The Child Snatcher

by Aria Johnson

  It didn’t matter what profession he chose, I simply wanted him to be self-sufficient and happy with himself.

  I blamed Howard for all of Brandon’s problems. It was infuriating the way he doted on his three children from his current marriage while ignoring his firstborn. We lived in a small town and it was quite common to bump into Howard and his new family. He’d nod his head at Brandon and sometimes he asked how he was doing, but basically, he acted as if he didn’t know Brandon very well. And in truth, he didn’t. He didn’t want to.

  • • •

  As I approached my home, I was surprised to see a beat-up old Honda tearing away from the curb in front of our house. With no concern for the speed limit, the car roared down our quiet residential street. A fleeting glimpse of the driver caused me to recoil. Ava. Despite never being formally introduced to her, I’d recognize her sour expression and dramatic hair anywhere.

  With a sense of urgency, I pushed down on the gas pedal and zipped into our driveway, rolling over my flower garden and prized azaleas as I parked haphazardly. Clutching the handles of the shopping bag filled with Thai food, I hurried inside, pretty certain that Ava had said or done something to ruin Brandon’s good mood.

  I entered the house not knowing what to expect. Another hole in the wall? Smashed dishes? Would he be curled in a fetal knot, sobbing inconsolably?

  To my amazement, Brandon seemed untroubled by Ava’s visit. In fact, he seemed jubilant, his lips stretching back into a big grin when he spotted the bag of Thai food. It was a boyish, unrestrained smile that I rarely saw anymore, and it warmed my heart. Maybe my son had turned a corner emotionally and was ready to climb out of the doldrums and move forward with his life.

  “Are you okay, Brandon?” I asked cautiously. Although I was curious about Ava’s visit, I didn’t want to upset him by bringing up her name.

  “I’m great, Mom. Ava came by. She thinks we should try to work through our issues and maybe get back together.” His smile reappeared, and this time it was lopsided and goofy.

  I groaned inwardly as I busied myself with setting the table. I wondered how Ava’s lesbian lover felt about a possible reconciliation between her girlfriend and my son. Of course I didn’t verbalize my thoughts. Brandon was too fragile for me to open up that can of worms.

  I cut an eye at Brandon and flinched. It both pained and infuriated me to witness the gullible smile on his face.

  “How could you even consider getting involved with that girl, again when she was so cruel to you?” I asked.

  “She has her ways, but Ava’s okay once you get to know her.”

  “I don’t want to know her, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t invite her here.”

  “She had a rough life, Mom. The only family she had was an uncle who only cared about booze. She realizes that she’s damaged, and she wants to change. We’re back together, and we’re both going to put in the effort to make the relationship work this time.”

  Questioning his sanity, I stared unblinkingly at Brandon. “That girl is toxic! She’ll turn on you at the drop of a dime.”

  “No, she won’t. We both agreed that we should settle down and start a family,” he explained, his face morphing into another foolish expression. My boy was so naïve, it both astonished and shamed me.

  “Are you kidding? That is the most ridiculous . . .” My voice trailed off. There weren’t any words in the English language to adequately express my shock and disdain, and so I began making inarticulate, random sounds while rolling my eyes heavenward.

  “She said she was ovulating, and so we, uh, you know . . .” His face flushed and he dropped his gaze.

  It took a few moments for his words to sink in. “You had sex with that awful girl . . .right here in our home?” I turned up my nose like I suddenly smelled a foul odor.

  “Yeah, but we weren’t, like, downstairs on the couch or anything. We were in the privacy of my bedroom.”

  “This is not a sleazy hotel, Brandon. It’s our home, and that wayward girl is not welcome here. Are we clear on that?”

  His expression darkened and became taut with indignation, and then he gave me a cocky half-smile. Instead of answering, he jutted his chin and crossed his arms defiantly. This is my house, too, his body language said.

  “Why do you always have to be such a bitch, Mom?” Before I had time to react to the disrespectful language, he picked up the bag of Thai food and hurled it against the wall, causing an explosion of beef, noodles, and red curry sauce.

  Brandon kicked the overturned bag for good measure and then stormed out of the kitchen and stomped up the stairs.

  I gawked at the disaster of red and green guck that oozed down the wall and puddled on the floor. Sinking into a kitchen chair, I wondered where in the world to begin cleaning up the mess. I felt world weary and old. I needed a vacation. No, I needed to just pick up and move in the dead of the night. Somewhere far, far away from my troubled son.

  • • •

  In the morning, before I left for work, I found Brandon seated at the kitchen table eating cereal and talking on the phone. He was eerily calm as he spoke softly—to Ava, no doubt.

  Even though he’d behaved like a monster last night, I couldn’t help the rush of love I felt for him. As I poured myself a glass of orange juice, I rustled his hair. God, I loved his curly, brown hair. He looked up at me with the sweetest smile, and I could feel my heart melt. But I wondered how long his serene mood would last. A full day? Or would he be on another destructive rampage when I returned home from work tonight?

  My son had turned into a real-life Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and I had to face the fact that despite what the doctors had said in the past, Brandon’s mood swings were not going to level out on their own. He needed treatment and medication.

  At work, my desk and computer was in the midst of a highly trafficked area where many of the department supplies were kept. It was more like a junky multipurpose room than an office. Most days, my work area resembled Grand Central Station with my staff of seven streaming in and out continuously throughout the day.

  I waited until they’d all cleared out and had gone to work on the zoo grounds before I called Howard. I dreaded talking with my ex, but after Brandon’s latest meltdown, I felt I had no choice but to reach out to his father and discuss having him placed in a psychiatric facility on a seventy-two-hour hold.

  Howard’s secretary placed me on hold for an unreasonably long time and when he finally picked up, it was apparent that I’d caught him at a bad time. “What can I do for you, Claire?” he asked gruffly.

  I gave him a quick summary of Brandon’s depression that was followed by violent outbursts. I expressed concern about his involvement with a sleazy girl whom I left unnamed. I was too embarrassed to mention Brandon’s sudden and irrational desire to father a child with the revolting girl. I’d save that outlandish tidbit for the psychiatrist once we got Brandon the help he needed.

  “Brandon’s an adult; don’t you think it’s time to cut the apron strings?”

  “His age doesn’t matter. As his parents, we have to make an effort to get him diagnosed.”

  “Let me get this straight; you want to have him committed because he had sex with a girl you don’t approve of?” Howard asked with a spiteful chuckle.

  “It’s more than that. His behavior has gotten more and more erratic lately, and I’m worried sick about him. One moment he’s calm and pleasant, and the next, he’s brooding. The brooding escalates to violent outbursts. I honestly believe he’s bipolar. But I can’t get him properly diagnosed because he refuses to see a psychiatrist.”

  “Can’t say I blame him on the shrink thing. When he was little, you thought he had ADHD. During his teen years, you labeled him with every mental illness in the book. He’s been seen by a battery of neurologists, child psychologists, and shrinks, and they all said there’s nothing wrong with the kid other than his bratty disposition. He’s been mean-spirited from day one.”

  “I suppose the a
pple doesn’t fall far from the tree, then,” I muttered with a snort.

  “My point is . . .the kid knows how to work you. He always has, Claire.”

  “He doesn’t work me. I don’t think he can help the way he acts. There’s something wrong with his brain. His symptoms suggest—”

  Howard cut me off with a scoffing sound. “You’ve been making up symptoms since he was little. Makes me wonder if you’re the nutjob. It’s possible that you suffer from Munchausen syndrome.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Brandon other than being lazy, spoiled, and too dependent on his mother. He needs to toughen up. It’s as simple as that. If you want my advice, I think you should drop him off at an Army recruitment office. Let the military make a man out of him. I don’t know what else to recommend for the kid.”

  There was finality in Howard’s tone, and I could picture him checking his watch. His mind, already off Brandon, had moved on to business meetings, contracts, and closing deals.

  There was a brief but awkward silence as my mind raced, trying to think of something that would reel Howard in and get him as emotionally involved with Brandon’s issues as I was.

  “Could you talk to him, Howard? Man-to-man. And maybe get to the bottom of what’s bugging him? Take him to a ballgame or wrestling match. It wouldn’t kill you to spend some father-and-son time with him.”

  I could sense Howard bristling at my suggestion. “The kid won’t open up to me,” he said tonelessly.

  “Perhaps he’d be more forthcoming if you didn’t act like he was a random stranger, constantly referring to him as the kid and flaunting your new family in his face,” I said bitterly. I’d intended to keep my voice calm and I had promised myself that I wouldn’t bring up Howard’s current wife and children, but his aloofness and obvious disconnect with our son was infuriating.

  “Claire, we’ve had this same conversation a million times, and I’m telling you for the millionth time that I don’t have the time or patience for an oversized brat with a perpetually pissed-off attitude. That kid whines and complains more than my five-year-old twin girls. My eight-year-old son is more adult-like than Brandon,” Howard bragged. His words stung badly.

  From what I’d observed in passing, Howard’s kids seemed polite and well adjusted, which pissed me off in a major way.

  “If it were up to me,” Howard continued, “I’d force the kid to man-up by releasing him into the wild and letting him fend for himself. I’d deal with his tantrums by beating his ass with a bag of oranges—” Howard laughed midsentence. “I’d prefer to use a bag of locks, but oranges don’t leave any marks.”

  I flinched as if he’d struck me. I hadn’t expected such an acerbic reply from Howard, such a glaring admission of his utter loathing for his own flesh and blood. “You’re a despicable human being, and I was delusional to even hope you’d pretend to give a damn about your son,” I lashed out.

  Howard laughed cruelly. “You created that monster—not me. You’re the one who didn’t believe in discipline. It used to boggle my mind the way you would ask him if he needed a hug whenever he screamed at the top of his lungs for no reason, or when he spitefully kicked his blocks over or hurled his sippy cup against the wall. After our divorce was final, I ran as fast as I could from both of you kooks. I took care of my financial responsibilities and never missed a child support payment, but no judge in the world could force me to spend quality time with that obnoxious brat. To this day, I regret siring that kid.”

  Howard’s cruel words drew another gasp from me and left me speechless.

  “Listen, I’m running late for a meeting. I have to go, but before I hang up, I want to stress that Brandon is not a child anymore, nor is he my problem. My family life is calm and orderly and I deeply resent being dragged into the chaos that you created. So do me a favor and lose my number.”

  The phone went dead and I stared at it blankly for a few seconds and then my eyes began to water. It was amazing that after all these years, Howard still had the ability to cause me tremendous emotional pain. It didn’t matter how he felt about me, but his contempt for Brandon hurt me to my core.

  I heard a commotion out in the corridor and quickly wiped my eyes. I picked up a copy of Horticulture magazine and began thumbing through it.

  Lugging a cart that was laden with bags of mulch and potted plants, Veronica returned to the office huffing and puffing and wiping perspiration from her forehead.

  “Whew! All that bending and squatting is getting to the old girl. I’m going to have to soak in a tub of Epsom salt when I get home,” she exclaimed, grimacing as she rubbed her left hip.

  Although the rest of the staff were still outdoors shoveling, planting, trimming hedges, and doing other miscellaneous tasks that were part of the upkeep of the zoo’s grounds, Veronica was ready to wind down. She had a doctor’s note that exempted her from doing manual labor for more than three hours a day.

  “Want some tea?” she inquired, groping through the cabinet above the microwave.

  “No thanks.” I kept my eyes down, pretending to be focused on an article in the magazine.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked. She had a sixth sense when it came to my troubled home life.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re letting that boy of yours drive you batty. You need to get out of the house more often. It’s not healthy being cooped up inside with all that negativity.” She went quiet as she pondered the tea choices.

  My eyes flitted back to the article I was pretending to read.

  “Why don’t you join me at my center after work today?” she asked.

  Appalled, I stared at her with a frown. “No offense, but I don’t want to go to a senior center?”

  “It’s a family center . . .people of all ages attend. It’s Latin night and I’m gonna learn how to salsa.” Forgetting about her alleged bad hip, Veronica broke into a few dance moves and was surprisingly rhythmic.

  “I can’t,” I said, laughing. “Not with my two left feet.”

  “It’s not a competition; it’s a class and the instructor is really patient. You only live once, so why not try something new,” she cajoled.

  Veronica was thirty years my senior, yet she was livelier and much more spirted that I’d ever been. I’d never socialized with her outside the workplace, but was sure I’d enjoy her company. Learning to salsa was a lot more attractive than going home and being suffocated by Brandon’s heavy brooding that was always thick in the air.

  Now that Ava was back in his life, he was unreasonably giddy, but one wrong word from her or one missed call would send him on a downward spiral.

  “I’ll go,” I agreed happily.

  “Great! I guarantee you’ll have a wonderful time,” she assured me.

  I doubted if I would have the “wonderful” time she predicted, but anything would be better than enduring Brandon’s mood swings. I had no idea how I was going to singlehandedly get him committed, but tonight’s salsa class would distract me from worrying about it.

  Chapter 3

  The Eyre Park Center, located in a neighboring town, was not the dreary place I’d envisioned. The center was bustling with people of all ages engaged in a variety of activities.

  As I filled out the paperwork for the salsa class, both Veronica and the receptionist tried to persuade me to purchase an annual membership. That kind of commitment was out of the question, but after much prodding from Veronica, I agreed to a month’s worth of salsa lessons.

  The class was being held on an upper level, and on our way to the elevator, Veronica paused in front of the gymnasium and peered through the window. I stood next to her and observed women of various ages cycling in sync at a ridiculously fast speed. Buckets of sweat poured down their faces and drenched their workout wear.

  “We could try that spin class the next time you visit,” Veronica said with a deadpan expression.

  “That’s out of the
question. I’d pass out trying to keep up with them. Whatever happened to normal cycling?”

  “Folks get bored quick, so everything’s constantly being updated. I can’t keep up with all the newfangled exercise equipment, so I stick to dancing.”

  We progressed along the corridor and Veronica paused in front of a large room that featured a humongous rock-climbing wall. Three men were laughing and joking as they scaled the wall without wearing harnesses.

  “They call that bouldering,” Veronica informed.

  “Wow, this place is much more upscale than I imagined,” I mumbled, in awe and unable to tear my eyes away from the multiple sets of muscles that flexed and bulged as a group of men pulled themselves up the mountainous structure, competing with each other to get to the top. Though they were all beautifully masculine, one of the guys caught my attention. He was gorgeous with a thick head of prematurely silver hair. He stood out from the others with his uncanny good looks. Also, there seemed to be a magnetic force field that separated him from the rest of the pack.

  “How’d you like to try climbing that forty-foot contraption?” Veronica asked. “Women and kids climb it, too. But the children have to wear harnesses.”

  I shook my head briskly. “No, thanks. I don’t do well with heights.”

  At that moment the hot guy with the silvery hair did a daring feat that required swinging from one side of the wall to the other. He looked over his shoulder and smiled down at a cluster of people who stood below cheering him on. Judging from his unlined face, I assumed he was prematurely gray and probably somewhere in his early to mid-forties. As he dangled precariously, clutching a hook with one hand, he held my gaze and flicked a devilish grin at me.

  Feeling my cheeks redden, I immediately dropped my gaze. A more outgoing person would have returned his smile, winked, or given him a thumbs-up for the astonishing feat he’d accomplished. But I was out of my depth. Too shy and self-conscious to attempt to even minimally interact with such a bold alpha male.

  “We’d better get to our class,” I said, turning away from the window.