An image of Spencer swam before my heavy eyes and my lids drifted closed. For some reason, thinking about Spence made everything seem a little less terrifying. I clung to the thought of his honey-colored eyes and the way they crinkled at the corners when he was sneaking cookies from the kitchen.
It didn’t take long for sheer exhaustion to pull me under, and I fell into sleep, an unwilling captor of fatigue.
It felt like I was barely asleep for ten minutes when something woke me. I jerked awake immediately, a little disoriented, until I remembered I was in Jack’s room. My brain was foggy from sleep. My eyes felt as if they had one hundred pounds of sand in them, and my entire body ached like a giant bruise.
And then I remembered why I was sleeping in Jack’s room and not mine.
The fog in my brain blew away, and I sat up, ignoring the protests of my limbs. The light between the blinds was dim. The sun would be coming up soon. It was probably my internal alarm clock that woke me.
I went over to Jack’s crib, smiling a little because I knew I would see his little angelic face, and leaned over the railing.
My entire body jerked.
The crib was empty.
I did a double take, thinking I was still half asleep.
I wasn’t.
Jack was gone.
“Jack!” I called as pure terror pounded through my veins. My vision blurred and my body swayed, threatening to pass out. I didn’t have time to pass out.
How in the hell did this happen? I’d been in here all night!
“Calm down, Elle,” I told myself. “Maybe he finally learned how to climb out.”
I raced from the room, checking the bathroom, my bedroom, and the small hall closet. No sign of him. My heart began to hammer against my ribs as I approached the steps. I was beyond petrified I would see his little body lying at the bottom of the steps.
He wasn’t there either.
“Jack!” I called for him again, praying to God he would make some sort of sound. I’d give anything to hear a “Momma” right about now.
It was achingly silent. I raced through the house, tearing it apart, looking in every possible spot he could be. He wasn’t there.
Jack wasn’t there.
Someone kidnapped my son.
I was practically hyperventilating when I grabbed my keys and phone and raced outside to my car. I was going to the police station immediately. I needed as much help as I could get.
Where was he? Was he okay? Was he confused? Was he hungry, crying? How in the hell could someone just walk in and take him from literally right beneath my nose?
The car door slammed behind me and I fought my shaking hands, trying to get the damn key into the ignition. I was sobbing openly, horrible sounds of pain ripping from my lungs.
“Momma,” said a little voice from behind me.
I spun around so fast it hurt my head. “Jack!” I cried.
He was sitting in his car seat, still wearing the little pajamas I’d dressed him in the night before. I catapulted out of the car and rushed around to the back door and wrenched it open. I pulled Jack into my arms and cried, utterly relieved he was okay.
“Mommy was so scared,” I told him, kissing the top of his dark head. “What happened to you?” I asked, pulling him back slightly so I could look him over for injury.
He appeared to be fine. Not a single mark on him, and he wasn’t crying so I figured that was good.
I hugged him again, so tight he squealed, and I pulled him back again with a smile. I heard the crinkling of paper and wrinkled my nose. That was an odd sound. I grabbed my keys and went back inside, still clutching Jack.
I heard the sound again and looked down at his onesie. It seemed like the paper was inside his pajamas.
I laid him on the couch and reached inside, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper.
Next time he won’t be so easy to find.
I ran into the bathroom and threw up.
What in the hell was I going to do?
4
Some days going to work was hard. I felt guilty a lot for dropping Jack off with my mom and leaving. I felt like I was missing moments with him that I would regret later. I wondered when he grew up if he would have more memories with his grandma than he did with me.
I wondered if I was a good enough mother. I wondered if it made me a bad person for loving what I did and wanting to do it.
But today, going to work was hard for a completely different reason.
I wondered what would happen if I wasn’t there to protect him. I worried that something horrible would happen to Jack or my mom. Before leaving, I gave Mom a wad of cash and told her to take Jack to the zoo. I didn’t know if sending her out in public was a good idea or not. I wasn’t sure if the crowd at the zoo would be a good thing or a bad thing. But it made me feel a fraction better that they would be with a ton of other people instead of alone at my mom’s place.
She noticed how tired I looked. She told me I was white as a ghost. I lied and told her I had an upset stomach. She believed me.
I drove to work with sweaty palms, checking my rearview mirror every three seconds. After going through security and making my way to my parking spot, I sat in the car for a few minutes, getting ready to turn on my fake smile.
I knew I needed to do something, to tell someone, but this morning left me completely shaken. They took Jack and I didn’t even know it. Yeah, he wasn’t hurt. This time. Could I take a chance like that again?
In the kitchen, I made it a point to work off by myself. First, I busied myself in the small kitchen office, planning out the menu for a dinner that was taking place next week. Yeah, I usually had this done by now, but it was a last-minute thing and I wanted something special. Once I was satisfied with the menu, I handed it off to one of the other kitchen staff and asked them to put in the grocery order so we would have everything we needed for it.
Then I decided to make some bread. It was a long process, it was a quiet process, and I figured the rhythm of kneading the dough might help me relax.
The bustle of the kitchen usually excited me, made me feel like I was part of a team. Today, I found the noise disturbing and all the people suffocating. All I wanted to do was go home.
I was thinking about my options, trying to get over the shock of everything that happened since the night before, when a familiar form appeared in the doorway of the little room where I was making the bread.
I looked up from the task to see Spencer leaning against the doorjamb, his shoulders nearly filling the doorway. His hair was slightly mussed and he had a cookie in both hands.
“I think you were the Cookie Monster in a previous life,” I joked, though the playfulness just wasn’t there in my tone.