Chapters Eight and Nine - The Hours of Change - Amy LeClaire

Chapter Eight

The highway is busy, though not miserably so, as she yields into the right lane, cutting off an oncoming driver then speeding up fast enough to reconcile the threat of road rage from behind. She flips open her cell phone, selects Kim’s name, and dials.

“Hey.”

“You’re not really going through with this, are you, Ser?”

“I just have to get it out my system, Kim. I think one confrontation will be enough to help me move on from the incident, you know what I’m saying…” she says, soaring into the fast lane.

“It’s only been a few days, Serena. You’ve gotta’ give yourself more time to move on. Like I said before, set up a few appointments with the school psychologist to make sure Josh is on track, and take things one day at a time. The jerk committed a major crime. This is so black and white. He’s not going to be freed from kidnapping a child…even if he does walk out of that hospital in one piece. There’s just no way.”

“I just can’t believe Doug trusted him, Kim,” she says back, stuck in her own mindset.

“From what you’ve told me, Ser, they went out together and snowboarded together. Doug left him for how long, five minutes?”

“Try twenty-five.”

“But Josh is back now, Ser, safe and sound. Everything worked out for you guys. I mean, God…it could have been so much worse. I think an angel must have been with Josh that night.”

“Did I tell you how he gave me a business card in the cafeteria? What a complete nutcase,” she says, noting the eighteen-wheeler to her right, a truck that’s too close. She steps on the gas and loses him, the needle of her speedometer climbing dangerously.

“Of course he’s a nutcase, Serena. Sane people don’t take other people’s kids…”

Her friend continues to ramble on but Serena remains fixed on that line.

Sane people don’t take other people’s kids. She can see Josh on his bed, sitting cross-legged, telling Roth’s side of the story.

‘I was so afraid…I thought I was going to pass out, my heart was beating really hard…” he had tapped his chest to illustrate, ‘but then he told me he has a son Steven, just like his name. But his old wife…they didn’t stay married because I think he didn’t like her anymore …well, she took Steve across the country.’ At this juncture, he had turned to Doug, “ I think that’s why he took me, Daddy—to try to have a new son.’

The thought of her child defending this man makes her gasp and cry again. She switches lanes, settles back to the middle.

“Serena? You there?”

“Yes,” she says back, sniffling. “I’m here. It tore me apart, Kim, and I just can’t stand that I was duped by him. I thought Josh was…” she squeals through her tears, “I thought he was— ”

“Don’t say it. He’s not. He’s alive and well and just as perky as he’s always been, Serena. You should have seen him playing in the driveway with Willy while waiting for the bus…and speaking of which… I’m getting him off the bus today, right?”

“Yeah.” She wipes her nose with her sleeve. “Doug will be home early today. He said no later than four…and I should be back around seven tonight.”

“Where did you tell him you’d be?”

A pause.

“Ser? Oh gosh, you didn’t tell him anything yet. How about Josh?”
Another pause.

“Oh boy.”

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s just that there was no easy way to communicate, between what I have to do with work and laundry and—”

“I got it covered, honey.”

“I’ll call Doug during his lunch break. I’m going to ask him to tell Josh that I’m helping Nana out at the nursing home today. I’ll figure out what to say about my visit today. If you could just support that, it would be a huge help. ”

“You got it, babe.”

“I love you, Kim.”

“I love you, too, sweetie. Keep me posted.”

“You got it. I’ll take Ty on Friday, ‘kay?”

“That would be great.”

They hang up and Serena flicks on the radio. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine, she chants to herself. ‘Hey Jude’ is playing on Oldies 103. She blasts the song.

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain…don’t carry the world upon your shoulders…for well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool, by making his world a little colder…na-na, na na, na-na, na na…hey Jude…

She cries and sings softly.

* * *

After two and a half hours of driving, she pulls into a rest area for a bathroom run, deciding, first, that her looks are not presentable for the public. She rummages through the slouched cloth make-up bag seated in the passenger seat and quickly applies a new face before pushing herself from the trusty Toyota and jogging to the front entrance.

A waft of cool air brushes her face, blowing back her hair as she swings the door open. The skirted woman diagram of the Ladies Room meets her gaze immediately and she enters alone.

Inside, a mother stands at the sink with her little girl, helping her to hand-wash. Serena pushes open a stall door, drops her jeans, and squats over the toilet, placing her pocketbook on the floor. A long stream of pee trickles into the toilet water, creating a sound that seems too loud in the company of strangers. But then the hand-dryer blares on, relieving her. Reaching for the toilet paper, Serena cannot help but see the words wet pussy written above the roll, along with a number to call.

At one moment did the vandal decide to write this?—she wonders. Was she actually feeling sexual in the confines of this stall? And what if someone actually did call the number? What would they say? Hi, my name is Jane and I read your message in the NH rest area stall. I like wet pussy, too, and I would like to get together.

How on earth could the vandal trust this person? Even worse, how could the reader trust someone desperate enough to write this in a public restroom? Disgusted, she pulls up her jeans, buttons them, and draws a red lipstick from her pocketbook. Then, using the tip as a crayon, she blots out the message, leaving behind a rich red rectangle for the next occupant to see.

One less rape in this crazy world, she thinks, washing her hands, letting them drip dry on the way back to the car.

* * *
The rest of her drive, prompted by the pleasing British voice of the GPS recording, is smooth and steady. ‘Turn left in one hundred yards,’ she directs. In her mind, Serena can hear Josh mimicking the accent from the back seat. ‘She says, yodds, not yards.’

She turns left and, finally, the Little Regional Hospital stands before her. The building is not what she had expected in an institution. The geometric rooftops, mostly triangles, remind her of gingerbread houses. The architecture is modern, forming an l-shape that stretches across a snow-covered plot of land. Even more magnificent—a cluster of snow-capped mountains sit behind the hospital.

Serena is transfixed by the mountains for a moment, cannot take her eyes off of them. Her hand floats to her lips. The mountains look the same, just as they did when Josh was missing.

She shudders to the thought, follows a sign leading to the Emergency Wing of the building. It isn’t hard to find a parking sport. She pulls into a close one, collects her pocketbook, and slams the driver’s door shut. What the hell is she doing? A horrified thought caves in on her. But it is short-lived.

Before she has a chance to change her mind, she finds herself in the building, in the elevator, and, finally, in the laundry room, fully prepared to execute her plan. The walls are painted a soft mint green and she is surrounded by people, all kinds of people.

But, right now, their faces are transient. They do not take shape in her mind. Instead, a slideshow flashes in her head…the business card handed to her in the cafeteria, his Ken doll face, sitting on the chairlift with Jim, waking up in vomit, the smell of pine trees, the smell of hot chocolate in the tent…

There is no turning back.

* * *

The nursing scrubs hang loose over her thin frame. She tightens the belt at the waist, shifts the shirt so the v-neck of the shirt is centered at her chest, and scoops her hair into a short pony-tail before pulling the wig onto her scalp. Opening the closet door, she finds a small mirror to adjust the wig so that it appears authentic. Perfect. She has a thick set of bangs and stylish black hair cut sharply to her chin.

The intensive care unit is located on the third floor. She wriggles out of the closet, heads for the elevator, and sinks nicely into her new role. The possibility of medical staff talking to her, questioning her, is very real and she must be prepared for whatever curve ball is thrown at her. A recent conversation to her sister-in-law, an intensive care nurse, had supplied her with enough information to get by.

She pushes through a double-set of doors and finds a foursome of elevators. A somber family awaits their turn and, clearly, they are in no mood to talk. The elevator door slides open and they enter.

“Three please?”

The eldest of the crowd, a distinguished-looking man, nods and pushes her number, followed by two. There is a strange energy between them as, momentarily, they are connected by the dismal aura of the hospital elevator, a moving box which does not feel the weight it bears each day. Instead, it rises and falls; opens and shuts to new faces and new health problems.

The family exits to their floor and the door snaps shut, leaving Serena alone in her ascent, her thoughts mixed in memory and madness.

I’ve never had a chance to snowboard under the lights!

I’ll go with him, honey.

I can have him back by 8:15

Instruction makes a huge difference.

The incident sweeps through her head, causing her to walk faster as she pauses to hospital room numbers, the open doors of which display images of sick people and tubes and trays of half-eaten meals. The sights are unattractive and worrisome, intensifying the urge to turn around and go home.

But she knows herself too well, knows that there will be more days when she will worry incessantly about Josh going to the bus stop. The worry will be off balance, skewed by her trauma, and the only way out is to yank at the problem’s root and confront the culprit.

The culprit’s room, number three-hundred twelve, is not hard to find. When she arrives, she takes a moment to listen to the sounds outside of his door, discerning only the low gurgling sound of the television. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, clenches her fists, and barges in.

He is there, his eyes half-open, a haggard version of the handsome man she met in the lodge cafeteria. His arms lay still, a pair of skis over the starched bedspread. An eggplant colored bruise stains the right side of his face and his eyelids are swollen. An intravenous tube is hooked to his wrist, a cardiac monitor to his chest.

The screen displays the pattern of his pulse, electrified green hills, hills which morph in her mind—to snowy mountains, to her struggling son. How hard had he tried to wrestle away from Roth’s muscular arms? Nausea swims through her stomach like a school of sick fish.

She swallows the feeling, presses on.

“How are we doing this afternoon, Mr. Roth.”

He lifts a hand and turns his wrist to create the ‘so-so’ signal.

“Just so-so? Hmm...one-hundred seventy over one-ten…” she reports, reading his blood pressure. “That is a bit high for a fit man like you, seems that you’re a bit stressed here.”

His breathing is labored. She sits down on a swivel stool and slides toward him. “Here…take a sip of your water.”

Lifting his head from the pillow is an obvious strain. She activates a button from the bedside and brings him to a perpendicular position; then hands him a plastic cup of water.

His lips fumble with the straw before finding a comfortable means to manage the drink. Taking a sip, he seems revived. His eyes widen slightly.

“There, there. Now you’ll feel better.”

“He cocks his head to face her.”

“Instruction makes a huge difference, you know. I train people on maintaining a healthy heart. Here…” she reaches into the large pocket of her scrubs, “take a business card. I’ll be giving lessons until ten tonight.”

His eyes spark to the terror of her words. His heart rate begins to increase as his face reads her identity. His fingers, she notes, search for the beeper so that he can call for help.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” she says, slapping his hand, moving the beeper out of reach. “I’m completely qualified to nurse you, just as you were to train my son on that mountain.”

The hills of the heart monitor begin to double, reflecting his racing pulse. He strains to speak, breathing heavily through each syllable, “Y-you don’t under—”

“I don’t understand?” she interrupts, inching her way closer to his moving chest. “Oh, I understand perfectly, Mr. Roth. I think, more importantly, there are some things that you may not understand about me.”

“Y-you-won’t-get-away—”

“Now that's a bit cliche, don't you think?" Her professional tone becomes darker. She gets up, stands beside the IV and begins to tug on the cord.

“Guess what, Steven…I was never here in the first place and if you live to say that I was, it’s only because patients like you, patients bleeding internally, patients fighting for their life…”she goes on, rolling the IV stand, “are often considered to be delusional.”

To the threat, the heart monitor beeps wildly, indicative of the sudden spike of his heart rate.

“Whoops….looks like my time is up here, Mr. Roth. Bye-bye now.”

The black haired nurse scurries away, only seconds before a new one arrives in room three twelve.


Chapter Nine


It is six o-clock by the time she arrives home and Doug and Josh are sitting in front of the television set eating pizza. The mess scattered across the coffee table is massive.

“Hey,” Doug says, mouth over pizza, eyes still.

“Hi Mom. How is Nana?”

Nana, the white lie. “Oh, she’s...she’s doing great. How’s that homework coming along?”

“I only had two sheets. They were wicked easy. Want a piece?” he asks, lifting a doughy piece from the box.

She shakes her head, “That’s okay…you guys eat it. I just finished a chicken sandwich on the ride home.”

Doug studies her for a moment; opens his mouth to speak then reconsiders, a commercial punctuating his thoughts. A car salesman hovers around a shiny black Ford pick-up truck. Running his fingers along the hood’s edge, he promotes an interest-free finance plan. “Yeah, sure you will,” Doug says, skeptical.

“You wish you had that truck, Dad?”

“Nope,” Doug says, his hand cupped over his son’s knee. “There are more important things than new things, you know.”

Josh touches his chin, ponders his father’s wisdom. “Yeah,” he says back, “except when you really need something….like this year my bike will probably be too old for me.”

Doug makes a dramatic expression with his eyes and, somehow, the simple gesture prompts a tickling match. Serena watches them, feeling as though she has two children, not one, then walks away. “If someone cracks a head on the furniture, I’m not responsible,” she warns.

Doug pops up. “Alright, you got me,” he says, breathless. “I gotta’ go get something for Mom.” He stuggles to stand when Josh takes one last cheap shot.

“Joshua,” Serena says sternly, “Please help clean up this mess, and head upstairs for a shower.”

He hand-irons a rumpled shirt and begins to basketball-shoot crumpled napkins into the pizza box.

Serena and Doug head for her office. Doug closes the door. Still pink-faced from wrestling; he whispers, “I can’t believe you went to see him, Serena. What did he say?”

“He couldn’t say much…he’s struggling for his life, Doug.” She makes eye contact with the back wall as the words slip out. A large picture of Josh’s ex-soccer team, posed in a pyramid, finds her gaze. Life before…

“Exactly. He’s struggling…” Doug says, bringing her back, “what comes around goes around, Serena. Let nature take its course.” With those words, he draws a stick of Blistex from his pocket and coats his lips, then the air, with the smell of lime.

There is something specious about her husband’s composure; something she can’t put her finger on, something that rattles her to no end.

“You’re defending him?” Her nose crinkles as she holds back a temper of emotion. “Let nature take its course? Is that what you were thinking when you left him by himself at the mountain?”

Doug scrunches his eyes shut. “Here we go again, the blame. Are we going to live the rest of our lives obsessing over that incident, Serena? Our kid is back! He’s fine! We won! We’ve beat the odds!”

Serena has pushed the wrong button. Doug is unable to maintain his cool—the necessary whisper—while Josh, picking up the tab, stands frozen outside of the glass doors.

“Why are you arguing about me? Everything o.k. Mom?”


“I’m fine, honey,” she says, disgusted with herself, “just a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

An irritated Doug exits the conversation and hustles up the stairs. Josh follows his father, a series of questions in tow—do you still like Mom? Are you mad at me?

Serena, feeling incapable of saying the right thing when so much is wrong, disengages from her family and heads for the kitchen. A generous stack of dirty dishes awaits her. Leaning against the counter; she rests her forehead in her hands and thinks about Doug’s message. What comes around goes around. It’s that simple. She stands upright and moves closer to the sink, turning the water on. But what if she’s unable to wait for ‘what comes around’ to circle back to Roth?

To the madness of her thoughts, she shudders, hot water cascading over her hands. The heat feels good, therapeutic, and she leaves them there, cupped at the waterfall’s bottom, before tackling the dishes.

From the window above her sink, she can see Rosalind’s silver Mercedes gliding into the driveway. She watches her neighbor park, carry her briefcase to the front door, and key herself into the doorway. Then, she catches a glimpse of Harry, the peppery terrier, wiggling wildly at the foyer before the door closes and her neighbor is gone.

Rosalind, a financial executive, would be better at handling Serena’s situation, she thinks. A logical thinker, she’d come up with a solution that would end simply, in black or white. In her mind, Serena begins to order the events of her problem as would Rosalind: Josh was abducted. Josh was rescued. His kidnapper ended up in the hospital. He will pay for his crime when he leaves. But what if?—her mind strays, rebelling from the careful computation. Serena, stuck in shades of grey, cannot seem to think rationally.

Using a butter knife, she begins to scrape away at the surface of a frying pan that has been soaking shamefully for two days. Watered down rice has left a starchy residue on the pan, the tackiness of which requires more than a knife’s edge. She drops the ineffective tool into a pool of suds and grabs a better one, the rough side of a sponge. Scrubbing vigorously, she manages to smooth the pan down within minutes. There is something gratifying about conquering a soaking pan after two days and, feeling justified, she shuts down the water, despite a small stack of dirties that remain at the sink’s bottom, unwanted puppies at the pound.

Paranoid that someone may be watching, her eyes dart about the kitchen, inadvertently noticing her vibrating cell phone at the kitchen table. Drying her hands thoroughly, she takes a brisk walk toward it. The caller i.d. indicates that Detective Hearns is calling.
What now?—she wonders, heading for the basement to talk privately.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Davis. And how are you, this evening?”

“I’m, I’m fine.” She is not fine. Her heart is pounding recklessly.

“I have some news regarding Steven Roth that I thought you may be interested in knowing.”

Serena manages a grunt. “M-hmm?”

“The kidnapper has suffered a stroke today. Apparently, his heart rate shot up and the lack of oxygen led to cerebral damage. His speech has been impaired, along with function and movement to the right side of his body.

Serena presses a palm against her stomach and sits on the floor.

“The hospital is running an investigation as to the actual cause of this stroke. He had many complications…so there are a number of things that could have went wrong. But his doctor seems to believe that something unusual may have caused the severe rise in his blood pressure.”

“Oh, oh my gosh,” she says I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, I can tell you this much, Serena. This is not a man who will be grabbing kids any time soon.”

“But…” she says weakly, “his sentencing?”

“By law, he needs to be treated for his health and re-habilitate from the stroke. But, I can assure you, Serena, his medical condition will not have any bearing on the crime committed.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, tears falling down her cheeks.

“Looks like God had his own plan to punish this guy.”

Cell phone to ear, Serena rocks herself gently. Roth cannot speak. Her secret is safe.

“You still there?”

“Wh-what? Oh yes, I’m here, Detective Hearns…just a bit shocked by the news.”

“Well, here’s another shocker for you. Apparently a woman by the name of Cecilia Roth called the intensive care ward inquiring about her nephew’s status, only a few hours prior to the incident...”

Serena gasps, sliding the phone away from her mouth.

“Despite his stroke, when asked whether or not Roth has an aunt by the name of Cecilia, he was able to indicate ‘no’ with a head nod.”

“…and?”

“And this leads the medical staff to believe that someone entered his
room, Mrs. Davis. Uninvited.”

Serena draws in a deep breath and closes her eyes. She knows the uninvited guest. But she will not say so. At least not right now.