The Missing Piece (Inspirational Love Story)

by Carol McCormick

  After stopping on each level and repeating the button beating, he got off on the fifth floor. The hospital at the late hour seemed more like a confessional with its dimmed lights and gentle whispers and promises of healing. He hurried down the hall while ducking his head into darkened rooms of sleeping patients, to make sure the number on the door told no lie, as he searched for the only person in his life that mattered.

  Lorraine’s back was to him when he looked inside her dimly lit room. She hugged a pillow to her face and made no audible sound, but he knew that it was Lorraine. Her petite frame silhouetted underneath the blanket could not hide the form that had been etched in his mind since her tender age of fifteen. He took a tentative step inside, moving closer by small measures and whispered, “Lorraine...?”

  No answer. Only muffled sobs.

  “Lorraine, what happened?”

  With her face pressed against the pillow, he could see her shoulders shake. The mournful sight tore him apart—and he didn’t know what to do. So he stood there in this foreign place with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets while staring at the curled up form that refused to look at him. Dylan called her name again, but she waved him away. And he squeezed his eyes closed in anguish. He moved closer still and hesitantly touched her shoulder and then gently asked again, “Lori, what happened?”

  When she lifted her mass of tangled hair and revealed her red swollen eyes and mascara-streaked cheeks, he was not so much shocked by her disheveled appearance, but by what she said instead. “I lost the baby! Now go away!” Then she moaned down into the pillow again.

  The words leaped out and caught him by the throat with long fingers squeezing and his heart nearly exploded right there in his chest. He didn’t expect the choking jolt that shot through his body, and his world suddenly went blank. And out of sheer astonishment at the revelation and utter ignorance of what to do next, he granted her request.

  Lorraine’s parents were on their way in when he was on his way out. The Crawford head honcho didn’t say a word when they all passed in the hall. He just glared his usual “I hate you, Dylan Clark” stare, while his wife simply offered her condolences, and said, “It’s for the best that she come home with us.”

  The best for who? You? He wanted to ask, but stormed away instead.

  A nurse caught up to Dylan near the elevator, and said, “Excuse me. Mr. Clark?”

  He stopped.

  “I couldn’t help hearing what happened in Mrs. Clark’s room. Maybe I can help. As you know, the weather is bad and the roads are icy, and the taxi driver was just a young man. He hit an icy spot on the road and rolled the car down a small embankment. The accident caused your wife to go into labor, but the baby girl died. I’m so sorry.”

  He went home to sleep, but didn’t get much, and the next day was no better, but worse. He was so tormented by the turn of events that he felt compelled to run away. Searching for solace somewhere, anywhere, he went to the only source of comfort he knew. He bought a bottle of whiskey and drove aimlessly into the night until his eyes hurt and his car overheated in a rinky-dink little mountain town in the backwoods of West Virginia. The local bar was more like a old saloon that offered to fill his radiator and his glass early on, but asked him to leave long before closing time. The sheriff didn't take too kindly to Dylan busting up his favorite tavern, nor his favorite brother for that matter. The patrol car chased him down before he plowed into a tree, which was probably more than the usual night's protocol for the sheriff and his deputy in the sleepy little town.

  Dylan split his lip on the steering wheel then jumped out of the car faster than a rabbit on opening day of hunting season. Sheriff Gunther swiftly tackled him, pulled out his trusty nightstick and gave Dylan three sharp whaps on the head, creating a sizeable knot on his skull. The sheriff yanked Dylan to his feet, as he spit out a mouthful of salty blood and Virginian dirt on the way up and then greeted the officer with a fist to his stomach and a knee to his chin.

  After Gunther recovered from his blows, he slammed Dylan's face on the hood of the car, cuffed him, and threw him into the county clink. The judge read off a string of charges that cost him year-and-a-half of his life.

  During his debut in the local jail, Dylan sent a shower of vomit to the bunk below. Not a good first impression to present to his unsuspecting cellmate who was sleeping down yonder, but he wasn't there to make friends.

  Neither was bad Bob who pulled him off the top bunk and busted him in the chops a few times. Dylan didn't feel the pounding though, since the deadening effect of alcohol had numbed most of his senses. He slept on the cold cement floor that night, rather than venture back up to the top bunk, thus avoiding the possibility of a repeat performance.

  That was the longest, most boring and yet intensely stressful stint of his life. Days spent peering through paint chipped bars and nights keeping bad Bob off his back were the usual fare. When he had to spend time with the other prisoners during lunch or recreation, his eyes were always scanning, watching quick movements of hands and feet, always aware of his surroundings in order to be safe.

  During the day, he'd read or draw or lift weights to occupy his time. Meals sure weren't something to look forward to, nor help pass the time for that matter. Breakfast consisted of weak tea, runny eggs and lumpy oatmeal while lunch and supper were interchanged with each other for variety. The cook must have figured that no one would notice that the menu rarely changed that way.

  The chaplain came to call a few times to talk to him about Jesus. Dylan agreed to see him, but only because it gave him something to do to break up the grueling monotony of his endless nightmare. Rotting in his cell was bad enough, but the real punishment of his confinement was being alone with himself, where he had time to think about Lorraine, and feel his regret, as guilt tormented him for 547 straight days and nights.

  Eighteen months wasted in the slammer. If it weren't for his saintly mother sending him bus fare when he was released, he'd probably still be in that hell-hole town today. She had also taken it upon herself to enlist a college student to rent his house during his restricted hiatus. Otherwise, he'd have lost that too. And, of course, she assured him that she prayed for his soul.

  Lorraine never wrote back.

  EIGHT

  Peeking through the slit of one eye, Dylan leaned back in his chair to watch the morning dawn through the kitchen window. A cup of weak tea perched in one hand, he awaited the caffeine kick, but there was barely enough to say so. With his foot propped on an adjacent chair, he gave it a shove and sent it skidding across the floor. Dylan stood and paced his usual worn path, stopping only to punch his fist against the wall. They must have found out by now, he thought. They have to know, he reasoned. But so what if they do? He told himself it didn’t matter, because he didn’t care.

  Hesitating, he dressed and went to the church anyway, curious about these Christians and their peculiar ways. Pastor Jacobson met Dylan when he entered the sanctuary. “I’m glad to see that you’re up and around this morning. How are you feeling today?”

  Dylan hung his head at the outward show of kindness and concern. “Better, thank you.” Nothing was said about the check as he went about his business, but at the end of the day when he was ready to leave, Pastor Jacobson stopped him in the foyer. “May I have a word with you before you go?”

  His hand halted on the door, but he didn’t look back. “Sure, what is it?”

  “Would you mind meeting me in my office tomorrow at four o’clock? Doug Baker will be there too.”

  Dylan heard his pulse throb in his ears and heard his voice say, “Okay.”

  * * *

  Dylan paced the perimeter of the cemetery for the third time. The wrought-iron fence silhouetted against the night sky formed eerie shapes in the dark. He thought it odd that a cemetery would be barricaded with such a high fortification. It's not like anyone would be escaping, and no sane person would want to get in so bad that the grounds needed this extensive enclosure.

  Semi-dem
ented, yes, he decided. That was his thinking today. His mind surely thought such nonsense, because of the nature of his visit. He had finally gathered the courage to visit his daughter’s tiny grave, and he didn’t know what to expect once he found it.

  A flicker of moonlight peeked through the clouds to expose the gated entrance. Dylan surveyed the iron design against the evening sky then threw his cigarette down and crushed it out with the toe of his shoe. His steps crunched along the gravel path with his senses fully alert. A gust of wind cast leafy shadows on mausoleum walls and every ghost story that he'd ever heard came unbidden to his mind. He hitched up his collar against the cool breeze and then shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

  As he continued down the darkened path, a tombstone engraving caught his eye. It was a quote from Queen Elizabeth, spoken on her deathbed at the end of her Golden Reign. He remembered reading it in history class, and how it intrigued him even then, to think that the queen who’d lived in such luxury and power, had said with her very last breath, “All my possessions for a moment of time.” He thought it ironic how people are willing to give up what they cannot keep anyway, once their life on earth is over. But time, that’s what everyone wants when their physical clock is about to stop. What he wouldn’t give to go back in time and change the course of events that brought him to this disgraceful place, but he couldn’t, so instead, he lives with the two words of regret that should be chiseled upon his own tombstone, If only....

  The long, low hoot of an owl made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He softly whistled and picked up his pace, hoping to bolster his courage, or to ward off spirits that might cross in his path. Then Dylan noticed a young man slumped over a gravestone, and he realized that the sound came from him. The lone figure was hunched over with his head resting on his folded arms, which made him appear to be sleeping, but then the man’s shoulders shook like an autumn leaf trembling in the breeze, ready to crumble and turn to dust all at the slightest touch.

  Dylan quietly slipped by the man and focused on the purpose of his visit, as he searched the jagged horizon for clues to where he was going. He had contacted the funeral director that took care of his daughter's burial and with much explaining as to why he, the father, did not even know the whereabouts of his own child's grave, the director reluctantly told him where to find the tiny plot.

  He headed for the old oak tree near the south end of the cemetery, where he hoped to find, not only his daughter, but also the end of his own inner anguish.

  AMANDA CLARK.

  He froze at the sight of his name etched in stone. And then, without warning, that fateful night replayed itself like a reel of film rerun too many times. Regret gripped his heart and squeezed it like a rubber ball, distorting his mind and mangling his soul as he slumped to his knees on the ground.

  My baby daughter’s under here. The admission came to him as though the reality of it all hit him for the first time tonight. He knelt there in silence, waiting. Waiting for someone or something to come along and help him through this difficult predicament. He took a deep breath and looked up at the sky then closed his eyes and shook his head as he lowered it back down.

  And when he opened his eyes, his gaze fell upon the marble slab in front of him again. And in his uncertainty of what to do or how to act, he placed one hand on the chiseled stone then bowed his head as though praying, and said, “Amanda...it’s me...your father...I mean, I would have been your father if you had.... Oh, I’m no good at this.” He pulled up a clump of grass and threw it back down on the ground. “What I mean to say is, you’re probably wondering why I’m here...well...” Dylan slumped his shoulders in frustration. “I guess I just want to say...I’m sorry. I really made a mess of things, didn’t I? For you...for your mother.”

  His mood lifted slightly at the thought of Lorraine and the type of mother she would have been. “You would have loved your mother. She is the sweetest, kindest...most beautiful….” He bowed his head again and made a choking sound. “She would have been so good to you.” Dylan’s chin quivered as he rubbed his hand across his eyes and then down the side of his face. “There’s so much I wanted to do for you...” He moaned like a wounded animal and then glanced around to see if anyone heard. And he remembered the man hunched over the tombstone. Alive on the outside, crumbling on the inside, bidding his time before turning to dust. “I'm so sorry, Amanda,” he whispered again then he stood up and walked away.

  * * *

  Pastor Jacobson and Doug were already seated when Dylan walked into the foyer. He could see them through the glass door, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. His stomach tightened when he thought of what the minister might say or do to him. Dylan thought maybe the pastor would preach him a sermon on the virtues of honesty, but he doubted he’d get off that easy. Maybe Doug was there for moral support or backup, because they thought he’d start a fight while being terminated. Whatever the reason for this meeting, his name would be worthless for future job references with this mark on his record.

  Dylan took a deep breath and opened the door to face the firing squad.

  “Come in, Dylan. This is Doug Baker. I don't believe that you two have formally met. Doug, this is Dylan Clark.”

  Doug stood and the men shook hands, greeting each other in turn by saying, “Nice to meet you.”

  “Have a seat, Dylan,” Pastor motioned to an empty chair as Doug sat back down. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  Dylan held up a hand and nodded. “No, thank you.”

  “Well then, let’s get right down to business.” Pastor Jacobson cleared his throat then said, “Doug and I have spent a great deal of time in prayer concerning this matter.”

  I knew it. I’m out of here. Dylan rested his ankle over his knee, holding it there with both hands, trying to control the pace of his breathing, as the ticking of the clock sounded like hammer blows in his ears.

  “I know that you’re going through a difficult time right now getting back on your feet, and as much as I hate to lose you, here it comes, Doug would like to make you an offer.” Great. They're going to cut me a deal. Get out of here, don't ever come back, and we won't press any charges.

  “Dylan, do you know what line of work I’m in?” Doug asked.

  A cop? Dylan shrugged and nodded, while holding his ankle tighter to keep his foot from jiggling.

  “I buy old houses, fix them up, and then resell them. The Lord has blessed my business and it's growing at such a tremendous pace that I need another man to help me out. Pastor Jacobson tells me that you’re quite handy with a hammer and saw, so I was wondering if you’d like to come to work for me. You'll be making double the money that you are now. Sorry Pastor, business is booming,” Doug said with a smile.

  Stunned, Dylan stretched his eyes open slightly and sat up straight as if awaking from a dream. “Yes, of course. That would be great.”

  “Good, then I'll see you soon. I’ll contact Pastor to let you know when and where to meet me so we can discuss the details.” Doug slapped Dylan on the back, leaving the two men alone in the office.

  “I told you that you wouldn’t be here long once word got out.” Pastor Jacobson turned in his chair and opened his desk drawer then lifted Dylan's paycheck out and held it up to him. Without an audible word, an unseen third presence seemed to electrify the air and speak for the minister of God. The pastor’s love and light shone out from him and illuminated Dylan’s heart to expose the secret that resided there. And although the pastor never said a word, never accused, criticized, or judged, the voice of God spoke for him amid the silence.

  Confess what you did.

  The check poised mid-air, awaited its owner to claim. Dylan exhaled and bowed his head, then closed his eyes for a moment. The check reminded him of what he couldn’t forget, the check he used in deceit. Then in the deafening silence of the room, he lifted his head and spoke. “Pastor Jacobson,” Dylan released another long breath as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I bought a drill at the hard
ware store with one of your checks and then returned it the next day for cash. I needed the money to pay my electric bill, so my power wouldn't be shut off. I had every intention of paying you back when I got paid today. I’m really sorry.”

  Pastor Jacobson laid the envelope on the desk. “I see, Dylan,” he said, pausing. “I'm glad that you told me, but I already knew about it. Parks Hardware called to let me know.” The minister picked up a pencil and walked it between his fingers. Another, longer pause, another parentheses in the conversation. “I prayed that you would tell me...and I forgive you.” He slowly pushed the envelope across the desk with the eraser tip of the pencil.

  Dylan lowered his head and rubbed his forehead. “How can you forgive me after what I’ve done?”

  The pastor’s words came softly. “When you can admit that you have done wrong, you’ve taken the first step on the road to redemption. That’s a giant step for some people. A step that many people never take. But not only that, whether you took the step or not, Jesus told his followers that if anyone took their cloak, they should not withhold their coat if someone wanted to take it too. My relationship with Christ is worth more to me than ninety-one dollars. Your soul is more important to me than ninety-one dollars.”

  Dylan sat stunned in awe. There was no judgment, no condemnation, no threats, only acceptance and forgiveness. “I’m going to pay you back,” Dylan’s voice was rough with emotion, as he tried to comprehend the enormity of it all. This man of God cared for him. He cared what happened to him, and it wasn’t just the minister either. Other people from the church treated him with the same respect and kindness too.