Helpless

R. had answered an ad on Craig’s List for a nanny and forwarded to us the response she received. 

“Remember the ad we found on Craig’s List!!!” she e-mailed us, her excitement palpable in cyberspace.

She was nearing the end of winter break, bemoaning her impoverished-student status. The minimum-wage job she’d landed before Christmas hadn’t worked out. She wanted to work with children, especially those with special needs. She knew she’d love the work–and earn more than minimum wage. Craig’s List seemed like a reasonable source for nanny jobs, and F. had helped her look. They’d spotted the ad together. But as soon as he read the response R. had received, he knew something was wrong.

The writer claimed to be a 27-year-old researcher from Australia who said she would be traveling from Spain to the U.S. in the coming week to work for the next eight months. She would be bringing her 5– and 8–year-old sons but would only need babysitting help for a total of six hours on the weekends. She said she had lost her husband to cancer in May. She offered $50 an hour and said she would send R. her first payment in advance, through an “associate.” But first, R. would have to provide some basic information, including her address, phone number, age and sex.

F. burst into the room where I was napping.

“Have you heard from R.?” he asked. “Something’s wrong.” He showed me R’s e-mail.

“If something sounds too good to be true, it is,” he said, noting the $50-an-hour offer.

My stomach clenched. It was late on a Saturday afternoon. F. had texted R. as soon as he’d received her e-mail to warn her to stop communicating with the writer. She was at brunch, she replied, and would call later. Then she stopped answering her phone.

Concerned, I texted her, in all caps: “CALL US! DO NOT ANSWER THIS WOMAN’S TEXT. STAY AWAY FROM CRAIG’S LIST!”

Like all kids, R's IPhone is glued to her palm, when it's not in her lap. But she didn’t answer. I dialed her number and got her voice mail  I kept pressing the “repeat dial” button on the phone, but continued to reach her voice mail.

Where was she? Why wasn't she answering our texts and calls? Had she gone to meet the writer of the ad? What fate had she met?

Frantic, F. and I stared at each other. We could not find our child. We had no idea where she was. If she’d become ensnared in some sinister trap, it was too late: We had no way of locating or saving her.

Every year, thousands of girls and women in the United States and around the world become victims of human trafficking, often after answering bogus ads offering too-good-to-be-true employment opportunities. They are snatched up and sold into slavery, sexual and otherwise.

I tried to tell myself that R. was simply having fun at brunch, happily ignoring her phone. But, I couldn't stop imagining that she’d been whisked off to some secret place, either in the city or, G-d forbid, across the word. I felt helpless and sick.

I started texting and calling her friends, imploring them to reach out to her, to have her call us. No one answered.

My mind raced but kept crashing into dead ends. I thought of calling the police, but what could they do? F. went on line to see if Craig’s List offered any resources to help people who have been scammed and came up empty. I was ready to drive into Manhattan, weave in and out of every street and pound on every door, screaming R's name.

Then her text came:

“What’s up?”

I answered that we were terrified something had happened to her.

“I won’t answer the ad. Calm down. I love you."

When I was newly pregnant with R., a dear friend and father of two had told me, "From now on, you will never not worry."

F. and I locked into a bear hug, our hearts pounding against each other.