the conclusion it’s easier for people to choose to be ignorant, to deliberately turn a blind eye to the abhorrent things that people do to one another. If we didn’t, how could we possibly find the will to establish relationships or go on? I knew this to be especially true in my life. Presently, no one knew the full extent of the truly abhorrent things that had happened to me or that I had done to others. Not even Manon. I feared that if she did, I’d end up alone.

I sat on the train with my laptop open, but I couldn’t concentrate. My thoughts kept going back to Manon. Once she reaches a certain point of intoxication, it becomes apparent how much pain she’s trying to suppress. It’s as if a curtain is being drawn to reveal a black sky underneath. She never acknowledges any of this the next day or when she’s sober, which is a rarity lately. So far, she’s always able to draw the curtain closed again, but I wonder how long she’ll continue to be able to do so.  At times, I’m not even sure if she truly blacks out, or if she’s embarrassed and finds it easier to pretend it didn’t happen.

I’ve learned the French are not keen to air their struggles the way Americans do. They’re stoic, private people who prefer to suffer in silence and not burden anyone else. Either way, I wouldn’t make her uncomfortable. It was the least I could do. I know a lot of what’s going on with Manon is my fault and I often contemplate who she’d be today if I hadn’t pulled into my dark world. I tried to push the thoughts of ruining her life aside and focus on the French countryside zooming past my window.

Outside, there were gorgeous fields of yellow, flowering crops, unfittingly called rapeseed. Such an ominous name for such a lovely crop. I wondered who gave it such a name and why.

Sitting on the train, unable to concentrate, didn’t bode well for my intrusive thoughts. Making these little excursions to Paris every weekend was not conducive to keeping up with my studies or keeping my mind clear. If I didn’t complete my work this week, I’d have to bail on Manon next weekend, and I feared what would happen if I did. Fortunately for me, fear is quite the motivator.

The train crept into the Bordeaux Saint-Jean Station right on time. Bordeaux is an amazing place to live. It is the wine capital of the world. This, regrettably, makes my vice of overdrinking much easier to do. I live north of the city center in the historic district of Chartrons. Chartrons was once the heart of the wine merchants’ trade and is extremely charming. Much as I have done in the Marais, I’ve become captivated by its history. Bordeaux, once named Burdigala, was a peninsular trading point between the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea. It prospered on the trade of tin and became the first French harbor. I was grateful to be able to