“Yes, can I have some more water?”
He put the straw to her mouth again and sat back down.
“I guess I dozed off.” He rubbed his eyes.
She smiled weakly.
“You must have been dreaming, because you were kicking your feet in the air!”
. Michael had always kicked wildly in his sleep and they had taken to sleeping in separate beds.
He leaned forward to take her hand.
“You need anything?”
“Yes, I want to ask you something.” She paused to catch her breath.
“Anything.”
“If you ever see our son again, will you tell him I love him?'
Michael nodded and gave her a smile, but inside he was breaking apart.
“Of course.”
Frustration boiled inside him. He hadn't protected his son, and now he couldn't save his wife. It wasn't fair. The anger that had burned in him since the days after his son was taken threatened to take control. He would find the son-of-a-bitch who was responsible and there would be payback for all the pain. He promised himself that he would make the kidnapper pay.
His dream had been disturbing, but even more disturbing was how good it had felt. He could imagine himself doing it for real. That was something he never thought he would be capable of. He could tell now that he was capable and willing.
****
A few months later, Michael found himself sitting beside her bed again, but this time they were in a nursing home. Tammy was on feeding tubes and no longer knew Michael was even there. The weeks since Tammy had gone into a coma had been filled with plans to somehow find the one responsible for his son’s disappearance. The heart monitor started to beep. It was a long, steady droning, and Michael knew she was gone. He didn't run to get doctors. He knew she wanted to be gone. He wished he could be gone, too.
A nurse rushed in and turned off the beeping but she didn't call for help. Tammy had made it clear not to try to resuscitate her when she went. A doctor came in and checked her vitals, looked at her pupils, and declared Tammy deceased.
Michael stood staring out the window while people moved around him in the room. All he felt now was hate. Hate for whoever had taken his son. Hate for every couple that would grow old together. Most of all, he hated the pain. It ate at his insides and left him short of breath. Somehow, he had to get rid of the pain.
He heard the nurse say something. When he turned around, Tammy was already gone from the room.
“Take as long as you need,” the nurse said “I'll be at the desk.”
Michael nodded and turned back to the window.
Somewhere out there was his son. The only connection he had left to Tammy.
And now, he had a message to deliver. A promise to keep. He would not give up.
****
A steady rain fell on the proceedings at Oakcrest Cemetery. Detective Jason Strong stood across from Michael Barton, who was seated next to the grave of his wife. He saw no life in Michael's eyes, and it worried him. They looked like shark eyes: lifeless. The last three Years had brought Jason close to the Barton's. He had done everything in his power to try and track down their son. So far, it hadn't been enough. He refused to give up hope, and he had called the Barton’s regularly to tell them that he hadn't forgotten or that he was looking into a new lead,
whenever one would surface.
Michael had called him when he had learned that Tammy was sick. Jason had listened, but he didn't try to make Michael feel better. He thought of his own wife, Sandy, and how he would feel about such news. He couldn't fathom it. He had met Michael a couple of times for a beer, and he sensed that Michael was headed for a dark place.
The service ended and people started to move away. Jason waited until there wasn't anybody left and went over to Michael.
“You gonna be all right, buddy?”
Michael gave Jason a half smile.
“Yeah...I'll make it. Thanks for coming.”
Even though Michael tried to smile, Jason saw that his eyes remained cold.
“You know you can call me anytime, right?”
“I know. Thanks, Jason.”
Jason shook his hand and turned to leave. He couldn't imagine the pain in Michael's soul, but Jason had seen it destroy more than one man.
He said a prayer that night for Michael. And he said one for the missing child, just as he had almost
every night for the last three years. And lastly, he said one more. This one was a grateful prayer. He felt the need to count his blessings and express his thanks.
Chapter 5
It was the time of the year that was most difficult for Michael Barton. His son's birthday was coming up, as well as the seventh anniversary of his wife’s death. It was the darkest time of the year for him. His life became weighed down by a shroud of pain and anger. Each time, he had been able to emerge from it and carry on, but this was going to be a particularly rough year. It was approaching his son's tenth birthday. Ten years since the happiest day of his life. Ten years of pain since that day. A decade.
He let himself into the house and was met by the same old quiet. In many ways, it felt as if time had stopped inside the walls of this house.
He threw the mail down on the hall table, without looking at it, and set the bottle of wine down on the coffee table in the living room while he went in search of a corkscrew. He had drowned in the hard stuff for a while after Tammy's death, but with the help of Detective Jason Strong, he had seen the alcohol as pointless. It didn't take away the pain; only numbed it. The detective had not given up hope of finding his son and Jason had made him see, at the very least, that he shouldn't throw his life away. What if Strong were right?
“I have seen kids twice your son's age reunited with their parents; what if we find him and you’re not here? What would I tell him?”
Michael had found the question difficult to answer. After all, he had made a promise to Tammy and to himself. He could not give up.
He rummaged around in the kitchen drawers, looking for the corkscrew. He normally just bought the
cheap stuff with the twist-off cap, but decided ten years required something more. He had splurged on
his and Tammy's favorite wine.
Eventually he had gone through every drawer but the junk drawer. It shouldn't be there, but he slid it open and pushed stuff around in it anyway. Lying in the back was his wife's digital camera. He pulled it out and found the corkscrew behind it.
He tried turning the camera on, but the batteries were dead. He carried the camera, corkscrew, and a wine glass into the living room. From the hall table drawer, he retrieved a penlight. He checked inside: the batteries were the same as the ones in the camera.
Pouring himself a glass of wine, he took a long sip before changing the batteries. He pushed the power button and the camera came to life.
“Okay, let see what we have here,” he said out loud.
He often talked to himself to break the silence in the house. He hit the album button and was met with a picture of his son. He sipped his wine and stared at the camera.
“Where have you been hiding all this time?” he asked the camera, realizing that if it could talk, it would state the obvious: in the junk drawer.
Gathering his courage, Michael started to scroll through the pictures one at a time. They were mostly pictures of his son sleeping. The last few were the ones he had taken of Tammy and his son under the tree on that hot afternoon. He had finally taken a good picture with the last shot and he sat staring at it for a long time.
Something caught his eye. In the background behind Tammy, parked just down the street, was a car that he didn't recognize. It seemed out of place. An old, maybe 1960-something, Pontiac. He tried to magnify the picture on the camera, but it didn't help.