Lost You

by Haylen Beck

“With…with the baby? The baby? How…?”

  “It came early. She gave birth in the emergency room of a little community hospital. Then she ran. She’s gone.”

  “She took my baby?”

  “It wasn’t our—”

  “She fucking stole my baby?”

  Her voice boomed between the walls, and Mason flinched as if she’d struck him with her palm.

  He buried his face in his hands and said, “That’s all I know.”

  Libby stared at the ceiling, the suspended tiles, the support struts, the fluorescent light panels. Still falling, falling, falling.

  “Was it a boy or a girl?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Tell me,” she said, her voice steely.

  “Dr. Sherman said it was a boy.”

  She closed her eyes. Imagined the perfect little baby boy.

  “Listen,” Mason said, “maybe it’s for the best. Maybe we should—”

  “Get out,” she said.

  “Libby, just think about—”

  “Get out!”

  Her shout tore at her throat. She heard Mason stand and shuffle toward the door.

  “Try to rest,” he said. “We’ll talk more later.”

  She said nothing as he left the room, kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling as hellish rage burned within her. Then she screamed and cursed until a nurse came running in asking what was wrong and Libby could not answer because the anger blotted out everything and became the only thing in the whole wide world.

  40

  MR. KOVAK STARED AT HIMSELF in the mirror as he changed the dressing on his head. He had used butterfly strips to seal the wound above his left eye, but it still seeped red, soaking the gauze pads so they had needed to be changed several times a day. The spasms in his neck had eased in severity and frequency, but he still had to be careful in his movements. He’d had such an injury before, a strain on the tendon that joins the neck muscle to the clavicle bone. Not a serious injury, but painful nonetheless. Then there was the bruising to his shoulder and thigh, as well as the aching in his hip.

  All in all, however, he knew he’d been lucky. A few inches to his right and he’d have been caught by the front of the car instead of the wing, and his head would likely have connected with the windshield. And the raised hood of the top he was wearing had saved him from a more serious cut to the head. So, his wounds weren’t as bad as they could have been, but everything else? Everything else was shit.

  He had regained consciousness lying on his back on the asphalt. The sky had been inky black and the stars faint, he remembered that. He didn’t know how long he’d lain there, but he believed he’d only lost consciousness for a matter of seconds, otherwise someone would surely have found him there. It was the sound of sirens approaching that convinced him to finally move. The simple motion of rolling over onto his side had triggered a blinding cluster of spasms in his neck. He placed a hand there and it came away wet; then he remembered the nurse and the scissors.

  The sirens became louder, closer. Couldn’t be far away now. He had to get out of here. To hell with the pain. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, groaned as every part of his body protested, then hauled himself onto his feet. The world tilted, and he staggered side to side, almost fell. He turned in a circle, trying to find his bearings, picturing the streets in his mind, making a map of them. West. He needed to go west. Still fighting nausea, he set off, heading for an alley on the other side of the street. As he slipped into its blackness, he looked back and saw blue and red reflected on the buildings all around.

  It had been a fifteen-minute walk here but it took thirty to get back to the alley where he’d left the car. He didn’t know how many wrong turns he took, but he was relieved to have finally found his way. As he stumbled into the side of the car, he felt his stomach lurch, and he vomited into the grime and litter that covered the ground. The retching caused his neck to spasm once more and he emitted a high whine.

  For an alarming few seconds, he couldn’t find the rental’s key in his pants pocket where he was certain it had been. Had it been thrown from him when he collided with the car? Then he remembered he had hidden it behind a dumpster. Regret came with the pain when he had to bend down to retrieve it. He hit the button and heard the click and clunk of the car unlocking. Fresh pain flared all over as he lowered himself into the driver’s seat, the spasms of his neck almost unbearable as he reached for the door and pulled it closed. He started the engine, put the car into drive, and accelerated out onto the street.

  Mr. Kovak pushed the car as hard as he dared, ignored the traffic signals and road signs, just kept going until the town of Superior was left behind. Then he drove aimlessly, mindlessly, for perhaps an hour until he saw the sign for a cheap motel in the distance.

  He slipped the young man at reception a hundred-dollar bill and asked if the motel had a first-aid kit. The young man produced one from behind the desk. Mr. Kovak showed him another fifty and asked how his memory was.

  “Kinda shitty,” the young man said.

  Mr. Kovak took the first-aid kit and the key and went to find his room. It smelled of damp and excrement, but it would suffice. He did the best he could with the wound on his head, cleaned and dressed it, and the cut on his neck, then tried to get some sleep.

  Late the following afternoon, while in a fitful doze, he heard a knock on the door. It couldn’t be housekeeping; he’d told the maid to skip his room earlier in the morning. Still wearing the hoodie and sweatpants, he dragged himself out of bed, ignoring the clamoring pain, went to the door, and peered through the peephole. It was the young man from reception, standing with his hands in his jacket pockets.

  “Yes?” Mr. Kovak called.

  “Uh, mister? I need to talk with you.”

  “Go on.”

  “Inside, maybe?”

  Mr. Kovak bowed his head and sighed. Then he unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped back. The young man slipped through, and Mr. Kovak closed the door behind him.

  “Well?”

  The young man looked around the room, his eyes and head making jerking movements, betraying his nerves. It had taken him some courage to knock on the door, and even more to enter. Finally, he turned back to Mr. Kovak, but could not hold his gaze.

  “I guess I’ll get right to it,” he said, his voice wavering in pitch like an adolescent boy’s.

  “I wish you would,” Mr. Kovak said.

  “You were on the news.”

  “Oh?”

  “I mean, I’m pretty sure it was you. The hospital over in Superior. They said you beat up on a nurse. They showed a video of the guy, and he was wearing a hoodie just like that. I figured right away it was you.”

  “Even with your poor memory?”

  “Yeah, thing is, I knew you were in some sort of trouble when you showed up, but I thought it was none of my business. If I’d known it was something as heavy as this, I don’t think I would’ve given you a key. I mean, they said there was, like, a little baby involved in whatever was going on.”

  “Get to the point,” Mr. Kovak said.

  “Well, when you gave me the hundred and fifty bucks, I saw you had a lot more in your wallet. I figured, if you want me to keep quiet, then maybe you should think about—”

  “You want more money,” Mr. Kovak said.

  “Well…yeah.”

  Mr. Kovak went to the nightstand by the bed and lifted his wallet. He counted out five twenties and brought them back to the young man.

  “That’s another hundred. Now get out of here.”

  The kid looked at the outstretched left hand and the money it held, and slowly shook his head.

  “I don’t think that’s gonna be enough,” he said, stretching the words out like they were made of glue.

  Mr. Kovak’s right hand formed a fist and lashed out, a smooth,
quick movement, and struck the young man below the solar plexus. Not hard, but enough to make his knees buckle and drop him to the floor. There, sprawling, the young man retched and gasped and coughed while Mr. Kovak waited patiently.

  “How about now? Do you think it’s enough?”

  The young man eventually got his knees under him as he regained control of his breath.

  “Here,” Mr. Kovak said, dropping the five bills to the floor. “Take it and get out. You’ve already taken money from me. That makes you complicit, no matter what you say, no matter who you say it to. And remember what that punch felt like. Imagine what it’ll feel like if I don’t hold back. Now, pick up the money and get the fuck out.”

  Without looking at Mr. Kovak, the young man gathered up the bills, struggled to his feet, and stumbled toward the door. Once he was gone, Mr. Kovak went to the dresser and used the remote control to switch on the small flat-screen television set. He scrolled through the channels until he found a local news station. A story about a factory closure played, but the ticker along the bottom was concerned with the events of the previous night. He sat on the end of the bed and read.

  POLICE RELEASE VIDEO OF SUSPECT IN SUPERIOR COMMUNITY HOSPITAL ASSAULT. A WOMAN WHO GAVE BIRTH AT THE HOSPITAL A FEW HOURS BEFORE IS ALSO SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING.

  “Goddammit,” he said.

  It looked like the story was local for now, but he suspected it would go national before too long. A pretty young woman fleeing a hospital with a baby. The news networks wouldn’t be able to resist.

  “I fucked up,” he said aloud.

  And it was the truth. Had he thought harder, been smarter, he might have found a dozen ways to resolve the problem. But he had blundered in, let the baby be taken away, and drawn attention to himself. The only saving grace was that no one knew his or the mother’s name. His only option now was to remain out of sight. He felt it safe to assume that the clinic would not volunteer any information unless someone made a connection back to them; Dr. Sherman would not expose himself in that way if he could help it.

  Mr. Kovak decided he would stay here, in this god-awful motel, for as long as it took for this to blow over, for the news vultures to seek their carrion elsewhere. He would not shave, would let the hair on his head grow in and a beard come. Four or five days should be enough to make him hard to recognize from what little CCTV footage they had.

  Clothing could be a problem. He would have to destroy what he wore now and find something else. And the car; however unlikely, someone from the rental place could make the connection, and they’d have a record of his identity, including his driver’s license.

  “Shit,” he said.

  This was a potential problem. He thought back to when he’d arrived in Pittsburgh. There had been only one middle-aged woman on the desk. She had barely looked at him as he signed the agreement and took the key. Would she see him on the television and remember the large man who had been in such a hurry? Unlikely, he thought. His face was not clearly visible in the footage shown on the news. But his size. He was a big man, the kind of big that gets noticed and remarked upon. He would keep an eye on the television over the next few days, and if they seemed close to discovering his identity, he would rethink.

  There was, however, one question that occupied his mind more than any other: Where had Anna Lenihan gone?

  He had no idea what he would do with that information should he discover the answer. What could he possibly gain from going after her? His job with the clinic was gone, the chances of the child ever going to the intended parents were infinitesimal. So why should it concern him?

  Pride.

  She had made a fool of him. Some say money is the root of all evil. Mr. Kovak knew that wasn’t true. Pride drove all men to their most terrible acts, the immensely powerful fear of shame. Men are vain creatures and they dread ridicule more than anything else.

  So, pride was the only reason to hunt her down.

  But he was smarter than that.

  Wasn’t he?

  41

  WITH LITTLE BUTTERFLY STRAPPED INTO the plastic baby seat of a shopping cart, Anna walked the aisles of the first Walmart she found. She loaded the cart with onesies, pacifiers, diapers, powder, cream, wet wipes, sanitizer, everything she could think of. The handful of clothes she’d managed to pack had got her this far, but she needed more of those too. She chose plain tops and jeans, a pair of cheap sneakers, a couple of hoodies, and several sets of underwear.

  A few other customers had given her curious glances, their stares going to her feet. Anna looked down to see what they were staring at and saw the red trickle of blood that had traveled down to her left ankle. She headed straight back to the baby aisle, chose a box of maternity pads, and went to find the baby-changing room. She double-checked that the door was locked before strapping Little Butterfly onto the fold-down table. Then she stripped off her clothes and washed at the basin, wiping away two days of grime and sweat. She disposed of the saturated maternity pad she wore and applied a new one before dressing in the clean clothes she’d yet to pay for. Finally, she took the pair of scissors from its packaging and set about chopping off her shoulder-length hair. It took only a few minutes, and she looked a mess. But it would have to do. She swept up the cuttings as best she could and disposed of them in the trash.

  Right on cue, L’il B began to mewl and snuffle. It had been a little over two hours since his last feed, and the idea of his draining her again made Anna groan. She had managed to snatch only a few minutes’ sleep here and there over the last two days, and fatigue had placed a shimmery veil over the world.

  “Okay, L’il B, okay. It’s coming.”

  She unstrapped him from the table and brought him to the chair in the corner. It seemed to swallow her as she sat, and she let her head roll back as she closed her eyes. How sweet it would be to doze awhile, to drift uncaring in the black. Then the baby’s grumbling turned to a high cry and Anna pulled up the new top and let him feed. The crying and grumbling turned to suckling and sighing, and she couldn’t help but smile even though it hurt like hell.

  The idea of food presented itself, and her stomach rumbled in response. She had eaten as little as she had slept over the last forty-eight hours. A sandwich yesterday, a bag of potato chips the day before. She knew if she hoped to keep feeding her baby, she needed real food, and she needed it soon.

  But everything had been such a blur, a long, smeared stretch of endless roads interrupted only by stops to feed and the few minutes of slumber here and there. She had stopped at the first thrift store she saw, carried L’il B inside as the doors were unlocked, and found the baby section. The baby cradled in one arm and the other holding a handful of onesies and footies, she went to the register. On the floor, beside the counter, she saw an infant’s car seat, grubby and stained. A middle-aged lady approached the register and Anna pointed to the seat.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “Oh, sorry, honey, I can’t sell that to you. Someone donated it with a bunch of other stuff, but we can’t put old car seats out for sale.”

  The lady rummaged through the clothes Anna had set on the counter, looking for price tags.

  “Can’t you make an exception?” Anna asked.

  The lady looked up from the bundle of clothes, studied Anna for a moment, then L’il B.

  “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to throw that car seat in the trash. In fact, maybe you could do me a favor and throw it away for me?”

  Anna smiled and said, “Maybe I could.”

  After she’d figured out how to fix it to the latching points in her car, and strapped in L’il B, she had called Betsy.

  “You were on the news,” Betsy said.

  “Did they name me?”

  “No, it was just a picture, not a very clear one. I was going to call the police, say it was you.”

  “Please don�
�t,” Anna said. “They’ll come after me.”

  “Who will?”

  “The clinic. They’ll take my baby.”

  “But you don’t know that,” Betsy said. “After what happened, that man attacking the nurse, there’s no way they could take him.”

  “They’re bad people,” Anna said. “I don’t know what they’ll do if they find me.”

  “But, sweetheart, you need medical attention. So does your baby. You can’t do this on your own. Please, go to a hospital, go to the police, whatever, just get help.”

  “I can’t,” Anna said. “I just can’t.”

  “All right,” Betsy said. “I won’t say anything. But tell me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Is he beautiful?”

  Anna choked back a sob. “God, yes,” she said.

  “Then for Christ’s sake, love him all you can.”

  It seemed like a lifetime ago now. She thought about the journey here, the miles and miles of road between here and there. As her mind drifted, as L’il B found his rhythm, she let her head fall back, closed her eyes. The world became a string of fragmented images, and then grew warm and dark, like burrowing down beneath a blanket, like when she was a kid and pretended her bed was a cave and she an explorer, and there she floated like a leaf on a pond until—

  A knock on the door startled her awake. L’il B lost purchase, and his face creased as he readied himself to cry. She quickly moved him across to the other breast before he could get started. He sounded like a damn chainsaw when he really got going.

  “Occupied,” she called.

  “Ma’am, it’s store security, is everything all right?”

  A man’s voice, stiff and polite.

  “Yes, fine.”

  “It’s just you’ve been in there awhile.”

  “I’m feeding my baby,” Anna said.

  “That’s okay,” the voice said. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  L’il B fed for another five minutes or so before turning his mouth away, his face slack from gorging. She balanced him on her knee, his chin propped in her hand, and she rubbed his warm, smooth back until he let out a long belch. That done, she changed his diaper and dressed him in one of the new onesies and footies she’d chosen.