Up Close And Gone

by Jennie Spallone

  “That was Chlordiazepoxide, by the way.”

  “What?” His words brought her out of her reverie.

  “Librium.”

  Shana gasped. Maybe her son was a doctor, every Jewish mother’s dream. Then again, maybe he was selling opiate drugs.

  Immediately, Daniel was by her side. “Feeling sick again?”

  “Are you a drug pusher?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  Her captor guffawed. “I told you, I work for DCFS.”

  “But it’s against the law to…”

  “…carry narcotics. I get a panic attack every three to four months, and deep breathing exercises and yoga only take me so far.”

  “You actually did inherit my panic attacks from my DNA,” Shana admitted. Her first attack had occurred decades ago; the first time she’d been taken hostage. She pushed that image from her mind.

  Daniel closed the front passenger door. “Now, that wasn’t so hard to admit, was it?”

  “Do you see a therapist?”

  “I’ve done DBT therapy, which deals with post-traumatic stress, but it didn’t work for me.”

  Shana’s heartbeat dropped an octave at the dual revelations: Not only had her son experienced PTSD, he’d undergone a specific therapy most often used with those in the penal system. “You’ve been in prison?”

  “What do you think?”

  Not trusting Daniel’s positive mood change, Shana replied with caution. “I’d say yes,” Several years ago, she’d written a story on six incarcerated male adolescents who’d been arrested for violent crimes. After undergoing dialectical behavior therapy, they’d been better able to reflect on their actions, advocate for themselves, control their emotional outbursts, and tolerate stress without going off the deep end.

  “Doesn’t matter. There’s no hope for me, either way, which is why I don’t care if I get convicted for kidnapping you or for copping anti-anxiety drugs on the black market—or for any other nefarious act I perform in the future.”

  Once a reporter, always a reporter; wasn’t that what her daughters complained about? Although her current dilemma was personal, Shana knew they’d agree her questions were necessary. “How did you get hold of an SSRI drug? Did you attempt to get a doctor’s prescription for the SSRI vaccine?”

  Daniel’s face reddened. He clenched his fists. “I offer you closure on the man who raped you, and all you’ve got is more questions?”

  “I didn’t ask for clo….”

  “Enough.” He grabbed her body from the floor of the Audi’s black interior. Then he tossed her over his shoulder like a tapestry carpet and began hiking down a gravel road.

  “Where are you taking me?” Shana asked fearfully.

  “My most recent adoptive mother was high maintenance. I don’t need another one.”

  The wooded path did not look promising. “Wait! No more questions. Just bring me back to the car.”

  Now he was jogging, her chin bopping against his shoulders. “You said you don’t need closure. That’s fine by me. I already have birth daddy’s address and zip code.”

  “Untie me!”

  They came to a secluded area by a lake. “You need to be taught a lesson.”

  He carefully laid her body on the shore flanking the water. “Just a heads up, Google says these woods are home to foxes and bears.”

  “There’s no wild animals an hour out of Manhattan,” she retorted.

  “Of course, you know it all. I’ll be back for you tonight, if a two-legged or four-legged animal doesn’t get you first.” He turned and started to trek back in the direction they’d come.

  “Daniel!” Shana shrieked after him. “Don’t leave me here like this, without water, food or a way to defend myself!”

  “Why did you save me from dying, then?”

  “Nobody dies from a panic attack.”

  “And my bladder infection?”

  Throwing his arms in the air, her son disappeared from sight.

  Facts tumbling through her mind, like clothes in the dryer, Shana attempted to put the pieces together. If Daniel was telling the truth about purchasing narcotics solely for himself on the black market, and if, as she guessed, Daniel had committed an assortment of misdemeanors before age eighteen, resulting in DBT therapy, and if, as she also suspected, he was bi-polar, her son was on a one-way ticket to—she remembered the television documentary—Riker’s Island. Add kidnapping and murder to the mix, and there would be no return.

  Her son’s fate, and possibly her own, were sealed, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Chapter 40

  Rachel

  Rachel gazed warily at the family members gathered at the foot of her bed. “You guys already visited today. Is everything okay?”

  “We were in the neighborhood and thought we’d drop by,” said Dad.

  “You are such a bad liar!”

  Her dad looked chastened.

  “Seriously, what’s going on?”

  “You were getting contractions and Pa and Bec were worried about you,” said Zander.

  Rachel let out a relieved breath. “Aw. I am so lucky to have such a caring family. Did you guys eat dinner yet?”

  “Meantime, you can look at the pictures your sister brought.”

  “Cafeteria closes in fifteen minutes,” said Zan.”

  Rachel glanced at the wall clock above the mounted T.V. “Better hurry.”

  “OMG. You found more pics of grandpa and grandma?”

  “The detective gave Bec and your dad a couple of pics of a guy she thinks we might recognize.”

  Rachel extended her hand. “Let’s see! Maybe he’s a link to finding Mom.”

  Her sister hesitated, then handed her the smeared pics. Rachel squinted at the poor-quality copies. “Hmm. All I see is a chubby guy in a black jacket and hat. It’s really hard to make out his facial features.”

  Zan took the pages from her hands. “That’s what I said. But Bec says the detective texted her copies of the original photos.”

  She frowned at her sister. “So why are we looking at poor facsimiles when you’ve got the real thing?”

  “I couldn’t find the originals at first,” Becca hedged.

  “You got them now?”

  “We probably should get our food first, then look at the pics later,” said Dad.

  “What’s the big deal?”

  Becca was quiet.

  “Let’s see the pictures!” Rachel demanded.

  Her sister sighed as she handed her a sealed white business envelope. “Here you go.”

  Then she hurried from the hospital room.

  Rachel handed the two pictures to her husband. “I’ve only met your step-dad once, but this kind of looks like him. Wasn’t he wearing those clothes and hat at brunch on Sunday?”

  Zan gazed at the pictures, his eyebrows furrowed. “I agree with all of you. This is definitely Aamer. The detective gave Becca these pictures to show us because…”

  “…she thinks he’s a possible suspect in my mom’s disappearance,” interrupted Rachel.

  “Or a witness,” Zan added.

  Dad cleared his throat. “Park surveillance cameras showed your step-dad in close proximity to Shana after she left the restaurant.”

  Rachel stared at her husband. “That’s impossible. Your mom told us Aamer left the restaurant early because he had a flower delivery.”

  “Surveillance videos look convincing, even to an uneducated observer like me,” said Dad.

  Zan paced the hospital room. “What else did the cameras show?”

  “The first video showed your step-dad stopping at a frozen ice vendor my wife had just passed. In another video he was couple hundred feet behind when she made it to Belvidere Castle. The last video caught him watching from the distance as Shana conversed w
ith a horse & carriage driver.”

  Zan stopped pacing. “Does my mom know about these videos?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Dad said.

  “Let’s keep it that way until we know for sure,” said Zan.

  “We’re going to know very soon, in fact,” said Dad.

  “How?” asked Rachel.

  Her sister breezed through the door, pocketing her cell phone. “Because Detective Hernandez is bringing Aamer down to the police station for questioning, as we speak.”

  Chapter 41

  Alan

  April 1984

  His fists clenched beneath the dining room table, Alan restrained himself from bolting from the seder table as his niece and nephew sang the Four Questions from the Passover Haggadah. His babies would never lift their tiny voices to ask those questions, nor hear the story of their ancestors’ exodus from Egypt. His babies were in the grave. His babies would never lift their tiny voices to ask those questions. His babies were in the grave.

  Deborah’s mother and sister were kvelling, their smiles reaching the tips of their foreheads. Alan looked across the table at his wife. She solemnly returned his gaze, reflecting their mutual pain. Her face was pale, her eyes dull blue, like she’d just recovered from a fatal illness, which, in a manner of speaking, she had.

  A certain irony connected fatal illness with dead babies: upon initially receiving the sorrowful news, well-wishers were plentiful. They brought enough dinners to fill a utility freezer. They showered the family with offers to run errands. They visited so often that privacy seemed a distant dream.

  Soon the grieving family began to take this attention for granted. We’re fine, really! We’ll give you a call, get together when things settle down. Except there was no settling down. There never would be settling down.

  Their blithe words didn’t fool anybody; not friends, not family, not work colleagues. They got the message.

  They were not wanted. Their calls and visits tapered, until the grievers were left to face each other, day after day, night after night. A living hell.

  Want to split? Alan mouthed.

  The shake of Deb’s head was almost imperceptible.

  You sure? He asked with his eyes.

  She gave him the tiniest of smiles.

  In the Passover Haggadah, they’d come to the section: The Four Children. Four participants at the table respectively asked one question from the perspective of a wise child, a wicked child, a simple child, or the child who doesn’t know enough to ask a question. Alan noticed that unlike in past years, Deborah’s mother Libby was picking people at random to read. Please, God, I promise to go to minion every morning if her mom passes over my name.

  God must have been attending another seder, because, his mother-in-law’s tinny voice rose from the opposite end of the twelve-foot table. “Alan, can you please read the next child?”

  Flustered, he said, “I lost my place. Which son is it?”

  “The child who doesn’t know enough to ask a question,” Leah, Deb’s sister, said, her voice artificially bright.

  Alan looked at Deb. This last question was his least favorite. He cleared his throat. “Could you possibly choose someone else to read this one, and I can read another?”

  Leah shot daggers with her eyes. “That’s the only question left. It would be great to get through this seder soon so the kids can eat.”

  Her mother turned to Leah. “Why don’t you read this question yourself, darling?”

  Alan could hear the impatience in his sister-in-law’s voice as she complied. He joined with the others in response.

  “So, Alan, you have a favorite question you want to ask?” asked Libby.

  This was a loaded question. He wanted to ask each person at the table why they’d abandoned Deb and him for a whole year following their babies’ deaths. He wanted to ask how they could have been so heartless and still say they believe in God.

  Instead, he said. “I’ve always preferred the wicked child.”

  Leah rolled her eyes. “We already read that one.”

  “Let him read, dammit!” said Deb. Then she flushed and covered her mouth.

  “It’s all right. Go ahead and read, Alan.”

  Alan cleared his throat. “’The wicked child asks: What does this service mean to you?’”

  Before the rest of the participants could give the answer, Jacob raised his hand. “Grandma, I want to read!”

  Libby gave him a beatific smile. “Go ahead, sweetheart.”

  “’Since this child does not want to be included in the celebration, we must answer harshly: ‘We celebrate Passover because of what God did for us. If you had been in Egypt, you would not have been included when Adonai freed us from slavery.’”

  “Good job, Jacob,” said his mom.

  “How come you like the wicked child best, Uncle Alan?” asked the boy.

  Alan looked at Deb and said, “Nobody should be punished for asking a question.”

  Amy, Alan’s niece, spoke up. “But the wicked child acts like he doesn’t care about the answer. He separates himself from his parents.”

  Deb spoke up. “Great point! When a child acts out, it’s a teaching moment, not a moment to be harsh. Underneath his tough exterior, this child does seek an answer. He yearns to be accepted for who he is, not treated like the black sheep of his family.”

  Leah glanced at her watch. “We’ve already wasted fifteen minutes and we haven’t even gotten to the plagues yet.”

  “Sometimes, plagues can wait,” Deb shot back.

  “Parents need to hear their children, no matter how young or old they are; to look for the underlying meaning in their opinions and decisions,” said their mother.

  Deb gave her a warm smile.

  “That reading passage said nothing about opinions and decisions,” complained Leah.

  “I did, so there!” said Libby.

  Maybe his mother-in-law had changed, after all, thought Alan.

  Alan’s wife grinned at him from across the table.

  He lived for those smiles. The irony was, he had the key to unlock those walloping smiles but guilt over removing Justin’s breathing tube continued to plague him. Unfortunately, Judaism didn’t allow him to blame his sins on the devil, nor rely on another to wash away his sins. He had to take responsibility for his actions, pray for God’s forgiveness, and make peace with those he wronged.

  Alan smiled back at his wife. If his mother-in-law could admit her mistakes, he could certainly try to unlock the door to Deb’s happiness.

  Chapter 42

  Shana

  Shana blinked drops of sweat that hung from her eyelashes like Lite Brite bulbs.

  Wrists and ankles roped and tied, she’d been helpless to do anything but bake beneath the sun’s increased intensity; a preferable fate to poison ivy.

  Judging by the position of the sun, it had to be at least four hours since Daniel had dropped her body at the edge of the woods. All that time, she’d lain there, screaming help, help; hoping an early morning jogger or walker would come upon her. Or perhaps a bird watcher who took delight in listening to the woods awaken from its slumber. Evidently, early morning joggers and bird watchers traverse safer wooded sites than those adjacent to a highway.

  The sound of police sirens and fire trucks exploded in the distance. No doubt a vehicular accident involving a shitload of cars. When Shana had first started at the newspaper, she’d covered similar accidents. She’d been pregnant with Daniel at that time. All that exposure to chaos made him emotionally disturbed. No one to blame but herself.

  Shana’s voice had gone hoarse. Her throat felt like sandpaper. No food or drink since yesterday. She used her roped hands to massage her cramping stomach. How could she have been so arrogant to assume Daniel would accept her belligerent attitude? He’d warned her to stop asking asin
ine questions, but she’d kept egging him on. Did she have a death wish? If so, it was Rachel, Becca, David, and her future grandchild who would suffer the consequences.

  Then again, perhaps her disappearance from their lives would be no big deal. The girls had their own lives; they no longer needed her telling them what to do. Her husband had his photography; he didn’t need her to oversee him develop pictures in his dark room for eight hours at a time.

  David’s words floated through her brain: Stop feeling sorry for yourself!

  He’d voiced those sentiments more than once since her retirement. This time he’d been right. Shana had been aching for an adventure, something to give her life new meaning—at least until her first grandchild’s birth. However, getting kidnapped by her son had not been on her bucket list.

  Shana twisted her head back and forth, attempting to slam the mosquitoes that were dancing across her sweat soaked face. She wondered if she’d still be alive when Daniel returned—unless he had no intention of gathering her up. She didn’t know what to make of him. He’d forced her to confess she was his birth mother; he’d tortured her, both physically and mentally. He’d also saved her life when she suffered a full-blown panic attack—it definitely had felt life-threatening at the time.

  Just when Shana was beginning to think her son did care, he dumped her here in the woods to die under the scorching sun, with only a sliver of shade the trees provided. He’d positioned her body where she’d be easily found, dead from heatstroke.

  Truth whispered in Shana’s ear: she was disposable. Her son didn’t need her to ID her rapist; he’d researched his birth father’s identity before even kidnapping her. Her heart quickened. What if he’d already murdered him? Surely, he’d want to boast of the news.

  Shana began to fantasize: What if her son did come back for her, and she was alive to see him again? She’d hold him close, tell him she loved him unconditionally. He’d promise to never again commit a violent act. She’d promise to not report him to the police. She’d bring him home to meet the family. They’d accept his redemption.