Gone

by Cronk, LN

  Gone

  Sequel to the Award-Winning Chop, Chop

  Book Six

  L.N. Cronk

  Published by Rivulet Publishing

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition License Note:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Photography by photoGartner

  Spanish translations provided by Vicki Oliver Krueger.

  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION ®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984

  by International Bible Society.

  Used by permission of Zondervan.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2011 by L.N. Cronk. All rights reserved.

  www.LNCronk.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day – and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing. 2 Timothy 4:8

  ~ ~ ~

  SOMEONE WAS LAYING on their horn and – for some reason – I was shaking. Looking ahead, I saw a driveway and pulled in.

  I turned the car off, rubbed my forehead, and sat there until I’d calmed down a bit. Then I sighed and looked around.

  Where was I?

  A woman came out of the house and walked toward the car, staring at me suspiciously.

  I rolled down my window.

  “Hola,” I said, trying to look as friendly as possible.

  She nodded.

  “Me puedes decir como llegar a . . .”

  Can you tell me how to get to . . .

  I wasn’t really sure what to ask her because I was so lost. I finally decided I’d better just get to Zocaló in the heart of Mexico City because I could get anywhere from there.

  “¿Plaza de la Constitución el Zocaló?” I finally asked.

  She looked at me strangely and finally pointed.

  “Ve por ese camino . . . vira a la derecha a la Carretera Federal Ochenta y Cinco. Mantenga en esa dirección algunos treinta minutos y debería ver unos señales de tránsito.”

  Go that way . . . turn right onto highway eighty-five. Stay on that for about thirty minutes and you should see some signs.

  Thirty minutes?

  I lived thirty minutes from Zocaló. And I was going to have another thirty minutes to go on top of that?

  I thanked her, pulled away and sighed again, hoping I’d recognize something along the way.

  I didn’t.

  Half of an hour later I finally saw the Metropolitan Cathedral and was surprised at the rush of relief I felt. I turned right onto Medero and drove for a while.

  Beginning to relax, I realized how hungry I was. I pulled in to the same McDonald’s where I’d bought a thousand Happy Meals. I ordered a double cheeseburger, large fries and a drink and started home.

  When I finally arrived I was surprised to find the door open. Laci was usually pretty good about locking up before she left.

  Oh well.

  I crammed my McDonald’s bag into the trash, headed down the hall to my office, and got to work.

  By dinnertime Laci wasn’t home so I called her.

  “I’m working late tonight, remember?”

  “You are?”

  “Yes . . . we talked about it this morning.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I guess I forgot. What am I supposed to do for dinner?”

  “I told you I left some meatloaf and potatoes on a plate in the fridge for you to heat up.”

  I opened the fridge and looked around.

  “There’s nothing here,” I told her.

  There was a long pause.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure.”

  “Did you eat it for lunch?”

  “No,” I said. “I went to McDonald’s for lunch.”

  There was another long pause.

  “I’m gonna come home,” she said.

  “No, Laci,” I said. “It’s no big deal. I’ll find something to eat.”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll pick up something and bring it home.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Laci,” I said. “I don’t need you to come home. You stay there and get done whatever you need to get done. I’ll find myself something to eat.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” I said. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  The next night the table was set for three.

  “We’re having company?” I asked.

  “Dorito’s coming for dinner.”

  Dorito’s real name was Doroteo. He was the only one of our children who still lived near us.

  “Just Dorito?” I asked, disappointed that his wife and girls weren’t coming.

  “Ayla has a soccer game,” she explained.

  “And Dorito’s not going to it?” I asked.

  “He’s coming for dinner,” she said again.

  Obviously.

  He came in the door just as Laci was dishing up and hugged me.

  “Hi, Dad,” he said as I pounded him on the back.

  “How you doing?” I asked.

  “Fine,” he said, turning to Laci. He gave her what seemed like an extra-long hug.

  During dinner I tried to ask him about the kids and about work, but he was very quiet (not a word usually used to describe Dorito).

  “So, how come you aren’t at Ayla’s game?” I asked.

  “I just . . . I just wanted to see you guys,” he shrugged, looking down at his plate.

  “Dorito,” I finally asked. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure, Dad,” he nodded, not looking up from his plate.

  I put down my fork.

  “Obviously not,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  I saw him take a breath and then look up at Laci for help. That’s when I realized she was already in on this.

  “Would somebody care to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.

  Dorito pushed his chair away from the table. He went to the freezer and got some ice for his glass.

  I looked at Laci expectantly.

  “We just wanted to talk to you about something,” she finally said. “But I thought we’d wait until after dinner.”

  “Well, you might as well just talk to me about it now,” I said.

  Laci looked up at Dorito. Dorito looked back at her and then set his glass down.

  “Are the girls okay?” I asked, unable to keep panic from sneaking into my voice. “Is somebody sick?”

  “No, no,” Dorito assured me, sitting back down and putting a hand on my shoulder. “Everybody’s fine.”

  “So what’s this all about then?”

  “David,” Laci said gently, looking at me and putting her hand on mine. “We’re just . . . we’ve just been a bit worried about you, that’s all.”

  “About me?”

  I laughed as my panic quickly subsided. “Why would you be worried about me?”

  “You seem a little . . . distracted lately,” she said carefully.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . . like you’re not paying attention to things the way you used to.”

  “I guess my mind’s just been on the addition,” I told her.

/>   The orphanage where Laci worked (and where half of our children had come from) had just received the funding they needed to add a huge new wing. The firm I worked for was in charge of the project and I was going to be the lead engineer – Dorito was going to be the lead architect.

  “I’ve just been thinking about it a lot lately,” I assured her. “I’m excited about it!”

  “No,” Laci said, shaking her head. “This has been going on longer than that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean . . . I mean, you’re doing things that aren’t. . . right.”

  “Things that aren’t right?”

  “Not . . . normal,” she said hesitantly.

  “Normal . . .”

  She nodded.

  “Such as?”

  She quickly glanced at Dorito before she went on.

  “I tell you things, David, and then later you don’t even remember that we talked.”

  “Everybody does that sometimes.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “sometimes . . . but you’re doing it a lot more than just sometimes.”

  “You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” I said, waving my hand at her dismissively.

  “That’s not all,” Laci said.

  “What?”

  “Do you remember a couple of weeks ago when I came home and you were out in the driveway in the car?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Well, you were just sitting there!” she said. “And I think you’d been sitting there for a long time.”

  “No I hadn’t,” I told her. “I was just thinking about something! I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  She sighed and I looked at Dorito.

  “I’ve been fine, haven’t I?” I asked him.

  “You haven’t . . . you haven’t been yourself lately,” he answered.

  “Oh, brother,” I said, rolling my eyes. “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe she’s got you convinced that something’s wrong too.”

  “We want you to go see a doctor,” Laci said. “Just go have a check-up, make sure everything’s okay.”

  “So you think I’m crazy?”

  “No!” Laci insisted. “I don’t think you’re crazy at all! I think – I just think maybe something’s stressing you out or something and that we should talk to a doctor about it.”

  “Right now,” I said, “you’re stressing me out.”

  “Look,” Dorito said. “Why don’t you just go see a doctor and make Mom feel better?”

  “Fine,” I agreed. “But I’m not going to some quack doctor who got his medical degree off the back of a cereal box. When we go home next summer I’ll tell Dr. Taylor that you’re worried.”

  The doctors we had available to us in Mexico City really weren’t that bad, but I didn’t go to one of them unless I really had to. We went back to the States often enough that I could schedule any annual check-up type stuff when we were home.

  “Mike doesn’t think this needs to wait six months,” Laci said.

  “You called Mike about this?” I yelled. Mike was one of my best friends. He also happened to be a physician.

  “I just wanted to–”

  “You had NO right to do that Laci!” I shouted, slamming my hand down on the table. Laci jumped. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”

  “Dad–”

  “You stay out of this!” I yelled.

  “Dad,” Dorito persisted, “I came over here last month to trim for you and you’d filled the weed eater up with milk.”

  “I did not!”

  “Yes, you did. There was a jug of rancid milk sitting right next to it.”

  “Who asked you for your help anyway?” I snapped at him. “I can take care of my own yard – you leave my weed eater alone!”

  “Your weed eater is ruined,” Dorito muttered under his breath.

  “Well, I didn’t do it!” I cried. “Somebody might have done it, but it wasn’t me!”

  “Who would have touched your weed eater?” Laci asked.

  “Maybe you did it,” I accused her.

  “Why would I do that?”

  I decided I’d better back off before they accused me of being paranoid, too.

  “I don’t know, Laci. What I’m saying is, why would I have done it?”

  “Grace told me she called you Monday,” Dorito went on. “She said . . . she said you acted like you didn’t even know who she was!”

  “You think I don’t know my own kids?” I cried. I started ticking them off on my fingers. “There’s Grace and Marco and Meredith and Lily and Amber–”

  “David,” Laci interrupted, worriedly, “Monday you went to the store to get some bread and you were gone for five hours! You wouldn’t answer your phone and when you finally came home you didn’t have any bread.”

  I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

  “So, because my phone wasn’t working right and I forgot some bread you’re ready to lock me up?”

  “No one said anything about locking you up! All we want is for you to go to the doctor to see if they can figure out what’s going on.”

  “Nothing’s going on! I’m fine and I don’t need a doctor to tell me that I’m fine!”

  “What’s it gonna hurt to go see a doctor?” Dorito asked. “If you’re so sure you’re fine, then why don’t you just humor us and go to the doctor?”

  “No,” I said, standing up. “If you’re still worried about it next summer then I’ll talk to Dr. Taylor, but I don’t want to hear another word about it until then. Do you understand?”

  “But–” Laci started.

  “Not another word!”

  “Please sit down, David,” she pleaded. “I won’t talk about it anymore. Sit down and finish your dinner.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite,” I told her and I stalked away.

  At two in the morning I got out of bed.

  “Where’re you going?” Laci asked.

  “I’m going to go get that bread that you wanted,” I muttered under my breath.

  “What?”

  “I’m getting some cough medicine, Laci.”

  “You haven’t been coughing.”

  “Yes, I have. I don’t feel good.”

  I rifled around in the medicine cabinet until I found a bottle that was left over from when one of us had had bronchitis or something.

  Do not take except under the supervision of a physician. Do not operate a motor vehicle or heavy machinery when taking this medicine.

  Warning:

  This medication causes drowsiness.

  That sounded good.

  I measured out the recommended dosage, tossed my head back and gulped it down.

  The next day I was in my office going over the survey of the property for the new wing. I opened my bottom desk drawer to get a file and found a bunch of forks, knives and spoons. I stared at them for a minute and then I took them to the kitchen and put them away, making sure each piece went exactly where it had come from.

  That night I lay in bed until just after midnight. I got up and went to the medicine cabinet, poured myself a double shot of cough medicine and crawled back into bed.

  For the next week nothing else happened.

  Laci didn’t say another word about it.

  I stayed away from the cough medicine.

  Nine days after Laci and Dorito’s “intervention” I was in the bedroom.

  I heard a noise coming from the kitchen and I walked down the hall to investigate.

  Water was pouring full blast from the faucet and both sinks were overflowing. The water flowed in a slow waterfall over the counter and onto the floor.

  I shut the water off and sopped it all up with towels.

  Then I went to the Laundromat.

  That night I finished off the cough syrup.

  Two days later, my phone rang. It was my supervisor, Josef.

  “Hi, Josef.”

  “Hi, David,” he said.

  “What’s up?”

  “W
ell,” he said, hesitating, “I wanted to talk to you about Hartman Station.”

  “Yeah? I sent the stuff up there a few days ago . . . you should have gotten it by now.”

  “We got it, Dave,” he hesitated again. “But there’s a problem – the ratios for most of the casings are way off.”

  “They are?” I asked, wandering over to my desk. I found the Hartman project and tried to find the specification pages.

  “And the girder spacing on the portico isn’t calculated right.”

  I found the spec section and started looking at the numbers.

  “I’ll fix this and send it right away,” I told him, although I couldn’t remember how to calculate them or imagine how I was possibly going to fix them.

  “Dave,” Josef was saying, “we’d like to fly you up to Chicago.”

  “Why?”

  “We’d just like to meet with you and talk about what’s going on.”

  “Whatdya mean, ‘What’s going on’? Is this a big deal? I just made a few mistakes. I’ll fix it and send you what you need this afternoon.”

  There was no way I could ever have it ready by this afternoon.

  “Dave . . .”

  “What?”

  “Stuff like this has been happening a bit over the past few months. We really need to talk about it.”

  I sat on the couch, stared at the floor, and waited for Laci. When she walked in the door I looked up at her. She stopped in her tracks and looked back at me. We stared at each other for a long moment.

  Finally I nodded at her.

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  ~ ~ ~

  OVER THE PAST twenty years (when I’d had a sore throat or tendonitis or something) I had, on occasion, seen a physician in Mexico City named Dr. Reyes and – once I agreed to go to a doctor – Laci scheduled an appointment with him. When Dr. Reyes couldn’t find anything wrong with me (by hitting my knee with a hammer, shining a light in my eye and gagging me with a popsicle stick) he referred me to a neurologist.