For so many reasons, I was relieved Marcus was alive. For the sake of human life, for Beth’s sake if he knew where she was, and for the baby’s sake if he or she needed him in any way.
He or she. I closed my eyes and pictured a precious little one, growing inside Beth, waiting to meet the right family. I got teary and spent a few minutes asking for divine intervention.
“Mom?” It was Sophie. “What are you doing?”
“Just praying.” She walked over and stood next to me. I pressed record on the DVR remote and clicked off the TV.
“I have a prayer.”
I loved these little insights into my kids’ minds. I looked into her eyes. “What is it?”
“I want to do Slip ’N Slide.”
Not as deep as I’d hoped. Possibly the simplest request God would receive that day.
“We can do Slip ’N Slide. When you get dressed, put on a bathing suit instead of an outfit.” She jumped up and down in her princess nightgown, making excited noises, and scurried off. “Find some water toys too,” I called. Hopefully that would keep her busy for a few minutes.
As I headed toward my office, I realized I’d set an unintentional record. It had been more than twenty-four hours since I’d checked email. I knew just what I could have missed.
One of the benefits of living in King County, Virginia, is the email alert system, which contacts residents about various issues. It’s a dream come true if you like technology and avoid the news.
You can sign up for everything from storm warnings to traffic reports to crime information, and sadly, there are often emails about missing kids.
Lo and behold, an alert titled “Police seek help in finding pregnant teen” had arrived the day before.
King County police are requesting the public’s help in locating Beth Myers, 18, who was reported as a runaway by her family. She is 5 feet 6 inches tall, 160 pounds, with brown hair and green eyes. At 38 weeks pregnant, she is in need of immediate medical care. Beth lives in East King County and is known to have friends in Western King. She was last seen at home wearing blue jean shorts and a green tank top. If you have any information about her whereabouts, please call the number below.
Beth’s photo was attached. I highlighted the message and forwarded it to Andy, since Kenna didn’t use email. The phone rang almost immediately and indicated their number.
“I got that email. Thanks,” Andy said.
“You’re welcome.”
“The police have it covered, don’t you think?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “I don’t know.”
“I appreciate everything you’re doing.” He lowered his voice. “Although I really wish you’d tell Kenna to be careful. We don’t want to get in trouble with First Steps and lose our chance for future adoptions. You know?”
I saw his point. But I also knew Kenna was committed to Beth—the same way Beth had seemed committed to them.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be in the middle,” I said. “I promise to talk with Kenna before I do anything else. And Andy, I’m really sorry about this situation. I know it’s awful for both of you.”
“Thanks. Hold on. Let me get Kenna.”
He yelled for her twice and she picked up with a yawn.
“Morning,” I said. “Awake?”
“I have to be. Class.” She yawned again.
I updated her on the morning news, email, and conversation with Andy. She was relieved about everything and understanding about Andy.
“He just wants what’s best for both of us. As much as I want to be a mom, he wants to be a dad.”
I felt a surge of sympathy for him. Any guy who truly wants to be a dad, a good dad, gets a gold star in my book.
“Did you tell him about last night?” I asked.
“Not yet. That’s next.”
“He’s going to be upset. I’m glad I didn’t say anything.”
“Good grief. Me too. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him.” She moved on. “So the email mentioned ‘friends in Western King?’ Do you think that’s me and Andy?”
“I don’t know. I wonder if the police are going to talk to you. Or if you should call them.”
“Maybe First Steps gave them our names. If the police call us, it’s okay. But I don’t want to call them and upset First Steps, Beth, or her family—not to mention Andy—since everyone thinks I’m wrong.”
She sounded sure, so I changed tactics.
“Do you think I should visit the hospital? I could sit in the waiting room and see who visits Marcus.”
She paused. “I guess that’s a good idea. Won’t it be hard to tell?”
“I think it’s worth a shot.” I sucked in my breath at my choice of words. “I mean a try.”
Kenna filled me in on her plans for the day, which included teaching low-impact, step, and body sculpting classes, plus helping with membership sales. She apologized for leaving me alone with the search.
“The manager would panic if I left him hanging right now. Everyone rearranged their schedules to pitch in when I’m...I mean if I’m on maternity leave.” She groaned. “If I could quit, I would, just to help find Beth.”
“I know.”
“Honestly, though, you wouldn’t want me around. I’ve never felt like this. I have to distract myself, or I’ll cry nonstop. Your kids would be scared of me.”
“Maybe you should call the counselor at First Steps, or someone else, just to talk. You can’t live like this for long.”
She was quiet. “Do you think I’m crazy?” she finally asked.
“No way. I just think you need relief.”
“The only way I’ll get it is if someone finds Beth.”
So much for talking her out of anything. Sorry, Andy.
By the time Jack woke up, Sophie had a collection of water toys that filled two beach pails. We ate waffles with syrup for breakfast (one step away from cake and icing), so I hoped they wouldn’t get sick from landing repeatedly on their bellies.
I spread the Slip ’N Slide on the grass next to our house and connected the hose. A blow-up ridge at the end collected water like a tiny pool. Nothing could stop me from laughing as the kids splashed into it and screamed with abandon. It was only 9 a.m., but so hot I could practically feel skin cancer forming on my arms. The sparkling water looked irresistible.
“You do it, Mom!” Jack urged with perfect timing.
“I don’t have a bathing suit on.” I surveyed my black polyester shorts and red tank top, thinking I could get away with it if I wanted to. I didn’t fit the size guidelines on the box, though.
“Come on. Just do it.” He must have sensed my deliberation.
“Go Mommy! Go Mommy!” Sophie chanted.
Has anyone ever compared kid pressure to peer pressure? Kid pressure must have the edge. Parents are totally disarmed by love and exhaustion.
I took a few steps back from the tarp, ran forward, and dove. Water blinded me as I flew down the mat, right over the pool into the muddy grass, where I collided like a bowling ball with Sophie’s pails, water guns and plastic boats. I arose soaked, disoriented, and determined to be enthusiastic.
“Woohoo! Go Slip ’N Slide!” I rubbed my eyes and saw something blurry, yet familiar, moving toward us.
“Good one,” Dean said. “You really had some momentum there.”
I brushed hair clumps out of my face and forced myself to smile. “Wow. What are you doing here?” I glanced around for something, anything, to hide behind. A towel, sunglasses, a tree. Nada. I pulled my wet shirt away from my chest.
“I brought you something.” He held out a book on missing children. I didn’t want to take it for several reasons. I didn’t want to get it wet, my hand was busy separating my shirt from my thin, clingy bra, and I hadn’t showered, s
haved or put on makeup. Only my mouth moved.
“Thanks. Could you put it on the porch? I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Yeah.” He stood still, as if he was waiting for something. “Sorry I didn’t call first. I was in the area, so I thought I’d stop by. I had your address from the class roster.”
“That was really nice.” It was also a mistake. Memo to all: Never expect a stay-at-home mom (or her car, home, children, etc.) to be ready for unexpected company. Many of us need at least an hour to stuff things in closets and make it look like life is under control.
My gaze turned to Jack and Sophie, the blessed reasons for my near-insanity, who were staring at Dean. “These are my kids, Jack and Sophie,” I said. “Guys, this is one of my teachers, Mr. Summers.”
“He has really big muscles,” Sophie said. “Is he Superman?” I stifled some follow-up jokes and apologized for her.
“You must be strong,” Jack agreed.
Dean smiled at me. “I do alright. Anyhow, here you go.” He stepped away and placed the book on my porch. “See you in class?”
What? I’d almost forgotten about class. It was the next night, Wednesday. “I’ll be there.” I smiled bravely as drips rolled down my forehead. “Thanks again.”
He waved at the kids with a wink and a bemused grin. “Nice to meet you guys.” His blue eyes focused on me. “I want to hear how things are going. Maybe you could stay after class a few minutes?”
“Sure.” I felt inappropriately nervous, as if he’d asked me for a date, which he hadn’t.
His next three words made me want to head straight for the nearest mall, beauty salon, and fitness center. (Okay, maybe just the mall and the salon.)
“See you soon.”
The sky got overcast and the kids got goose bumps, so we hung the Slip ’N Slide over a railing to dry and rushed up to the bathroom. I stripped off my wet clothes, threw on a robe and gave them a warm bath. Then, to keep them out of trouble, I sent them to their rooms with firm instructions: Dry off, put on an outfit Mommy will like, and play until I get out of the shower.
Under the hottest streams of water I could stand, I tried to scrub away the memory of how I must have looked to Dean. It doesn’t matter, I told myself. It’s not like we have a chance of dating. He’s out of my league, and he’s not going to take on kids, á la the real Brad Pitt. On the positive side, if we ever do date, he’s already seen me at my worst. Shouldn’t that be a relief?
By the time I dried my hair and pulled on jean capris and a pink T-shirt, I wasn’t worried about Dean anymore. Maybe it was being clean, semi-presentable and deodorized, or maybe it was the distraction of kids running circles around the first floor, playing tag-and-tackle. It’s undeniable that while entertaining each other, they could also seriously injure one another—accidentally of course. That was enough to worry about.
I let them play for a few more minutes, watching more carefully than a boxing referee. Finally the stress was too much and I separated them with an announcement.
“Camp time!” We’d be ridiculously early if they started getting ready now. But based on history, that wouldn’t happen. We’d arrive ten minutes late after half an hour of cajoling them into outfits, shoes and sunscreen.
Thank goodness I looked decent, because we were late to camp as expected, and I had to escort them in instead of using the beloved carpool line, which allows frazzled parents to hide in the front seat while teachers retrieve kids from the back. More than once, I’d had to walk in tardy, tucked into a hat and last-minute outfit, hoping not to be noticed. Those days I’d inevitably run into Perfect Mom, some random parent who had the time and money not only to assemble stylish outfits, but accessorize them too. She’d pull off in her luxury sedan, turning the wheel with her French manicure, which she somehow afforded along with the camp fee I struggled to pay, probably off to get her hair done. Or maybe to go home and cry about her miserable, shallow life. No, that’s horribly petty, I’d correct myself. I hope she’s happy and fulfilled and inspiration for me to get myself together.
Today I looked presentable enough, so I used the opportunity to greet everyone I knew with confidence. Most of the counselors were experienced teachers I’d known for two years. Their assistants were college or high school students with refreshing enthusiasm. I admired their dedication to working hard instead of lounging around all summer, which is what I wished I could do. Hopefully they were having fun with the kids.
Jack kissed me goodbye and ran into class, where friends were constructing Lego spaceships. Sophie wouldn’t even grace me with a kiss, demanding, “Go home, Mom!” I hid my disappointment and reminded myself that independence was one of her best qualities—one I could use more of. It would serve her well in life.
I wished everyone a good day and made my way back through art-covered walls. I scanned them for Sophie and Jack’s work but didn’t see any. As a passing toddler sneezed into his hands, I casually wondered where there were more germs. Here? Or in the hospital I was about to visit?
These days, when a baby is born, you might as well treat the parents for OCD. Is it possible to become a parent and not a compulsive, hand-washing germaphobe? For the first several years, you spend every day wiping snot and poop, watching commercials about the horrors of not using antibacterial soaps, wipes, and cleansers. When both kids were in diapers, I was sure our family could cause an E. coli outbreak. Finally, I rebelled, trusting good old soap and water. And what do you know? It worked!
With determination not to fear germs in mind, I walked into the hospital and allowed myself to breathe normally and press elevator buttons with my bare hands, although I did use my knuckles instead of fingertips. Visions of Marcus’s dripping blood pushed their way into my consciousness, and I couldn’t help wondering how many times red spots had hit the floor of the elevator transporting me from the ER lobby to the ICU, where I guessed he was admitted. I shifted my feet and replaced gruesome thoughts with images of hardworking custodians mopping away signs of suffering.
The elevator came to a smooth stop anyone in pain would appreciate. The doors slid open to reveal a placard directing ICU visitors to the right. A smaller sign informed me I was in a “quiet area” that promoted patient healing. True to this goal, Marcus’s unit seemed relatively calm compared to what I expected. Last time I’d been hospitalized (to give birth) there had been no shortage of moaning and screaming.
There was a nursing station ahead, softly abuzz with beeping, ringing, and talking sounds. I had no intention of checking in with anyone there. I tried to look relaxed as I glanced around for a waiting area where I might observe comings and goings. I spotted it on the left, complete with requisite vinyl chairs, pressed wood tables, wrinkled magazines, a phone, and a TV. The room was big enough to disappear into—completely out of the nurses’ view.
I was the only one there, so I had my pick of seats. Hmmm. By the entrance, where I’d see everyone and overhear staff banter? In the middle, where I could eavesdrop on visitors, no matter where they sat? Or by the TV, to catch up on soap operas?
I forced my eyes away from impossibly timeless actors and sat three seats from the door where I could fake-read People and real-people watch. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to see. Every visitor made a beeline for the nurses’ station and didn’t return. No teens in sight. With intense focus, I picked up snatches of conversation, such as “He’s doing fine” and “Are you on his visitor list?”
The longer I waited, the more frustrated I got. Every minute I was here, Beth was somewhere else, surely without the support she needed. I couldn’t help imagining her alone and afraid. Enough. I stood, threw my purse over my shoulder, and marched to the nurses’ station.
“Hi,” I said to a petite woman in blue scrubs. “I’m here to visit Marcus Gomez. Am I in the right place?”
She tapped on a keyboard and checked a screen. “Your name
?”
“Nicki Valentine.”
“Okay. Do you have a code?”
“No. Actually, I don’t know what you mean. Marcus doesn’t know me. I’m the one who called 911 last night when he got shot. I thought he was taken here, and I just want to make sure he’s okay. I thought maybe—”
She held up a finger. “Hang on.” She left the curved desk and padded down the hall in thick, silent sneakers. Soon after a left at the third room, she emerged with a nurse who wore no makeup and didn’t bother to color, never mind comb, the wiry hair around her face. I pegged her as a veteran, the kind you’d want sticking you with a needle if necessary. Also the kind with enough authority to bend the rules.
She glanced at me and I smiled in greeting. No response. Then she reentered the room, stayed for about thirty seconds, and treaded back down the hall with nurse number one.
“You can see him,” she said.
“Thank you so much.” I felt like I’d been given an expensive gift I had no idea how to use. Something that intimidated me. Something like exercise equipment. “So he’s totally conscious?” I confirmed.
“Yes. He’s hooked up to various monitors, but he’s awake, and he can talk. He’s in Room Three.” She pointed at the room they’d exited.
Brilliant. If only I knew what to ask him. If you want to be a detective, I reminded myself, then act like one. What was the old expression? “Fake it ’til you make it?” I had a lot of frickin’ faking to do.
Five
Marcus watched as I bobbed past a large window that allowed for easy observation of his room. It made sense that in the ICU they’d keep a close eye on both patients and visitors.
Other than a thick, white bandage wrapped turban-style around his head, he looked good. Warm complexion. No obvious bleeding. Focused, brown eyes that locked with mine as I rounded the doorjamb. Ugh. There was no turning back.
Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) Page 5