THE EMPTY PLACE AT THE TABLE
JOHN ELLSWORTH
JODE JURGENSEN
SUBJUDICA HOUSE PRESS
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
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About John Ellsworth
About Jode Jurgensen
Afterword
1
It was just a sandwich I wanted, preferably egg salad but tuna salad would do as well. It was late at Belmont Hospital, and the cafeteria would close in ten minutes. I hadn't eaten since the night before and felt drained of all energy. Sweeping aside a lock of hair from Lisa's face and kissing her forehead, I left in search of a sandwich. As I came around the corner to the elevators, I could look straight ahead out the tall windows and see the lights of Chicago laced with drifting snowflakes. It was beautiful, but it didn't register, worried as I was for my daughter.
The cafeteria was on the first floor of the hospital. The elevator arrived, opening to discharge a man wearing scrubs. I remember thinking he looked nervous. I punched LOBBY on the bank of elevator buttons and leaned back against the wall as the doors closed. If only...I thought if only Lisa's fever would break and the sickness that had landed her in the hospital was brought under control. The doctors weren't sure what it was that was causing the frightening temperature spikes. Some thought it was an infection, the body's way of fighting a disease. Her general malaise over the last month, plus the temperature, led others to speculate it was possibly the onset of leukemia. Lisa was my first and only child; I alternated between praying for the best and expecting the worst. It's just how I react under stress.
The elevator stopped on 2, and a nurse entered. She lifted a travel cup and began taking long gulps, oblivious to the fact I was watching her.
I turned away. My eyes filled with tears. I loved that four-year-old of mine more than life itself. If it were possible, I would gladly trade places with my baby and crawl into bed and happily die, knowing that she was going to be well and healthy. But that wasn't how hospitals--and life--ever worked. Plus, it wasn't me lying there in the hospital bed, bathed in sweat, coming in and out of consciousness. It wasn't me: it was my first and only child, my precious Lisa of the Frozen videos and Barbie dolls. Lisa, my love.
The elevator whooshed open, and the lobby appeared before me. I knew the way to the cafeteria as I had been living in the chair beside Lisa's hospital bed for seventy-two hours. I had been down here four times for coffee and sustenance. While I hadn't wandered far from my daughter's side, I had made quick trips for machine coffee, too, and once to valet parking to check on my car. But other than these sprints, I had held my baby's hand all the way so far.
Yellow footprints were stenciled on the floor as a guide to the cafeteria. I, without much realizing what I was doing, began placing my feet on the footprints, navigating the hospital without raising my eyes. My OCD always managed to surface when I was stressed. A little bit OCD, a little bit clingy mother. I also refused to step on cracks outside on the sidewalk. Step on a crack and break your mother's back. A little bit OCD, for sure. Which explained why I had doted on my daughter for her first four years. I knew every wrinkle, every freckle, ever wisp of downy baby hair on my daughter's body. My baby was a map that I knew by heart. Didn't all mothers memorize their kids? I couldn't imagine any mother not doing it.
At precisely 9:56 p.m. I entered the cafeteria and hurried to the serving line where sandwiches were nicely displayed beneath cabinet lights; it didn't fool me: they looked much better than they actually were when eaten. Still, it was something to ingest. Who could tell--the cafeteria food might satisfy the food cravings that overcame me every twelve hours, forcing me back downstairs to the food place.
"Just the sandwich," I told the cashier, a sleepy-eyed woman with a paperback beside the cash register. I checked the cover upside-down and realized it was the third time that week I'd seen that book. Everyone was reading it. I wondered if the gift shop might be open so I could grab a copy too. I decided to check.
"Nothing to drink?" the cashier asked.
"Nope, just the sandwich."
"Three-ninety-nine, please."
"Here you go."
"Out of five. And here's your change. Have a good night, ma'am."
"Thank you."
Ma'am? Did I really look that old? I was all of thirty-two, which really wasn't ma'am territory. Or was it?
I was tired, thinking like that, and I knew it. Maybe tonight I'd get an hour or two of sleep between nursing rattles and clatters when Lisa was checked. Maybe.
The gift shop was closed, so no novel.
I punched 8 and waited as the elevator caught its breath and began lifting me upstairs.
The nurses acknowledged me as I passed by their station on my way to Lisa's room. But no one called me ma'am, which was a good thing. I just wasn't ready to be a ma'am yet. And why was that word bothering me so much anyway?
Into Lisa's room I turned, only to find my daughter's bed empty. For just a moment I stood there at her bedside, bewildered and uncertain. I knew I was tired from lack of sleep; had I misunderstood one of Lisa's caregivers? Had someone told me she would be going for another scan?
I backed out of the room and checked the number beside the door. Sure enough, 811. I went back inside and, leaning across my daughter's bed, pressed the nurse call button. I counted slowly while waiting for a member of the nursing staff to materialize and tell me that Lisa had been taken to radiology for another CT scan. The scans were routine; once a day, at least, so I wasn't freaking out. But I also realized I was fighting against freaking out; no one had told me another scan was scheduled that night. Wouldn't they have mentioned it at the nurses' station when I passed by on my way to the cafeteria? Or coming back? They certainly should have.
A nurse appeared, a night-shift beauty queen whom I knew as Sensa. Sensa was tall, dark-skinned, flashed a quick smile at tense moments, and was all business. She hurried up to Lisa's bedside, across from me.
"Did you see the nurses or radiology take her?" Sensa asked before I could ask the same question myself.
"No, that' s why I buzzed you. I'm assuming that's who has her, right?"
"Let me check her chart."
Sensa proceeded to the keyboard at the head of the bed and began tapping keys. As she did, I realized the nurse was just as mystified as I was. My pulse rate suddenly doubled. I felt the fear down deep in my bowels and fought to control it. There had to be some explanation. Sensa would turn around at a
ny second and smile and report Lisa's whereabouts.
But she wasn't smiling when she finally turned.
"There's no CT order. Or any other order that would remove her from her room. I'm calling security."
Sensa pressed a large red button on the electronics panel and said into a mesh-covered microphone, "Security to eight-one-one stat. A patient is missing."
A patient is missing? It sunk into my brain like a roof caving in on me. First came the panic, then came the tears, then came a struggle to remain calm and collected so that I could help hospital security think through the predicament.
"Call down and tell them not to allow any cars to leave the parking lot, please!" I ordered Sensa. Sensa made the call and nodded.
"Smart. Thanks."
"Good. Oh, my sweet God, what do we do now?"
Without waiting for an answer, I trotted into the hallway and looked both directions. There wasn't a soul around except at the nurses' station. I ran in the opposite direction, down to the end of the hall where the family waiting room was usually occupied by one or two souls waiting for loved ones. In I ran, only to find the place deserted. The restroom door was closed. I knocked once and entered. It was a small room with just one toilet and one sink. Empty. I ran back into the hallway and began trotting toward Lisa's room.
Just as I arrived, I saw security coming my way. Two men and one woman. She was wearing a gun on her belt. Holding it against her side, she was the first to run up to me. The men followed close after.
"Shouldn't we be checking all the other rooms on the floor first?" I cried out.
"Let's go back inside the room, ma'am," said the burly security guard in the blue shirt and pants. He was oldish--maybe sixty--and wore his hair in a flat top and his glasses halfway down his nose. I followed his instructions and entered my daughter's room.
The bed was still empty. It hadn't been just a bad dream.
"Oh, oh, oh!" I cried, "For the love of God, somebody do something!" I was in full panic mode now, tears streaming down my face, with an urgency pressing down on my chest demanding I do something. However, for the first time in a long time, I had no idea what it was I should do to place angels around my baby. I closed my eyes, weeping, clenching and unclenching my fists. Quickly, however, I realized I was no help to anyone like that, so I forced the tears from my eyes and took several deep breaths. Do these people have any idea how I’m feeling? Do they have any idea where Lisa was taken?
"You okay?" Sensa asked.
"I'm trying!" I cried.
The second and third security officers were on their shoulder mics giving orders to other guards in the hospital and, I hoped, at all parking lot exits.
"All right," said flat top, "we have the exits blockaded. Nobody leaves here until we find your child. Now, give me a description."
"Please," I begged, "shouldn't you be searching every room so they can't hurt her?"
"That's underway, ma'am. Now please describe her for the bulletin I'm about to issue."
I didn't hesitate. "Age four, forty inches tall, medium-length blond hair, pale blue eyes, a small pout when she smiles. On her lower left back, almost closer to her hip, there's a small birthmark in the shape of a sailboat. My pet name for her is 'Sailor,' in fact. She also has something like cradle cap, although she's too old for that. Probably from being in bed so long."
"Answers to?"
"Lisa. Last name Sellars."
The security officer updated all hands with his shoulder mic, broadcasting the patient's physical description and name and room number.
"Everybody in the hospital is alerted, all floors, all parking lot exits, police were called and are arriving downstairs even as we speak. Now tell me, is there a relative--an ex-husband, maybe?--who might snatch your child?"
"No one like that. Her father was killed in Afghanistan, and my sisters don't live here. One's in Poughkeepsie, one's in Merced, California. My parents are in London with the State Department. I have no enemies, and I'm not wealthy. It wouldn't be anything like that. At least I don't think it could be.”
At just that moment, the officer's shoulder mic squawked. He repeated something back and then turned to me.
"They think they've found her just down the hall. There's a family waiting area and a little girl answering Lisa's description has been found sleeping on a couch."
"Take me there, please!" I said as coolly as I could, though I was unable to totally fight down the apprehension and my words came out more like a command than a request for help.
"Follow me, ma'am."
Our entourage burst out of Lisa's room and hurried the other direction from the family room I had searched. We trotted past the nurses' station, down to the end of the hall, where we charged into a family waiting area. There we found two other security guards, talking gently to a child maybe twice Lisa's age.
"Not her!" I cried. "Now what?"
We headed back toward Lisa's room just as several police officers turned the corner at the far end down by the elevator bank. I began trotting toward them.
They went into Lisa's hospital room. We met them there. Then came the questions. Pretty much the same questions the security officers had asked. They seemed to focus a little more on potential enemies or family members with an agenda who might swoop in and grab my daughter. Again, however, I could offer nothing unusual to support that theory. A young police officer returned from the nurses' station with the news that two nurses had seen a patient wheeled by on the way to radiology. Mics were keyed, and staccato conversations batted back and forth: security reported no female child showing up in radiology since seven o'clock. Radiology's complete patient log was produced, and security reviewed it. Sure enough, no Lisa Sellars on the list.
Then a plainclothes officer arrived, a no-nonsense-looking woman wearing her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a large firearm riding high on her hip beside a gold detective's star. She stuck out her hand and introduced herself to me as Detective Kendra McMann. It was now her investigation, she said; she was from Chicago PD, and missing children was where she put in her eighty hours weekly.
She took over the search of the hospital and hospital grounds. Police opened every door in the entire complex, looked inside every restroom, supply closet and laundry room, and talked to all security staff. This process took an hour. While it progressed, I sat in my chair beside Lisa's bed and willed her return. It became apparent to me that I wasn't going to leave there without my daughter. They would have to drag me out.
I crossed my arms and sat back. Just then, Detective McMann caught my eye.
"What I would suggest right now," the detective said to me, "is that you let me take you home. I'll ask some questions along the way. Then let's set up a command center in your home. That way you'll know what's going on every minute. It will also give us a chance to view your daughter's room, collect DNA, and plan our investigation."
"Go home? I can't leave here, not without my daughter," I insisted. Do these people not understand you cannot leave your child?
"Ma'am," said Detective McMann, "I'm of the opinion your daughter is no longer in the hospital."
"What do you mean, no longer in the hospital?"
The detective reached to lay a hand on my forearm. She squeezed gently, and her calm brown eyes fixed my own with a caring stare.
"I mean your daughter has been kidnapped. That's where I come in."
"Kidnapped like--"
"Yes, ma'am. Your daughter has been stolen from the hospital. The next step is to sit down and teach me everything you can about your child, your family, your friends, and possible enemies."
"All--all right." I turned to Sensa, the nurse. "You'll call me if she shows up if she was taken for testing or something?"
"Of course. We have your cell number."
I felt the floor sliding out from under me. The reality was that my connection to my daughter was slipping away and there was nothing to grab or hold onto. At that moment, I slumped down in the visitor's chair and bro
ke down, sobbing and wiping at my eyes. Sensa passed me a tissue.
The others left the room to wait outside in the hallway.
It was always the same, I would learn. The parent needed several minutes to say farewell to their love, their cherished one, their dreams. But another part of me didn't believe any of this, not a damn bit. This other part of me knew without a doubt that my little girl would be located at any moment and that I needed to be here to see her.
"We should go now," McMann said. "The sooner we get a command center set up, the better our search will be. Organization is everything. Let's go set up in your kitchen right now, Mrs. Sellars. You'll be in touch with the entire effort every minute of the day and night."
Without fully trusting what she was saying—yet liking the command center idea—I did what she wanted and stood to leave.
When I finally emerged from Lisa's room, Detective McMann took my elbow and guided me to the elevators. It was time to face whatever reality I was facing; her touch told me that she would be there for me regardless. My mind raced over the TV shows I'd seen about child abductions. I remembered that the first twenty-four hours were critical because if Lisa wasn't located during that window of time, the chances slipped to less than ten percent of her ever being found. It was a statistic I knew the detective would never share with me. At least not yet.
From Detective McMann's point of view, I guessed such statistics would just have to wait while the twenty-four-hour race against the clock began.
At 10:42 p.m. in 2004 that clock started ticking at Belmont Hospital in Chicago.
2
Lisa was born to a woman I knew all too well. Lisa was then adopted by me shortly after her birth. The birth mother and I were not friends. But we both knew I should have the child. At one time I hated her, but, with time, that had given way to a righteous disgust. She wasn’t a terrible person, but she was a cheat. The baby’s father was my fiancé. He made sure we named the baby Lisa, a nod to my name of Melissa, which I likened to a small honorarium for not leaving him.
The birth mother had been out dancing at Cicero's All Saints Club on New Year's Eve--if you can call elephantine lumbering a style of dance—when ordinary abdominal pangs morphed into labor pains. Someone took her to the hospital where she was prepaid by Mark, my fiancé. Everything was arranged ahead of time.
The Empty Place at the Table Page 1
