Up Close And Gone

by Jennie Spallone

  “Why didn’t you let me say hi?”

  “He was in a hurry.”

  “Is he on his way over?”

  “Soon.”

  Rachel’s eyes grow wide at the lilt in her sister’s voice. “Did they find Mom?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her flu-like symptoms had vanished. “What’s going on?”

  Becca smiled ear to ear. “Dad put up a ‘Go Fund Me’ page and a Facebook posting.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re offering a $20,000 reward for information on Mom’s whereabouts.”

  “OMG!” She pulled it up on her iPhone. “Here it is!”

  Excitement flooded the hospital room. “Guess what else?” Becca asked.

  “What?”

  “The posting and page went up ten minutes ago and Detective Hernandez has already received a couple dozen possible sightings!”

  Rachel shared Dad’s post through IM. “But what if we don’t raise $20,000?”

  “We will,” Becca said, sharing Dad’s Facebook post.

  “We should contact the NY Times and have them do an article on Mom,” mused Rachel.

  “Dad’s already on it.”

  Her sister looked up from her phone. “Really?”

  “Really!” said Becca. Their dad was the quietest, most passive guy one could ever meet. Mom basked in the attention of others, while dad preferred solitary pursuits like reading about esoteric subjects nobody cares about.

  To Becca, his ability to break out of his shell and take charge of this situation after forty years of marriage proved that people can change if their desire is fierce enough. That it took Mom’s disappearance to make that change happen was unfortunate.

  Rach frowned. “What if Mom doesn’t want to be found?”

  Becca sloughed off her sister’s concern. “Don’t be a Debbie Downer!”

  But Becca can felt doubt unpack its suitcase. What if their final memory of mom was her fleeing the restaurant after being humiliated in front of Zander’s family? That would be a memory from which she and her sister could never recover.

  Chapter 24

  Shana

  “Time for your pills, Sleepyhead.”

  Shana smiled in her sleep. “Just a couple more minutes, David.”

  The tantalizing smell of fresh coffee wafted past her nose, then a kiss on her forehead. David’s daily parting gifts to her as he strolled off to his photography studio.

  Oh, how she loved being retired. Traipsing into David’s studio at lunchtime with TV trays bearing bowls of chicken soup or Cesar salad. Poring over pictures he’d developed using old school techniques. “The new technology doesn’t feel quite authentic to me,” he’d say.

  In their early days of parenthood, Shana would rail against David for spending his evenings in that damn studio, away from the kids. “I get to see you, on-and-off, all day, but the kids miss playing with you after dinner.”

  “Who reads to them every night?”

  “You do,” she’d admit.

  “Who takes them skateboarding and to the movies on weekends?”

  “You do.”

  “Huh. So I’m not such a bad dad after all,” he’d tease.

  “Time to get up.” This time the voice sounded like tinkling glass.

  Shana sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. “What’s the rush?”

  He slipped the two purple pills through her chapped lips. “Oh, nothing.”

  Shana’s eyes flew open.

  “I trust your air mattress was comfortable?”

  She gasped.

  Daniel laughed as he put a half-filled cup of water to her lips. “And a good morning to you, too!”

  She greedily swallowed the bit of water, and he yanked the cup away.

  Then his voice turned businesslike. “Drink your coffee. Your oatmeal will be ready in a second. We need to fortify you to get you through the day. It’s going to be a long one.”

  He turned on his heel and exited the kitchen.

  Shana didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath. Now she exhaled in one fell swoop. She was so thirsty, she gulped the boiling coffee, cringing as it scalded her throat and gut. What difference did it make? She’d be dead soon. Her family was obviously not looking for her, not even David. His quiet betrayal hurt her the most. She’d always thought he had her back. The girls were right. She really was naive.

  Her captor returned, bearing a tray of oatmeal and toast, complete with milk, butter, and a plastic spoon and fork. “Sorry. Couldn’t take a chance with giving you a knife. The back of the spoon should work fine, though.”

  Breathing in the heady smell of apples and cinnamon almost made Shana swoon. She tore into the food with her plastic utensils.

  Daniel smiled. “I’m glad you are more amenable today. For your positive change of attitude, you receive a reward.”

  “Reward?” Shana asked as she continued to feed her face.

  “Obviously you never taught kids with behavior disorders. If you had, you’d know that positive reinforcement for deeds well done works on a token system. I accumulated more tokens than anybody else in my classes because I knew how to perform for optimal results.”

  So he had been in special education, thought Shana.

  “For example, Ms. Spaulding, my eighth-grade English teacher, valued well-written prose, so I turned in award-winning prose. A couple of my short stories even went on to state finals! A chip off the old block, right?”

  Shana winced.

  “But when it came to behavior, another kid’s taunting could push me into the deep end. One time I almost choked a bully to death. I thought I was doing humanity a great service, but the school principal disagreed; she suspended me for three days. My adoptive parents–the most recent pair-were disappointed in me. But they never stopped advocating to right my world. They even convinced the principal to knock off one day off my suspension. Big deal.”

  Shana willed him to continue. The longer her captor remained invested in sharing his story, the less likely an unexpected mood change would result in a violent act; that’s what she’d discovered years ago when a criminal suspect she’d been interviewing had taken her hostage.

  “Because of my talent in writing, Ms. Spaulding believed I could become a great writer. My interest was in computer technology, but I let Ms. Spaulding think her idea was spectacular.

  “I also reined myself in when it came to committing felonious acts. In eighth grade, murder was often on my mind; nothing to do with my adoptive parents, and everything to do with kids saying and doing cruel things to me.”

  Listening to her son’s words, Shana couldn’t help but feel his emotional pain.

  “Did your teachers or school principal do anything to stop the bullying? These days it’s even worse, with cyber bullying and….” She’d been about to add and on-line stalking until she realized that’s exactly what he’d done to her daughters.

  Would her son read her mind? Guess how she’d been poised to end that sentence, as well as its implications? At this point, she believed he could do just about anything he put his mind to, which scared her to hell. She held her breath in anticipation of a punishment.

  Evidently, he was too intent on recounting his story to even notice she’d ceased talking mid-stream.

  “Ms. Spaulding and I worked out a behavioral reinforcement program for me. Every time an angry feeling burst into my head, I raised my index finger. There were times I wanted to raise a different finger, but I refrained. During class lectures, my teacher would meander by and drop a token on my desk. Ridiculous, huh? Working for a paper token?”

  Shana thanked God for allowing her to bypass that bullet. She’d never been super religious, but at times like this, she knew in her gut it was more than blind luck.

  “Your teacher’s praise meant a lot to yo
u,” she murmured.

  “Sometimes I’d be ready to lose it. I’d stare up at the ceiling. Ms. Spaulding would notice and drop two tokens on my desk. This made me feel like I had the power to control my escalating emotions.

  “Ms. Spaulding shared my positive behavioral reinforcement plan with the other teachers, and it began to work; my behavior improved in all of my classes. But there were still times when my pot boiled over. Ms. Spaulding would clear the students from the classroom while I knocked plants and file holders off the back tables. The desks and chairs were nailed to the floor, which frustrated me, but saved my school a ton on repair costs.

  “At those times, Ms. Spaulding would silently sit at her desk until my rage subsided. Then she would come sit by my side, look me in the eyes, and tell me I, alone, had the power to control my behavior. She told me she had confidence in me, that I could do it.

  “Soon afterwards, I was suspended again, this time for a week. My parents couldn’t get me out of that one. Ms. Spaulding wasn’t mad. She told me progress is two steps forward, one step back, and repeat. When somebody believes in you, that’s the biggest token of them all.”

  Shana grimaced. Despite her attempt to fend off emotion at any cost, guilt had finally inched its way into her heart. She’d been there for her daughters. She should have been there for her son.

  Daniel continued talking. “The psychiatrist tinkered with my meds and dosage and my life did improve over the next few years. But when I was sixteen, I beat up a teacher who was making racist comments about a classmate. The school put me in anger management classes.”

  When he paused, Shana asked, “Where do you think all your anger came from?”

  “From you abandoning me,” he spat, his voice high pitched like a young child.

  “Yeah, I get that. Where else?”

  Daniel stood abruptly. “No more talk.” He toted her empty plate and coffee cup into another room. He soon returned with a green garden hose and connected it to an electrical outlet located above the kitchen counter.

  “What’s the water hose for?” Shana asked.

  “We’re going on a field trip. You need to clean yourself.”

  Her eyes widened. He couldn’t be serious. “But the water will flood the kitchen!”

  “The sink faucet doesn’t work. You’ll need to bend over the sink and spray yourself down!”

  Shana shuddered. “The water will be freezing. And what about soap?”

  “Man, you never let up!” He laid a bottle of dish soap on the sink counter.

  “You expect me to wash myself with dish soap?”

  “Works for dishes, it’ll work for you.”

  “Are you going to stand there watching me?”

  “What do you think I am, a peeping Tom?”

  “How can I answer? I don’t know you.”

  “And whose fault is that?” he asked, like a tutor questioning a recalcitrant student.

  Shana sighed. “Mine.”

  Her captor gave her a thumbs up. “We’re going on a field trip; your reward for all the behavioral reinforcement points you’ve accumulated.”

  Shana shuddered, but still needed to ask. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re off to find Daddy Dearest!”

  Chapter 25

  Alan

  March 1983

  Alan helplessly stood outside the bathroom door, listening to the splat splat pound the toilet bowl. Before slamming the door between then, his wife had fiercely warned him to Stay the Fuck Out!

  This upchucking failed to signal morning sickness foretold no glimmer of hope; all this she’d bitterly assured him. Instead, her retching signified utter despair, grief.

  “My babies are dead; I can’t go on,” she‘d repeat like a mantra.

  For the last four weeks, Deb had refused to accompany him to their therapy sessions. Therapy had been her idea. Now he was the one who was the therapist’s insights like a lifeline while Deb slowly relinquished her rope.

  In fact, the more cognizant and communicative he was with Deb over their shared loss, the more agitated she became. Dr. Gardner said his wife’s exploding emotions were a healthy first step; a signal she felt safe enough with him to grieve, to mourn. Deep down inside, said the therapist, Deborah knew he would be present for her. That he’d cradle her as she sobbed, that he’d listen as she ranted against him for impregnating her with wimpy sperm.

  The bathroom door flew open. His wife’s tear-stained face mirrored his own.

  “How can I help?” The psychologist had given him a list of open-ended questions which enabled parents who’d lost babies through miscarriage or death to reclaim some modicum of control over their lives. His assignment was to allow Deborah to make choices, no matter how minute. These choices would eventually enable her to reclaim a sense of control over her mind and body.

  “How can you help?” she shrieked. “You can stop trying to be Mr. Perfect. You can stop treating me like some lab experiment. You can stop touching me like I’m broken!”

  Alan recoiled. “But I thought that’s what you wanted, what you needed, to heal!”

  “When we saw Dr. Gardner, you opened up. You showed me your vulnerability, your insecurities, your fear that you’ll never be able to give me a baby. That I’ll leave you.”

  He cringed as that humiliating memory flashed before his eyes. “I opened myself up, not just to you, but a complete stranger. I confessed weaknesses. But it’s never enough for you.”

  “That day, my love for you returned strong and true.”

  “So what’s the problem?” he asked, perplexed.

  “You stuck your head outside your shell. But then you quickly brought it back inside.”

  “I admitted I needed help. I began going to counseling and you quit!”

  “Because I know what you do at those sessions.”

  “Yeah, talk…”

  “…about deeply personal things you refuse to share when you and I are together.”

  Alan threw his hands in the air. “I’m going to the office.”

  “Go ahead, run away,” she called after him.

  He turned back to Deborah. “What do you want from me?”

  “I need you to open your heart to me.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing,” Alan protested.

  “I’m not an exotic recipe to be figured out.”

  “You’re the one still researching miscarriage and infant death,” he accused.

  “That was so we’d be on the same page. I want us to go through the five stages of grief together. We can’t do that without a therapist’s help.”

  Suddenly it all clicked. “You want us to go back to Dr. Gardner?”

  Deb’s face brightened. “It will strengthen our relationship.”

  Alan shuddered. He wasn’t even familiar with the stages of grief on more than a superficial level. But building a fortress between him and his wife was not the answer. “I’m willing to give it a try, but no unrealistic expectations, agreed?”

  “I’m not even sure I can meet my own expectations.”

  He grunted.

  His wife’s voice softened. “Alan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry for taunting you. I love you.”

  The relief he experienced was astounding. A glimmer of hope. That’s all he’d been searching for. He took his wife in his arms. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  “Now your expectations are too high,” she joked.

  He broke away and punched the therapist’s number into his phone.

  Chapter 26

  Shana

  The click of the ignition forced Shana from her so-called plan; the plan she’d not yet had time to devise. Lying prone, she watched as slivers of light floated throughout the Audi’s vinyl interior. “Nothing like an early morning
drive to nowhere,” she mumbled.

  “What?” One hand on the steering wheel, his eyes on the road, Daniel was futzing with the Sirius radio channels.

  “I need to eat.”

  Meditation music wafted through the car. “You’ll be the first to know when we stop.”

  “Seriously,” she said. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.”

  “Actually, it was brunch but I won’t quibble.”

  “So what’s the plan?” she asked, desperately hoping Daniel had changed his mind.

  “We’re off to find Daddy Dearest, remember?”

  Please, God, don’t make me an accomplice, she prayed. “But he lives in Chicago.”

  “He made a business move to New York City nineteen years ago.”

  “I told you I don’t know his name!”

  “It’s okay, I do.”

  Shana’s arms were growing numb; she unsuccessfully attempted to raise her arms over her head. “How can you be sure you’ve got the right person?”

  “Simple. I called Roosevelt University in Chicago, told them I was an alum, and ordered a copy of the yearbook from the year you graduated.”

  “That’s bullshit,” she said, relishing a zap of anger. “Roosevelt requires social security number, date of graduation, and current contact information before releasing that information.”

  He glared at her over his shoulder. “All you need to know is, I made it happen!”

  “Oh, so now you’re Superman?”

  Her captor’s voice turned sugary. “Chill. Nobody’s going to do anything to you just yet.”

  Shana gasped.

  “To show I’m a good guy, I’ll let you in on a bit more about how I located Daddy Dearest.” He leaned over the driver’s seat again. “Sound good?”

  She glared at him in response.

  “I hacked into the student database from 1979 and borrowed a male student’s personal information. Easy-peasy for a cybersecurity guy like me!”

  He took pleasure in boasting about his accomplishments, Shana noted. Definitely her son. “You still haven’t told me how you figured out his name.”