Sure enough, the next morning is exactly that way. I’m putzing around the house, washing some dishes, throwing old stuff away out of the refrigerator, and starting a load of laundry. I plug in the vacuum cleaner and I’m about to turn it on when my phone rings and I look at the screen: three zero three area code. Denver. I dive for the phone, trip over the vacuum cord, and almost fall before I grab the phone and wheeze into it, “Hello?”
“Yes, may I speak to David Adams?”
“This is Dave Adams. Can I help you?”
“Yes, Mr. Adams, this is Amanda Weir at New Beginnings in Denver. I understand you were the one who paid for Olivia Warren’s placement here. We were just calling about her. Do you happen to know where she is?”
I’m sure I just heard wrong. “What?”
“Do you know where Miss Warren is?”
“She’s in Denver at your training facility.”
“No, sir, she’s not.”
A hammering sensation starts up in my chest. “What do you mean, no, she’s not? She’s supposed to be there. Where else could she be?”
The young woman’s voice is very timid. “Sir, she left a note saying she’d gone to see you.”
“When?”
“Two weeks ago. She didn’t have anyone listed as a next of kin, so there was no one to call. Then we found your name as her benefactor and hoped we had the right number. So she’s not there?”
“No! No, I haven’t even talked to her.”
“I see. Well, we really don’t know what to do. We were in the process of helping her find another training program for people in her situation.”
“What? What are you talking about? What situation?”
“We don’t offer residential programs for families.”
Now I’m really confused. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“She’s welcome here for the rest of her term, but once the baby comes, she’ll have to . . .”
The room starts to spin and I’m having trouble breathing. “Baby? What baby?”
“Sir, she’s about five months pregnant.”
I don’t remember much after that. I must’ve hung up the phone, but in a few minutes I wake up in the floor, so dizzy I can’t sit up. My phone is just inches from my fingertips, and I manage to scoot over to it and pick it up. When Clint answers, he says, “Hey! What’s up?” When I can’t get a sound to come out of my throat, he says, “Dad? You okay?”
I croak out, “No. I’m not okay. Come. Please.”
“On my way.”
“So all they have is a note that says she’s coming here? Dad, that’s been two weeks. Two weeks. If she were coming here and nothing’s happened to her, she should already be here.” Clint’s pacing. I think he wants me to tell him what to do but, quite honestly, I have no idea.
“Can you call some of the guys at the police department? Some of the detectives who worked on that case? Maybe see if they have any contacts anywhere who might be able to help us?”
Clint nods. “Yeah. I’ll try that.”
The front door opens and Trish jets through it. “Oh, god, Dave, what can I do to help?”
I’m just bewildered. I have no idea what to do at this point, what to tell anyone, what to say. I don’t know where she is or what’s happening to her. She’s out there alone somewhere, no money, no car. Oh, god, I hope she’s not hitching. That idea makes me sick to my stomach and I know I’m green when Trish says, “You need a trash can?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” It’s all I can manage before all of my breakfast comes up.
Clint’s still pacing. “Look, let’s not panic.”
“That’s easy for you to say!” I practically shout. “There’s a woman out there, traveling alone by who knows what means, and she’s pregnant with my child. And you tell me to not panic? Have you lost your MIND?”
“I know, I know.”
“Son, would you PLEASE sit down? You’re making me a nervous wreck.”
“Sorry.” He sits down, then tries to get up again, but I shoot him a look and he settles back on the couch. “I can’t think of anything.”
“Steffen. Is there anything he could do?”
“I have no idea, but I’ll call him.” When Clint gets off the phone, he announces, “He’ll be here in about thirty minutes.”
Sure enough, thirty minutes later he’s sitting in my living room and we’re brainstorming, trying to think of anything that could help us find her. “Debit card records?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I don’t think she had an account. She hadn’t gone far enough into the program to be paid.”
“Damn.” Steffen’s eyes stare at the floor, and I can tell he’s thinking. “And she doesn’t have a cell phone, right?”
“It’s in there on the dresser.”
Now Clint’s thinking out loud. “You’re alone, trying to travel. You need money. What do you do?”
Steffen shrugs. “Steal?”
I shake my head. “Not Olivia. She’d never do that. First thing she ever said to me was that she couldn’t take a few stale potato chips in a bag because it would be stealing if she didn’t pay for them. So no. She would never do that.”
“She doesn’t have any jewelry to sell, does she?” Clint asks.
“Nope.”
We’re all silent again for a few minutes. Then Trish says, “So, again, you’re alone, traveling, and you need money. What do you do?”
“Get a job?” Steffen offers.
“But you’re not going to be around long enough to get a job,” Clint reminds us.
Trish’s eyes light up. “You get a day job.”
Steffen grins. “State employment office. She’d go there to look for a day job, something temporary.”
I’m thinking out loud. “Can the cops check those records, see if she’s been in for something like that?”
“I have no idea, but I’ll find out.” Clint presses a few buttons and I know he’s talking to one of the police officers who worked with Olivia. A few of them have gotten to know him very well, and they hang out together from time to time. One’s even a Dominant and has started coming to the club on a regular basis. When he hangs up, he looks around at all of us. “He said he’s not sure that they can get state records from so many states between here and there, but he said he’ll try.”
“So who are we talking about here? Idaho, Oregon, Utah, Nevada, and Montana?” Those are the ones I can think of right off the top of my head.
“Don’t forget Wyoming,” Trish offers.
Steffen frowns. “No, don’t. But every town has an employment office. It’s a needle-in-a-haystack proposition.”
“It’s all we’ve got.” I fall back into the sofa. “I don’t know anything else to do.”
They stay all afternoon and into the evening. Sheila’s got all the kids, so Trish leaves to go and pick their three up. Clint and Steffen stay with me a while longer, but eventually they have to go. “Dad, why don’t you come home with me so you’re not alone? We’d be glad to have you.”
“No. What if she shows up here and I’m not at home? No. I can’t leave.”
“You can’t stay here all the time.”
“Oh yeah? Check on me occasionally and pick me up some groceries or I’ll starve.”
He chuckles. “Okay. Fine. And we’ll come by and spend some time with you if you want.”
All the frustration and hurt I’ve been holding in finally turns loose and the tears start to fall. I find a big, strong guy on either side of me, arms around me, and I remember what love feels like and how much I’ve missed it. “I’m okay, I’m okay. Just tired.”
“I know.” Steffen hugs me again. “It’s gonna be okay, I’m sure. Just have faith.”
When they’re gone, I head off to bed, but there’ll be no sleep for me. I think about Olivia, every horrible thing that’s happened between us, her smile, her kind, gentle heart, her bravery, and I want to hold her so badly that I can barely breathe.
A baby. She’s pregnant with my child. Somewhere out there is a woman, alone and afraid, trying to get back to me. When she gets here, and I have to believe she will, I will never, never hurt or disappoint her again. I’m not sure of a lot of things, but that’s the one I do know for a fact.
“How many today?”
I’m honest. “Three.”
“Taking your medicine?” Clint asks.
“Yes. And that’s down from five a day last week.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s better.”
The anxiety attacks aren’t quite as frequent, but what I haven’t told Clint is that they’re far more severe. When one hits, I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack. If I had an actual heart attack, I wouldn’t realize it until too late. My psychiatrist has been coming to the house because I will not leave. I’m too afraid she’ll show up and I won’t be here.
The only lead we’ve even possibly had is a facial recognition hit from a bank in Wyoming where it looks like she was cashing a check. But when the detective asked, the person who’d written the check said she’d worked for them for about a week and then said she had to go.
Two months. It’s been two months. Maybe she just left the note to throw us off her trail. Maybe she was never planning to come here at all. I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that it doesn’t take two months to get from Colorado to Washington State.
But I have a secret I haven’t told anyone. I’ve been ordering things, and it’s been very busy around my house. The Salvation Army came and got all of the furniture in Clint’s old room and I went to work. I ordered new furniture and wall stick-ons and bedding. The hardware store delivered paint and scrapers and all kinds of stuff I needed, and I hit it hard. It’s giving me something to do while I wait. And I will wait. I’m certain she’ll be here.
On Sunday, I invite everyone for lunch. I have all kinds of food delivered, and I even invite Marta and Angela. We laugh and talk and eat, but I’m listening constantly, sure every little creak and groan of the house is the door. They’re all talking about going home when I finally can’t keep the secret anymore. I tap my glass with a butter knife and when everyone looks my way, I tell them, “I have a surprise.”
I lead the way down the hall, then open the door and flip on the light. I hear Trish and Sheila gasp, and Clint says, “Wow. This is awesome.”
Marta comes straight to me, leans against me, and wraps an arm around my waist. “I’m so proud of you. This is beautiful, Dave, just beautiful.”
The walls are a pale yellow and all over them are little sheep, leaping and cavorting. Yellow, green, and blue plaid curtains hang at the windows, and coordinating bedding is on the mattress, the changing table, and the bassinet. I know – bassinets are old fashioned – but I loved this one, and it’s beautiful with its floor-length skirt and little fitted sheet.
I stand in this room with my family and I look around at my work. The only thing missing is the woman and the baby. And I’ve already made my decision.
If something happens to her and she never comes home, I plan to come into this beautiful little room where I’ve planted the seeds of all my hopes and dreams and put a bullet in my head. Whatever happens to her, good or bad, it’s my fault. And if it’s anything less than spectacular, I won’t be able to live with myself.
Today I’ve decided that I’m going to cut my hair. I’m not sure how, but it needs it. I won’t leave to go to the barber, so it hasn’t been cut. Everyone in the family says I look like a shaggy dog, and even Morris said, “Grandpa Dave, you look like a hippie.” I think he’s been watching reruns of That ’70s Show. Looking in the mirror, I’m thinking that it would be easiest to just shave it, but Olivia would hate that.
I’m about to run out of coffee and I realize I’ll have to remind Clint to get me some. He’s been so busy lately, running the club. He brings all the paperwork to me, but he still has to be there, which means he’s never home with Trish and the kids. Steffen finally told him to stay home on Mondays and Thursdays, and then Bruce and Gary stepped up and took Tuesdays and Wednesdays, so it’s not as bad as it was. But it couldn’t be helped; it was either let them run it or close down, and no one wanted that. It’s just temporary. As soon as Olivia and the baby are here, I can come back, no problem.
I get the coffee started and follow my morning routine. After I’ve turned off the TV from watching the weather report, I go out to get the paper. It’s a frigid but pretty day. It would be a perfect day to go to the cabin and start a fire in the fireplace, but I can’t. On my way back to the house, I unwrap the paper and look at the headlines. All bad news, as usual. I climb the steps and when I get to the porch, I stop dead in my tracks.
There’s a backpack on the porch. And it’s Olivia’s.
I’m hallucinating. I know I am. I turn with my back to it, rub my eyes, and then turn back around. It’s still there. When I walk over and touch it, I know beyond any doubt that it’s real. But where is she?
“OLIVIA!” I’m screaming and I don’t care. I know the neighbors will think I’m nuts, and they’d be right. “OLIVIA! OLIVIA, WHERE ARE YOU? BABY, PLEASE, WHERE ARE YOU?” There are no signs around the outside of the house that anyone’s tried to get in a window or the back door, and I’m stumped. She came here and dropped off her backpack? That makes no sense. I run back inside and pick up my phone. My hands are shaking so hard that I’m having trouble hitting a simple speed dial contact. When Clint answers the phone, all I can do is scream into the phone, “HER BACKPACK IS ON THE PORCH!”
“What?”
“Her backpack is on the porch! I went out to get the paper and there it was! But I can’t find her! What do I do?”
“Keep looking.” There’s a moment’s pause, and then he laughs. “Did you look in the car?”
My phone drops onto the floor with a “clunk” and I take off out the door. I hit the side of the car full speed, peer through the window, and fall to my knees.
There she is.
I wish I had words to describe how I feel in that moment in time, how my heart feels like it will leap right out of my chest, how it sings and flutters and flies about. I wish I had words for the joy and peace and happiness I feel, seeing her there asleep, her head on her jacket and her arm resting across her big belly. I wish I could tell you that I’m eloquent and graceful.
None of that happens.
Instead, I throw the door open, crawl into the floorboard on my knees, and grab the sleeping woman, drawing her up tight against me. All I can do is whisper over and over, “Oh, baby, oh, please be real. Please be real, Olivia, please be real.”
She finally pushes me back and stretches, then sits up. “I need to pee.” She draws a hand across both eyes, then opens them. “Dave?”
“Yes, baby. I’m right here.” I hope she can see the joy in my face, because if she can’t, I’ll take her to get glasses.
“Dave, can you help me get out of here? This isn’t very comfortable.”
“Sweetie, I’ll carry you into the house if we can get you out of the car.”
“Good. I’ve really got to pee. Bad. Really bad.”
“Okay. Let me help you.” I take her hands and pull her across the seat until her feet are out the door and on the ground, then help her to standing. “Holy shit, you’re huge.”
“Wow. Thanks. I’m flattered.”
“No, really, you’re adorable. Come on. I’ll carry you in.” I pick her up and damn near give myself a hernia.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. You’re just heavier than I remember.”
“Oh, a funny guy, huh?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Funny guy.” We make it as far as the front porch and I feel something I can’t describe.
“Uh-oh.” I stare into her face. “I told you I had to pee.” Her face turns red. “I’m sorry. That’s gross.”
I can’t help but grin at her. “Baby, pee on me all day. I don’t care. I’m so happy to see you that you could piss in the middl
e of the living room floor and I’d just clean it up and call it a day. No shit.”
“Wait! I need my backpack.”
“Got it. Go to the bathroom and I’ll grab it.”
She waddles off down the hallway and I follow, backpack in my hands. She strips off her wet underwear and maternity dress, and roots around in her backpack. “Damn. No clean underwear.”
I disappear for a minute, clean myself up, and then reappear with a pair of my old boxers from back when I wore boxers. Remember, I said they were old. “Here. These’ll do.” She wets a washcloth, cleans herself up, and slips on the boxers. Now she’s in boxers and a bra, and I’ve never seen anything so cute. “Do you know how adorable you are?”
“Oh, yeah. Adorable. Fat and adorable.”
I take a really good look at her as she washes her hands. Her belly is big and round, but the rest of her is emaciated, and there are dark circles under her eyes. The bra she’s wearing is two sizes too small, and her shoes are worn out. I want to hold her close and kiss her, but I’m more concerned than anything else. “I’m going in here to make you a sandwich and then we’ll talk. But you need to eat, and then I want you to get some sleep.”
I find ham, cheese, and bread, hard-boiled eggs, some chips, and a jar of pickles. Pregnant women like pickles, right? Seems like I heard that somewhere. I yell down the hall, “Look in my closet and get anything you think you can wear. I don’t care what it is, it’s yours if it’ll cover you up.” While I’m doing all of this, at the same time I text Clint and simply say, Get in the car and get here now. Then I add, And stop at the store and tell Trish to get a maternity dress. Size I don’t know but for a skinny pregnant woman. That should do it.
Yep. They make it there in twenty minutes, Steffen and Sheila right behind them. “Where is she?”
“In the shower. Just go on back there and take her the dress. She doesn’t have anything to wear.”
“In the car?” Clint asks with a grin.
“Yep. In the car.” I’m still happily pulling out anything I can find in the fridge and cabinets. There’s a feast of the weirdest conglomeration of stuff you’ve ever seen on the table, and I’m hoping that, between the baked beans and water chestnuts, she finds something she wants. I put a bowl of prunes on the table and then it happens.
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