Chapters Seven and Eight - The Hours of Change

Chapter Seven

It is a cloudy Wednesday morning, five days following Josh’s kidnapping. Serena’s kitchen, chilled by December’s night air, feels different, almost as though aware that something sinister has happened while the family was gone.

Tightening her robe, Serena bends to the thermostat to turn the heat up while Doug enters the room in a tan blazer and faded pair of jeans. Being a sixth grade male teacher, Doug can get away with wearing jeans to work. The kids love him. The principal loves him. His diplomatic ability to work well with people, to see the other side, is contagious and Serena, still un-showered, feels inadequate to him suddenly. Her soft Swedish looks do nothing for her disposition this morning.

“Taking a sick day?” he asks, helping himself to the first cup of coffee.

She meanders to Josh’s vitamins at the counter, unscrews the cap of a multi. “I’m taking a personal day. I have a few things to take care of.”

At the coffee maker, Doug pauses to the response and Serena can see that, in his quiet gaze, he knows the possibilities that lie beneath the words. He rips open a sugar packet and Josh arrives, his energy derailing troubled thoughts. “Hey Champ.”

“Hey Dad,” he answers, climbing onto the breakfast stool. His hair is matted to one side and he is wearing a rugby shirt buttoned high at the neck. “You’re not being a teacher today, Mom?”

She hands him his vitamin, followed by a glass of juice. “I’m taking one of my personal days, honey.”

He gulps down a sip. Next, she knows, he will spin himself around and prompt a chain reaction: the chair’s back will knock the counter’s edge and chafe away at the vinyl, causing Doug’s blood pressure to spike because the stool costs money.

Unbeknownst to his colleagues; Doug can be the opposite of calm. One time, after opening a loosely capped bottle of salad dressing, he got up with his oiled shirt and left the table, fired up as though someone had played a dirty trick on him. Josh had followed him into his office with a sponge while Serena suggested soaking the shirt in warm water.

This morning is different.

Josh does not spin around and Doug does not sweat the small stuff.

“What’s a personal day, Mom?”

Doug answers from his new position at the toaster. “The school understands that we all need days off once in awhile, just to get personal things done….so they work a few days into our contract. That way we still get paid.”

“How come kids don’t get personal days?” Josh asks.

“Kids…” Serena cuts in, “have many days off. You have the summers, school vacations, snow days—”

“Yeah, but you guys are teachers, so you have those days off, too,” he interrupts, his logic undeniable.

Doug and Serena exchange a smile and the pop tarts spring up with impeccable timing. Doug plucks out a hot one, slaps it onto a paper towel, and hands it to Josh. “Here you go, pal, only thirty grams of sugar.”

“Thanks, Dad. You have one for Mom?”

“Oh, I’m good, honey,” she says, “I’m just having a grapefruit today.”

“You don’t like too much sugar, right Mom?”

She looks at her son, crumbs already dotting his lips.

“Well, I like a little bit of sugar…but the grapefruit is enough for me. Would you like some strawberries?”

“How about orange slices?”

“You got it.”

She rummages through the refrigerator fruit drawer and Doug, from behind, zooms in for a peck at her neck, his half-eaten tart dangling from his bandaged hand. “I have to run. We’re conferencing,” he says, enunciating the words with sarcasm, “on the new reading program.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll come to a decision sometime before the ball drops,” she jokes, handing him his lunch while setting two oranges down at the counter.

Doug makes his way to Josh and offers his son a bear hug before shuffling down the basement stairs, leaving behind the scent of his cologne. Already, he is missed.

“You comin’ home early today!” Josh yells down the staircase.

“Definitely!” Doug hollers back, adding, “Floor hockey re-match!”

“But you only have one good hand, Daddy!”

“Then I’ll just have to cream you, one-handed!”

Josh grins and splits his pop tart into more pieces before attacking the orange wedges.

“The problem with these oranges,” he says, showing his teeth like an angry dog, “is that the pulp gets stuck in my teeth.”

“How about you give your teeth another quick brush, then grab your silent reading book upstairs while you’re at it,” she nods back while washing dishes.

“What time is it? I don’t want to miss the bus.”

“You have plenty of time, Josh. It’s only 7:40.”

He scurries upstairs. Serena grabs a moment to think. The number to the hospital, she needs the number, intensive care. She rubs her hands dry on a dishrag and snaps open the junk drawer, deciding instantly that the chaos is too much to bear in searching the phonebook. The internet will be quicker.

Rushing over to the kitchen table, she presses open her laptop screen, turns on the computer, and taps her foot to the eternal ‘booting up’ process.

The first screen, a tropical ocean, springs to life and she begins to sign in, entering her password wrong the first time. She proceeds with a second try and, finally, she is able to navigate to the web page. She moves her cursor to the tiny window and types in Franconia Notch, New Hampshire, Hospital Intensive Care Units. Go.

Instantly, she is bombarded by information about lost hikers, accidents, and other tragedies. Then, scrolling down the page, she finds the name: Littleton Regional Hospital.

Josh is back.

“I got my book, Mom…and a chapstick,” he adds, revealing the stick, turning it up too high.

Next, she watches him unzip a small pouch at his backpack, place the chapstick inside, and prepare himself for the bus stop. Josh is the same. How can it be?

She is suspicious; worried about the sameness of Josh, despite all that he has endured. She and Doug have already sat down to discuss his feelings about what happened. Shockingly, he had somehow related to Roth’s insanity, even shared a story about the kidnapper’s divorce with his ex-wife.

It had all seemed too easy. Was he trapped in some kind of a denial?

“Josh…?” she asks tentatively.

“Yeah, mom?”

“Are you—I mean, did you—did you pack your homework?” she asks, changing the course of her question.

“I always pack it up at night…” he says, giving the backpack a final zip. “You know that, Mom.”

“Oh, what was I thinking,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s freezing out. Let’s go grab a hat and gloves for the bus stop.”

“I’m going to Tyler’s today.”

Tyler lives only two houses away, yet a jolt of fire burns her insides to the thought of him walking alone. “You’re going to Tyler’s?”

“Tyler’s—you know, the kid you knew since he was in Kim’s belly, the kid whose house is right in front of the bus stop.” The facetious tone is both daunting and appropriate.

“Hey wise guy,” she says, grabbing his gear from a basket on the floor beside the front door. “Tell Mr. Tyler that I said hello.”

He pulls a Red Sox hat over his head and flashes a wide grin. “Have a good personal day, Mom.”

She kisses the wool flap of his hat and shuts the door. Then, racing to the nearest window, she watches him walk to Tyler’s, his backpack weighing him down slightly. He passes the stop sign, then the Halloways house, until there is a small section of street where he disappears from her view.

From the deck door she will be able to see him better. She scurries to that door to await his appearance in Kim’s driveway.

He does not arrive. Her heart pounds. She waits another few seconds. An intruder enters her mind, a strange car. She is about to call Kim when the spaces between the shrubs become mottled with Joshua’s moving body.

He is there, safely there.

Hastening to finish her task with the hospital number; she grabs the cordless phone and accesses the hospital number, reading and dialing simultaneously. An automated voice lists options for her to follow. She waits for the ‘intensive care’ option. Four. She pushes the number and a person answers immediately.

“Intensive care, how may I help you?”

“Hi. My name is Cecilia Roth, great aunt of Mr. Steven Roth, a patient on your floor. Would you mind telling me of his status? I want to take a ride in to see my nephew but want to be sure it’s o.k with the staff and doctors first.”

“Can you hold, please?”

“No problem.”

The sound of classical music plays briefly.

“Hi. Thank you for holding. I’m happy to say that your nephew has made some fine progress. His condition has been changed from critical to fair.

Visiting hours are from one to eight p.m. When were you thinking of coming in?”

A wave of panic, of anger, consumes her. “Oh…that’s great news. Let me talk to my husband about making the trip and I’ll call you back.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Roth. Should I tell Steven to expect you as a visitor?”

“Ahh….actually, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to surprise my dear nephew…he’s been through an awful lot. I’d like to pick up a present for him at the gift shop before visiting. What are the hours there?”

“The gift shop is open from ten o’clock to eight p.m., Mrs. Roth.”

“Oh, perfect. Thank you.”

“Have a good day, now.”

She hangs up, her mind frozen to the devilish vision of a recovering kidnapper, the same one who took her son.


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 robin-egg blue 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 face. “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—”

“Won’t get away with this?” Her professional tone has slipped into a sharper, darker one. 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, his heart rate shoots up until the monitor is beeping wildly.

“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 of Littleton Regional Hospital.