It was 1991.  Halloween night.  We lived in New Hampshire back then.  My sisters and I dressed up in our costumes. I was a ballerina cow.  Seriously. It was a custom made outfit.  We each grabbed our orange plastic jack-o-lantern buckets and hurried out the door to begin collecting candy.  “Wait! Make sure you grab a bucket for your brother!” my mom called.  I doubled back to the kitchen counter and scooped up a second bucket in my spindly seven-year old arms.  My brother was only 15 months old, but boy, he loved candy.

My mom drove us 15 minutes- my sisters and I could not be convinced to walk the 100 yards between houses on our streets in the biting cold, so my mom shuttled us to the nearest condominium complex.  5 feet between doors. Awesome.  Yeah, spoiled much?  When we arrived at the complex we tumbled out of the minivan and my mom told us to slow down.  We danced in place- partly out of impatience, partly out of need to stay warm- as my mom strapped baby Ryan into a sling on her chest.  As we approached the first door, my mom handed Kayla my brother’s bucket and reminded us to make sure we asked for candy for him.  We nodded and reached up to knock.  “Trick or treat!”

The kind adults dropped one piece of candy into each of our buckets, as my mom watched- cautious as ever- from 8 feet away on the sidewalk.  They were usually just about to close the door when either Tara, Kayla or I would remember Ryan’s bucket and pipe up: “This is for my brother,” and we would gesture back to my mom and Ryan strapped to her chest, “he can’t walk.”  The adult’s eyes would widen. And my sisters and I watched, confused, as they proceeded to empty their baskets into Ryan’s bucket.  How is that fair?  We each get one piece? And he gets 20?!  We’re doing his work for him!

And so it went door to door.  Us girls earning one piece of candy with each enthusiastic trick or treat.  “Oh and this is for my brother, he can’t walk” we would repeat over and over.  And each time his bucket filled up with handfuls of candybars.  We were nearly done for the evening and my sisters and I were fighting over who had to carry Ryan’s bucket, as it was chock full and heavy,  My mom noticed and asked, confused, why Ryan had so much more candy than we did.  We shrugged.  “Well what are you telling the people when you ask for candy for him?”  “This is for our brother.  He can’t walk,” nine-year-old Kayla told my mom.  She started laughing.  So much so that tears came into her eyes.  We were baffled.  “Girls, when you say he can’t walk, they probably think he’s handicap.  Not that he’s a toddler.”  We laughed all the way home.  And 15 month old Ryan had enough candy to last him to his 15th birthday.   

Words are interesting things.  They can heal. They can hurt. They can be misinterpreted and create funny situations.  They can be misinterpreted and create chaos.  Words have always fascinated me, for their power to break and to unite.  So when I say things, I try to make sure I mean them.  Before I say things, I try to think about how those words will be interpreted.  Ashley, I hope that day we can once again exchange words, you’ll know that mine can be trusted.  I hope that we can communicate in such a way that neither of us will be misinterpreted.  But if ever our words are, I hope they will create laughs.  Maybe we’ll end up with a bucket full of candy to laugh over for years to come. 

Happy Halloween to my amazing A Wish for Ashley-ers. Happy Birthday to my amazing Boyfriend.  I mean it when I say thank you so much. I mean it when I say I love you so much.

With love (and too much candy left over- how is it that we only got 8 trick-or-treaters?!!),

Audra

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Black Barred 10/29/2009
 
So after mentioning the glamour.com withdrawal I experienced during my internet hiatus, I was amused to hear from a Glamour magazine writer this afternoon.  Maybe something will materialize from my conversation with her tonight, maybe not.  However, I share this because I need to share Kayla’s response to hearing about it: “if they end up writing about A Wish for Ashley, I think they owe you in return.  You should bring a picture of me and, as payment for offering up your story, ask them not to ever black-bar me.”

For those of you who aren’t also loyal Glamour readers, the ‘black-bar’ section is  arguably the back bone of this great publication.   Officially titled ‘Dos and Don’ts’, the section presents snapshots taken of unsuspecting passerby on the streets of New York.  For those ladies who find a tasteful way to be casually chic, they are celebrated in their full glory as ‘Dos’ and admired by Glamour readers across the country.  For those women who think, sure why not pair shirred jeans with a neon lycra crop top with a fringe vest and jelly shoes… they are captured by Glamour’s ruthless street photographers and splashed across this page with only a thin black bar to disguise their identities.  Since our teenage years, Kayla and I have found great entertainment in these pages; admiring the women with flawless fashion instincts and raising our eyebrows at the poor souls who have earned the ‘Don’t’ distinction.  It was many years ago that Kayla asked, philosophically, "what would you do if you opened up the magazine and looked down and realized ‘that’s me!’?"

Some Americans live in fear of Big Brother.  Wondering, if I do the wrong thing, say the wrong thing, will He see me? Kayla and I have lived in fear of the Black Bar.  Waking up thinking, if I wear the wrong thing, will I end up in next month’s issue?  Now for me, the fear is small.  I live in Boston; a good 4 hours away from ground zero of the Black Bar.  Sure, Glamour occasionally travels to other regions for the feature, but for the most part, there is safety in the snowy Northeast.  Kayla, on the other hand, must look her fear in the face.  She lives in New York, and travels into the city often.  Anytime she plans to meet her husband or girlfriends in town, she calls with pressing questions.  Is it ok to wear leggings or are they out?  Can I wear this brown cardigan now or is it still too early to break out my fall wardrobe? When I hesitate to respond, or don’t give her a definitive answer, she protests, ‘don’t let me get black-barred!’ and she has my immediate attention and support.  So far, so good.  No black bar.  But to be safe, Kayla wants the ‘Get Out of Black Bar for Life’ pass on the negotiating table if Glamour wants to feature our story.  

What does the Black Bar have to do with the search for Ashley? Well, depends on how you look at it.  For me, there’s a new sense of urgency, and anxiety, knowing that out there, somewhere, Ashley- or people who may know her- may be watching some of this unfold.  I wake up thinking, what can I do to both honor her and make her understand how much we have all always loved her if today is the day she is going to get a snapshot of the cousin she hasn’t seen in ten years.  I try to be deliberate with the words I share here, and stories I share in our outreach appeals. Not knowing if today will be the day she stumbles upon me, not knowing if she’ll consider my efforts a Do or a Don’t.  The uncertainty can be overwhelming at times- enough to get me to call my sisters or mom and ask if I’m doing the right things.  They convince that today I won’t be black barred.  They push me to think that tomorrow others may join our search after seeing our work in a positive light.  

The Black Bar is scary; it’s unknown.  This search is very similar.  Halloween has nothing on the terrifying, ominous, startling process of putting myself in public view in the hopes of one day finding Ashley. 

With love (for my middle sister as she braves a weekend in the Black Bar land of (mis)opportunity),

Audra
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On Thursday, October 15th the internet in my apartment stopped working.  So what, I can’t spend hours at night perusing equal parts New York Times and Glamour.com.  I’ll deal.  On Friday, October 16th the Boston Globe story appeared and the AOL News article went up.  By Saturday, October 17th there were over 900 emails in the A Wish for Ashley inbox.  Hundreds of emails, no internet connection.  So goes my life.  

Excuses, excuses, but fact is my daily blogging has been interrupted because there are only so many Borders, Au Bon Pains and Starbucks’ I can squat at late a night for their hot spot connections before people get suspicious.  I’ve made the rounds.  I’m starting to feel dirty.  So I am very pleased and extremely proud to share that as of 7:14pm this evening I HAVE FIXED MY INTERNET CONNECTION with my own two hands.  I unplugged, I plugged.  I uninstalled, I reinstalled. I turned the lights off, turned around three times, clapped my hands and voila… DSL.   I’m practically Steve Jobs.  

Now that I’m back and better than ever! Ummm or not… ha! here’s your search update:  We’ve gone through about a third of the leads that people have sent on.  No match yet, but ruling people out does get us closer.  This weekend I’ll move on to calling some of the Ashleys we couldn’t definitively rule out.  I love being a telemarketer as much as I love getting shots. One less person in that chaotic H1N1 vaccination line!  Our facebook group has grown to over 830 members so we’re going to have another A Wish for Ashley facebook challenge launching soon.  If each group member contacts X number of new Ashleys we’ll have 830 times X… plus X…. to the exponent of X… see, told you I can’t do math… more Ashleys on our side.  
Anyway, I’ll be back on track with insightful/random/useless/unexpected musings much more often now that my poor ol’ Mac has a wireless connection to bond with. Me, my ancient laptop, HG-TV and chocolate for dinner… a recipe for success… or at least for consistently pushing forward on our quest to find Ashley…

With love (and a new appreciation for Comcast internet service),

Audra
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Earlier this week, a producer from CBS contacted us, intrigued by our story, which he read in the Globe.  He made clear that he could not promise that anything would materialize as a result of his interest, and I reassured him that I would not set any expectations.  Set the bar low, and you lower your chances for disappointment.  I call it realism, people, not pessimism.  Debate me all you wish.  However, I was most amused by the back and forth that ensued between me, said producer and my mom; who I looped in to answer some of his “historical” questions- I was only ten when we lost Ashley, after all.  My mom called to inform me that he had pressed her to answer whether or not my family had any ‘skeletons in the closet’ that the producer and company might discover if they took up our cause and dug deeper.  My mother’s response?  “We have a lot of personality- we may not be normal-  but when it comes to family and love, dig as deep as you want.”

This exchange stuck with me all week because it’s true- this whole project puts my family under a microscope as strangers are eager to weigh in on whether we’re the good guys or the bad guys or the guys that might be the next media train wreck to watch.  I watch more reality TV that I will ever admit- people, trust me, I understand the appeal.  It’s both inspiring and unsettling to know that so many people out there have now heard our story; I am so protective of my family and it is so hard to not have control over what others are thinking of them.  However I was laughing when my mom shared her response, b it was the best one that any person could have submitted.  We’re not normal.  Put us all in a room and outsiders would be absolutely fascinated to watch what happens when you have my mom and the four of us kids in one room- you’ll hear five different accents as Kayla and Ryan switch off playing the different characters that make them the hilarious people they are, Tara and I will tower over my mom engaging in non-stop banter about her mini, “pocket-sized,” stature, and my mom will oscillate between authoritative adult and bubby teenager.  

However we’re not going to be the next balloon boy saga- in our world, there’s no need to insert artificial drama when by nature our personalities mean more entertainment than a sane person could possibly want to encounter.  We’re not going to waver in our resolve to find Ashley, because I am more than willing to bet, she’s not much more normal than we are- and we want her to have the chance to figure out where in the world that came from.  There will be no reality series stemming from this project, hell no, because then my day-to-day cover of normal, productive citizen would be blown.  There will, however, always be my family to turn back to when things related to this project upset me, surprise me, energize me or inspire me.  They’re the first ones I turn to when life is wonderful or a challenge; they are the ones that are keeping me on this rollercoaster even as the ride makes me even more dizzy.

With love (and resolve to get through more leads today!),

Audra

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When I was in third grade, my teacher assigned a family heritage project.  The task?  Talk to your parents, grandparents, aunts, cousins- essentially any relative you had available to you- and find about about your ancestry.  Then, in classic ‘you really learn by creating glitter posters’ style (and oh, I could create a poster and diorama like you have never seen) we had to create a visual to share with the class while presenting our family histories.  Now if you haven’t picked up by now, I was afflicted as a child with a condition I like to think of as ‘the paranoia-ed overachiever complex.’  If I believed the next best kid in the class would turn in a diorama for a book project, for example, made with found objectives in nature… I would recreate nature by figuring out how to have running water in my shoe box to depict the stream in Bridge to Terabithia.  True story.  If the teacher asked us to pen a scene from a play to illustrate our understanding of the historical setting of a book, I wrote the scene… and then held my friends captive practicing the script so that my project was a live production of a semi-full length play.  So you can imagine, the moment the heritage project was a assigned, I was figuring out just how I would create The Best Glitter Poster On Family Heritage Known to the Third Grade Land.  I went home with a list of questions to grill my parents on floating in my head. 

My dad delivered. I barely got out the words “family history” and he stacked in my bony arms four hardcover, embossed books.  The Complete Peek Family History dating back to the early 1600s.  The glossy pages depicted the manor the Peek Family resided at in Great Britain, the family’s coat of arms… the entire family history and migration to present.  Seriously, the last page in the back had my siblings and my birthdates printed in the back.  It was a goldmine of information for my glitter poster.  I had visions of painting the coat of arms on the ‘paternal heritage’ side of my poster, and creating elaborate flow charts depicting how the family migrated and settled in new areas.   

Then I went to my mom.  I smothered her with questions and she asked to see the assignment sheet.  Annoyed, I handed it over and she signed.  “Well I grew up in Lowell, and Grandma is from Mississippi.”   I waited.  If I’m patient, she’ll hand over her hardcover glossy books.  I stared at her.  I had a disarming way of staring at adults.  I knew I could make them squirm.  My mom stared back.  “I’m sorry, honey, we don’t know much else.”  I couldn’t believe it.  My father could trace back hundreds of years and had the documentation on his bookshelf, and my mom is telling me the best she can do is trace back to… Grandma?!  I was furious.  I could not make an A+ worthy glitter poster with just a cut out of the state of Mississippi.  Seriously?! This is my academic future at stake, mom! Can’t you do any better than that?!!  I kept pushing and she elaborated that Grandpa was from Louisiana.   Uh huh… annnnnd?  And that was it.  I started having a panic attack.  I was going to have a lopsided poster. 

It took me a few years to understand why my mom couldn’t articulate our family history.  Only when I started learning about slavery, sharecropping, “separate but equal,” and civil rights did I start to comprehend why my mom couldn’t trace back more than a generation.  Her parents, and others like them, were denied proper education, were often not recorded and tracked.  My grandmother to this day doesn’t know her true birthday since birth records were so spotty in her town of birth.  She estimates it – and changes it year to year.  I can’t ever get it right.    

As an adolescent, trying to figure out my place in the world, trying to decide what my identity was , I took the historic denial of rights to African-Americans hard.  It’s hard to figure out who you are, when you don’t really know where you came from.   So I’ve pieced together comments from my uncles when they were still alive, my grandmother when she could be pushed to share, trying to get a sense of my maternal heritage.  I’ve made do… but the picture has never been complete.  

As many of you know, this past weekend started a slew of emails as A Wish for Ashley has gained more publicity.  Leads from kind strangers, stories from people all over the country who have experienced similar situations and separations to the one my family now must conquer, and offers of support.  What I did not expect were the emails that have helped me paint a fuller picture of who I am, where I come from, and what those people stood for.  People who saw the story and emailed me because they grew up next door to my mom, Will and Dave.  They shared with me amusing anecdotes about the three of them, reflected on how kind all of them always were.  Well except for you, mom, one guy did confirm that you took a swing at someone with your metal lunchbox.  J  They shared with me the deep pain they now feel to know that Will and Dave are gone.  They made me feel like I have other- non blood related, but heart related- relatives who will support me until this search comes to its end.  They made me understand better who I am.  What I stand for. Where I come from and the values my predecessors held dear.  

 
My identity is always changing, but a few things I can tell you for sure.  I am Audra; Doreane’s daughter, Will’s niece, Dave’s fan and Ashley’s cousin.   None of them are perfect, but they are real.  Whether on this earth or the other side, they are with me.  And I love them. And want to see them all again.  I’ll make you a glitter poster to prove it. 

With love (and a shoutout to third grade teachers dealing with obnoxious compulsive children like me.  Hint? Just give ‘em the A+ and they’ll start breathing again),

Audra
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My discomfort with being the A Wish for Ashley spokesperson continues to grow.  I was half cringing, half crying watching the Fox News story air last night.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I thought Erin did a beautiful job and I was pleased that the key messages got through.  No, no,  I couldn’t sit and watch it because I prefer to be incognito, yet there was my face and lips… wow, that was a close up splashed across my mom’s big TV… in high definition.  I have to get up and go to work tomorrow?  Please let no one mention it to me at work.  Yeah, there’s no way anyone saw it, it’s 10:40pm and everyone I work with gets up by 6am.  Yes they are all definitely sleeping.  I fell asleep reassuring myself that, in fact, not a single human being who knows me saw me and heard my voice cracking on TV.

I arrived at work this morning obscenely early.  Though I’m quite amused that upon arriving at 6:15am, I found I was the second person to arrive.  My colleagues are dedicated. I yelled out a hello to the first office arrival.  And waited.  Good, she said 'hi' back.  Like normal.  She didn’t see the story. One down.  I headed to my office and started sorting through work emails.  Oh look my boss just responded.  No mention of the feature. Two down.  And so my day went with every single colleague, with not a single person the wiser that I was a soppy fool on TV last night. SCORE!  And then I went to cover break in one of our classrooms. 

“Ms. Peek?”  I looked down to see one of the quietest students in the class looking up at me.  “Yes?” “I saw you on TV last night.”  WHAT?!!! I was about to start breathing heavily, start freaking out that this student had spread the news amongst all the other students when I thought, Audra, grow up.  You’re an adult. How would an adult handle this?  The answer was clear.  In my strongest, most authoritative adult voice I asked in a disapproving tone: and why were you up at 10:40pm?  The student’s eyes got big… then I saw the sheepish grin.  A moment of understanding passed between us.  The student should not have been watching TV that late- it was against the rules, it was secret.  The student could tell I was keenly embarrassed.  I wanted to keep the feature secret.  You got my back, I got yours.  We nodded in silent agreement.  Safe.   

Now that I have mastered the art of silent negotiation with a middle schooler, I’m moving on to mastering more sophisticated search tactics.  Oh Ashley, I’m learning so much on the road to finding you… 

With love (and a grown up voice),

Audra
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If you're not in Boston, and want to view the segment, click here. 

Many thanks to all of you who are helping to drive this search forward.

I am emotionally exhausted at this point, so I'm calling it a night.  

With love (and overflowing gratitude to all of my search helpers),

Audra 
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A story on A Wish for Ashley will air tonight at 10pm on Fox 25 News- Boston!!  A huge thank you to Erin Hawksworth for being so wonderful as a reporter and her cameraman (AHH! I’m so sorry, I’m blanking out on your name) for being very supportive- as well as for being the biggest fan of ‘Annie’ I have ever encountered!  I think it’s a sign.  You both are awesome.  

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Hi Helpers!

New emails- please help us out by directing your emails to the right address:

If you have leads you want our team to check out, email: leads@awishforashley.com.

If you want to share your story, offer encouragement, or have questions about our project email: information@awishforashley.com.

If you have a media inquiry, email: media@awishforashley.com.

To join our team of Super Helpers (people who help us check out leads, participate in outreach events, etc.) email: superhelpers@awishforashley.com.

Thanks again!

-Audra
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When Ashley was a toddler, my uncle brought her to our house on Christmas Eve.  We put her in the guest bedroom- three doors away from my room with the mint-green comforter.  “If you hear Ashley cry, come get me,” my mom said when she kissed me goodnight.   I was young- 5 years old or so- but I heard my mother’s instruction and felt a large amount of responsibility.  I needed to look out for Ashley, and if she needed help, seek it out.  

I awoke on Christmas Eve not to the sound of sleigh bells, but to Ashley’s whimpering cry.  Audra! Go get help!  I jumped out of bed and raced down the hallway.  I checked my parents’ room and it was empty.  So I continued on towards the family room where I could hear faint laughs and the sound of a TV playing softly.  I threw open the family room door… and saw my mom, dad and Uncle Will wrapping presents.  I remember the confusion.  Why are they wrapping gifts?  That’s Santa’s job!  My mom froze when she saw me.  ‘Ashley’s crying,’ I whispered.  My mom scooped me up quickly and carried me back to bed. But not before I saw a large pink box: Barbie rollerskates.   My mom kissed me again and went to go check in on Ashley.  

I woke up the next morning and was thrilled to see so many presents under the tree with my name on them.  I went straight to the biggest one.  ‘To Audra, From Santa’ the tag read.  I tore off the paper… and there were the Barbie rollerskates.  I was a very observant child.  And not to be boastful, but a smart one too.  It took me less than a second to realize: Santa’s not real.   Later I confronted my mom about this fact and she knew better than to lie to me.  However she asked me to hold the magic, so that my sisters and little brother could continue to believe until they too learned the big secret.  In looking out for Ashley, I came face-to-face with reality.  Less magical, but it was my responsibility to try to keep the magic going.

Last night I was thinking about how the past 48 hours relates to that Christmas Eve so long ago.  In trying to look out for Ashley all these years, searching for her, I have come face to face with some less magical realities.  Reading about foster care systems, sifting though mounds of records… the ending of potentially finding Ashley was never sunshine and roses in my mind.  However, I felt it was my responsibility.  If she’s crying I need to get my mom.  I kept my search to myself and tried to keep the optimism going. 10 years later, that optimism was beginning to slip.   

When I promised Will that I would find Ashley, I felt a renewed sense of responsibility.  For all  people want to judge him for making the mistakes that he did in the past, I can only say that I personally never judged him. Because I loved him.  With all I had in me.   Losing him has been heart breaking for me.  I still cry every few days when I register his absence.  Miss his laugh.  Miss all of the times he helped build me up, give me advice, when I needed it most.  Will’s promise brought back the magic.  He brought me to A Wish for Ashley.

All of you who are emailing are magic.  The leads you are sending. The encouragement.  The support.  I use to feel so alone in my search.  Now I feel so supported, and so optimistic that together, with Will’s guidance from above, we will find Ashley.  

Santa may not be real, but this search is.  I won’t give up on finding Ashley.  Ash, I love you so much.  Will, I miss you.  But I’m keeping my promise.  

With love (for both, always and forever),

Audra

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