Finding Jake

by Bryan Reardon

  I slam to a stop behind a white Ford Explorer, same year as my truck. The line of vehicles stretches for at least half a mile. Cars pile in behind mine as I jump out and race toward the school. Police have cordoned off the drive that runs up a steep hill to the entrance. A mob of parents, a vast majority being mothers, pack in, pressing against the yellow hazard tape. High-pitched questions merge, forming a shrill and frightening white noise that fills the air long before I arrive.

  Without thinking, I run off the road and cut through the field that spreads toward the side of the school. Breaking into a sprint, I ignore the heated shouts telling me to stop. I have to get up there, to stop this madness. A drainage trench that leads to a storm-water retention basin runs parallel to the street. I leap over it. Before I take two more steps, a strong grip locks onto my bicep. Momentum swings me around and I face a large man in full body armor, SWAT emblazoned across his chest. He holds what looks like an automatic rifle in his other hand. I cannot see his face through the tinted visor attached to a black helmet.

  “Down,” he orders.

  His voice is neither angry nor soft. I drop to the ground. An instant later, another officer, this one in a Delaware State Police uniform, appears. He lifts me off the ground and ushers me back across the gully.

  “Sir, I understand you are worried about your child, but you have to be calm. We are asking all the parents to congregate inside St. Michael’s, across the street. We will brief everyone once we have news.”

  A loud pop echoes down from above. The officer thrusts himself between me and the school, thinking it gunfire. I freeze, staring over his shoulder, my heart flailing against my chest. He must decide it is not, because his stance eases. From over his shoulder, I can see up to the school. A police officer comes out of the gym exit. Even from that distance I can see he is wearing surgical gloves. They are stained red with blood.

  The officer pushes me and I move. A hook and ladder rolls up on the grassy shoulder and turns onto the drive. As it passes, I see the firefighters are wearing body armor over deep blue uniforms.

  The noise becomes overwhelming. Hundreds of people shouting, talking, crying, and screaming. I cover one ear with a hand and stagger along beside the officer. The scene appears jagged and torn. Cruisers are parked at haphazard angles. People sway and move in jerky fits, and it’s as if I can see some awful disease spreading through the mob. I am led through a throng of mothers; one reaches out for the officer’s arm. He brushes her off, briskly, and takes me to the entrance of the church.

  “Go inside. Sit down. Understand?”

  I nod, but my attention focuses on a woman standing next to me. She leans against the sign for the church. Her body language telegraphs an inappropriate calm. I feel physically uncomfortable looking at the slope of her back and the way her feet are crossed. Then I see her eyes. They are the eyes of a ghost, a shell of a human. Damp tracks run down both of her cheeks and I am left wondering, What is she seeing that I am not?

  The church is now full. Minutes pass like hours. At first, no one speaks. We sit in the pews, shock spreading like a yawn. The woman next to me glances up at one point and quickly looks away. I do not know her. I watch as she scans the congregation (as it is). With a brisk wave, she moves, scurrying like someone bent at the waist to avoid the blades of a helicopter. She settles in beside another woman. They hug.

  One other man waits. He stands in the corner by the door. I nod to him and he nods back. Minutes pass again.

  After a while, the gossip starts. It is not everyone, only a few. I hear snippets of news, although I cannot fathom how any of them have heard anything.

  “The science labs,” I hear.

  My mind races. Jake is in AP chemistry. He has lab almost every day. My stomach rolls when I realize it is about this time. I have to remind myself that these mothers cannot know anything yet. No officer has entered the church since I arrived.

  I can take it no longer. I stand, stretching my legs as a pretense, but approach the other man. His name is Steve Yants. His son played Little League with Jake. I lean against the wall beside him. Neither of us speaks. What is there to say?

  “Have you heard anything?” I finally ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “They said something about the science labs,” I add.

  He shrugs. “You know how they are.”

  I understand what he is saying. He’s not talking about moms. He’s talking about those parents who tend toward being know-it-alls, the ones who speak first (and most often). I chose not to mention that those same parents did tend to know things long before I did.

  This makes me think of Karen. She had peeled out of her driveway before I received the text. I assumed the system had to progress through the distribution list, so some would hear before others. When I looked around the church, though, I couldn’t find her anywhere.

  I decide to go back to the pews. I try to find the words to use in exiting, but there is nothing. If I let myself speak, something totally inappropriate would come out, something like: Good luck. So I just walk away.

  Once I sit, the door opens behind me. I turn to see Karen and three other women from my neighborhood walk into the church. Their heads are huddled together. Others notice their arrival. I debate getting up, going to them, and asking what they know. I don’t. I want to, but my body feels so heavy. My surge of adrenaline is gone. I was unable to protect and I find myself ill-equipped for whatever it is we are now doing.

  They proceed to the front of the church and merge with a larger pod of moms. Karen scans the rows of seats. She is looking for something. Her attention pauses on me. I am about to wave, but her expression is strange. She recoils maybe. Or is it all in my head? Whatever it might be, the moment passes. Her eyes continue to scan and I continue to feel permanently attached to the wooden bench.

  “Are you okay?” the woman to my left asks. I think she might be the mom of a girl my daughter Laney knows.

  “Yeah, sure,” I begin to say, but notice she is staring at my hand. It rests on the shining veneer of the pew, although “rests” is a poor description. My hand, in fact, is twitching. I realize my thigh is as well.

  The woman looks scared for me.

  “Well,” I stammer. “I mean, you know . . .”

  “There’s a paramedic by the door. Do you want me to call him over?”

  “No, why?” I ask.

  “You don’t look—”

  “I’m fine, really. Thanks.”

  I turn away from her, confused.

  I realize I have not contacted Rachel. I struggle to remove the phone from the front pocket of my jeans. My fingers feel swollen as I dial, although they appear normal. By rote, I call her office. No one answers.

  When I disconnect the call, the ringer sounds. Rachel’s cell number shows up on the screen.

  “Where are you!” she blurts out when I answer.

  “Something awful has happened,” I mutter.

  “I know. The radio. Why didn’t the school call me? When did you . . . Where are you? Where are the kids?”

  “I’m waiting for them. I tried to get up to the school but they stopped me.”

  The line crackles. “Are they okay?”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “Simon, the radio is saying that at least thirteen kids have been shot.”

  My mind tricked me. I had blocked out the scene earlier, the police officer with the blood-stained hands. Swallowing hard, I close my eyes and lower my head. The sensation intensifies. At the same time, my pragmatic mind figures the odds. Thirteen out of two hundred or so kids. Less than one in ten.

  “Simon? Are you there?”

  “Yeah. I’m waiting for them.”

  “At St. Michael’s?”

  I nod, not considering the fact that she can’t see me.

  “I’m on my way,” she says. The line goes dead.

  I need to move. They expect me to sit in a pew and wait. Although the other parents, the moms, seem able to follow t
his direction, I cannot. I slide out of the church pew and pace. I walk from one end of the church to the other, following the outer walls of the building. By the time I reach the exit for a second time, pacing is no longer enough. I push the door open.

  The sounds outside assault us all. Sirens scream and male voices bark out orders. I hear the idling engine of a hook and ladder and see it coming back down the school drive, leaving. I scan the police, looking for answers, but find nothing but chaos.

  “Sir,” someone says to my right. I turn to see a uniformed officer stepping up to me. He looks stern, unforgiving.

  “What’s happening? When—”

  “Back inside, now,” he orders.

  I do not move. He grabs my arm. I turn to face him. As I do, I catch a glimpse of one of the moms in the back row of the church. She stares out at me with a face pale from fear and disbelief. I lock eyes with her, and the drive that fueled my action vanishes. I let the officer guide me back inside. He gives me a stern yet quiet talking-to, the words lost to my spinning consciousness. Instead, the looks of the other parents chide me and I realize that the sudden shock of the outside world, that demon I let inside by opening the door, caused them pain. I walk away from the officer and sit down. He shakes his head and returns to his post outside.

  The first child arrives less than half an hour later and everything changes. Hope and prayer had buoyed the church up until the door opens and Scotty Truphant (he probably goes by Scott now, but I coached him in basketball when he was seven; he was Scotty then) walks in. A half dozen other kids enter, flanked by SWAT officers. They point their assault rifles at the ground. I notice this because I’ve already realized none of the kids are mine, so I have to look at something or I’ll be up again, pacing.

  By that time, the crowd in the church had swelled past capacity. Dads, mostly in business suits, stand with their wives. The parents of the kids, including Scotty’s mom and dad, race up the aisle, engulfing their kids with abandon. Tears flow. Their sobbing hangs over the rest of us like ugly green jealousy. No one admits it. We all stare at the floor, waiting for the doors to open up again.

  The officers usher the reunited loved ones out the back through the vestry. Soon, the front doors open again and more children are ushered in. I act happy for the parents in front of me when their daughter enters. But all I can think about is Laney and Jake.

  I agonize as the crowd in the church thins. I should not feel jealous or bitter. In reality such emotions, those words, mean nothing in that moment. The storm of dread, the torture of time passing, it permeates my cells, turning me inside out molecule by molecule. I can act happy for those parents but that’s just not real.

  More reunions spring to life before my eyes and the pews empty. Hundreds diminish to tens. None of us, the remaining, makes eye contact. When the next child arrives, I stop watching the door. At this instant my parental intuition fires. I know something awful has happened.

  Rachel bursts into the church. I blink, because Laney appears with her, attached to her side. I stand and race to my daughter . . . and to my wife. I embrace them both, engulfing Laney, finally able to protect. From what, I am still unsure.

  I stare into my daughter’s eyes, so thankful that she is okay, trying to convince myself that she is standing right before me, that this is not some kind of illusion. My heart races and I feel the blood throbbing through my body. Half of my nightmare dissipates. Laney is okay.

  I look to Rachel. In her crisp lawyer’s suit, she is a beacon of confidence. I am now in awe of her ability to find Laney. Then I look in her eyes and I see the truth of it.

  “Where’s Jake?” I ask.

  Laney looks up at me with an expression I have seen before but never understood. Rachel pulls my daughter closer. She whispers something to her that I do not hear.

  “I don’t know,” Laney says.

  Rachel pulls back, looks at Laney. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  That is when I notice Laney is pale. I touch her forehead; her skin is clammy.

  “She’s in shock,” I tell Rachel, who nods.

  A paramedic approaches us. He reaches out, gently, moving as I imagine an angel might. His eyes meet mine. They are soft and understanding. Rachel moves a little, making space for this man who is a stranger, who now parts my family, and we are thankful for it. He places a blanket on Laney’s shoulders.

  “I’m just going to take you out back. Have you sit down for a little while before you leave.”

  “My mom,” Laney sobs.

  My throat tightens at the sound. My girl needs protection. I can hear it.

  “Wait here,” Rachel tells me. “Jake . . .”

  They are gone and I am alone again. I shouldn’t, but I count the families waiting. Fourteen.

  A man in pleated polyester pants and an outdated tie walks through the door next. He looks vaguely familiar with his tinted glasses and thinning hair. I watch as the man walks up and sits down beside me.

  “You’re Simon Connolly?” The man extends a hand. “I’m Phil Hartman, the school guidance counselor.”

  I had talked to Phil before but never in person. I remember the first time his name came up, after Jake had been called to the office for something. I had laughed, telling Jake why the name was funny. I showed him an old Saturday Night Live best-of disc, the one with Phil Hartman playing Frankenstein. I learned later that Jake went to school the next day with the disc. He showed the entire class. He and Phil had not seen eye to eye since.

  “Where’s Jake?”

  It comes out as a demand. I find myself pushing closer to Phil, my chest out. I almost step on his foot.

  “It’s okay,” Phil assures, looking up at me, taking a step back. I know it isn’t, though. “I just needed to speak with you. As a precaution, I’ve reached out to the elementary school. You might remember that all of the children were fingerprinted back then, in case of abduction.”

  My head spins. “Abduction?”

  “I know. It was a long time ago,” he says.

  “What are you talking about?” I snap.

  “Just a precaution. Anyway, I wondered if you would be willing to sign a release. Seems the local authorities never received Jake’s card from the school. This will allow us to send it to them. Is that something you will do?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  The release dangles from a clipboard. Phil holds it on his lap as I sign. When I look up, he is staring at me in an odd way. My eyes narrow and he looks away. I notice his hand trembling.

  “Thanks,” he mutters, getting up to leave.

  “Is there any word on Jake? Do you know anything?”

  He does not turn. “Not yet.”

  Phil walks out the front door, the first person to do that since I arrived. It seems too familiar to me, and the first suspicion creeps into my mind. Prints are used to identify bodies. Or to investigate crimes.

  “No,” I whisper.

  One of the parents, a mom I do not know, cringes and moves farther down the pew, away from me. It seems I am a disease, and I am spreading.

  CHAPTER 5

  JAKE: AGE THREE YEARS, FIVE MONTHS

  We were forty-five minutes north of Rachel’s parents’ beach house when Laney began to scream. Born with an ear-shattering, James Brown–like wail, no one could ignore our daughter when she let loose.

  “What could it be?” I asked.

  Rachel sounded exhausted. “Don’t know. Maybe her diaper.”

  Before deciding to make the two-hour trip to the shore, we debated whether a four-month-old and a long drive mixed. At that moment, my ears believed not so much.

  I pulled the car into a church parking lot directly off the highway. Rachel jumped out and checked Laney, but her diaper was fine. Once out of her car seat, our daughter quieted down. When we decided to start back up, everything seemed okay. Not one hundred yards down the highway, however, Laney began to scream again.

  After ten minutes, Jake, his hands over his ears, had had enough.


  “Maybe she hates the beach?”

  A three-year-old’s innocuous question rocked my world. Not born a beach person? Something about the ocean, the salty air, or maybe the calming sound of the surf bored deeply into my soul the first time Rachel took me to her parents’ place. I felt more myself there than anywhere else. I think my reaction was one of the reasons she ended up marrying me.

  In fact, I asked Rachel to marry me one night as we walked along the beach. Having dated for only ten months, the question popped out spontaneously (meaning no ring). As she looked out at the ocean and pointed out sparkling mermaids capping the distant waves, I dropped to a knee.

  “Will you marry me?”

  Rachel looked down, her eyes at once surprised and expectant. She took mere seconds to decide.

  “Yes.”

  I think my head bobbed back. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  “I mean, I don’t want to pressure you.”

  She laughed. Somehow, she, too, read my thoughts. This was no second-guessing, it was simply my nature. At the time, Rachel had just celebrated her twenty-fourth birthday.

  We laughed and held hands, walking the beach for another hour. We spoke, but our words held little importance. Instead, we settled into the new reality of being engaged.

  Back at the house, we slipped into the bedroom Rachel shared with her sister-in-law who was drinking wine with the rest of the crew on the back porch. Rachel climbed into bed and I leaned in close. My stomach tied in knots.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” she answered, her eyes as bright as the full moon outside the bedroom window.

  “Should we tell everyone?” I whispered.

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  “If you wake up and think this is crazy, I’ll understand. Okay?”

  She kissed me. “Good night Simon.”

  I smiled. “Good night, fiancée.”

  The next morning, we huddled. Rachel spoke first.