“I know. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve driven faster than the speed limit around here. When you go over to the village office to peek at the surveillance tapes, delete any footage you see of me speeding.”
“Shut up! That’s what I was going to say.”
“Well, great minds think alike.”
The doorbell chimes, and Misty runs to answer it. “Betsy, you stay sitting. I’ll let the officers in.”
It’s the same two young officers as before, reminding me again that I’m getting older. After this baby is born, I’m headed straight to the cosmetics counter to purchase wrinkle cream. Maybe I’ll get Botox and a tummy tuck, too. The way things are going with Steven, who knows? I may have to start dating again.
The lanky man in front of me—only twenty-five years old—has his notepad open and a bead of sweat dripping off his left brow.
“Another note arrived,” I say to the officer. “As I told you the last time you were here, Officer…Flaggler, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t know who placed the notes, but they all have the same type of paper and writing. I also have digital files of my security videos I can email you. I can’t be certain the phone call was from the same person, but I just assumed…”
“Mrs. Ryan, we will add this new information to your original complaint, and look for other leads,” he says. “I’ll take the letters for fingerprints and other testing. You can email your video links over and we’ll add them to the paperwork. If you have an immediate threat or see or hear something suspicious, please call us right away. Do you still have the card I gave you the last time I was here?”
“Yes, I have it over there in my desk. I understand you’re doing the best you can.” No, I don’t. I wish they could do more to solve this! “You should talk to my children’s school office to find out if they have a description of who delivered the note there, as well my doctor’s receptionist.” I jot down the information and hand the scrap of paper to the officer, “Here’s a list of who I know has a key to my side gate.”
I don’t know if it will help, but I must try. I realize it must be difficult to pinpoint an unknown person delivering crude notes to a suburban mom, but for cripes sake, there must be something else they can do.
“We’ll talk to them,” Officer Wilson, standing beside him, says in a softer tone. “If we unearth any clues I’ll contact you immediately. Keep your eyes and ears open and get in touch with us right away. Thanks for this list. We’re just a phone call away… Oh, and remember to stay off your feet.” She’s tiny, with noticeable strength in her legs, torso, and arms. Her silky, black, shoulder-length hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail. Who says chicks can’t be strong cops?
“Okay,” Misty and I chime in. While still seated, I shake hands with the officers.
Misty walks the officers down the hall and to the door. After they leave, she closes it gently. “Well, that went as expected.” She quirks her left cheek, causing the side of her mouth to smirk. I lift my attention from the lit screen in front of me and nod in agreement, then turn my focus back to the computer to search for the Village Hall website. I need take matters into my own hands.
“Tomorrow, I’ll take the kids to school and then run over to the village to find out about their security cameras,” I explain. “I understand that without substantial eyewitnesses, the police can’t make much headway, but I have to keep trying.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea? I mean, you were flowing like a river just a few hours ago and now you want to play CSI: North Shore?” Her comment causes me to giggle.
I shrug. “I’m fine, but I appreciate the reference! The medication Dr. Deller gives me helps prevent pre-term labor, he says.”
“Then why in God’s name didn’t he give it to you before the other miscarriages?”
“It’s a newer treatment.”
“Oh, so you’re a guinea pig? Do you trust him?” She dips her chin and raises her eyebrows.
“Honestly, Misty, I do trust him, but there’s a nagging pull in my gut, warning me about something related to him or his office. I just can’t put my finger on it right now. He’s really trying to help with the baby. He reminds me of my dad. Honest, sincere.”
“Ex-cuuuuse me, didn’t you say that you felt a creepy vibe around him a few hours ago? What’s changed?”
“For one, I feel better—not so panicked. I’m sure I overreacted. And two, I believe he’s so incredibly sad about his wife,” I say, looking down at my belly. “His grief touched me. It’s encouraged me to try and repair my fractured marriage. At least my husband is alive, and there’s an opportunity to talk things through with him and find out why he’s been acting stressed and angry lately. I can only imagine what it would be like losing a spouse and not having the opportunity to have things settled and be at peace.”
Misty’s cold look reminds me to tread lightly around the subject of husbands. “Okay, but don’t talk like that to a divorcee.” I feel bad. She is the kind of person I can trust and don’t have to watch what I say when I’m with her—one who wouldn’t hold it against me if I say something stupid, like I just did.
Barney is pacing back and forth across the living room floor, trying to get my attention. He must sense that Steven hasn’t come home and he’s worried, or he may have to go out again. I ask Misty to take him for another walk and help me get the kids to bed. I owe her, big time.
Later that night, just as I get settled in bed, the blasted phone rings. “Hello?” I whisper into the receiver.
“Hey babe, it’s me. How are you and the boys doing?”
“Oh, I’m okay. I had a little bit of spotting today, but the doctor checked me out and everything seems fine. How about you?” Remember, Betsy, not a word about the stalker. He shouldn’t have taken that flight to San Francisco. He should have stayed home to work through everything before he left. Dropping the ball on me about moving, the night before he leaves? Who does that? I know he’ll feel terrible once I do tell him about the stalker, but maybe I don’t want to deal with him being home right now. I’m safe with my parents, Misty, and the police.
“Spotting? Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Yes, the baby’s fine.”
“Okay, I trust your judgment, but listen, I just spoke with your dad.” There’s a warm sincerity in Steven’s voice I haven’t heard in a while. “I didn’t want to start our call in an alarming way, but he told me about the pink notes and threatening call.”
“I’m fine, Steven. I’m sure it’s just some prank, honestly.” Nostrils flare. I’m not sure why I still feel the need to fib to my husband. I guess I’m still angry and don’t want to face this truth with him. I give in, “When are you coming home?” Did I come across helpless? Do I even care what he thinks? Yes.
“Well, that’s why I’m calling you. After I talked to your dad I told my boss I had to fly home for a family emergency. I’m at the airport right now, waiting to board my flight. I should be back early tomorrow morning.”
“Oh! Really?” A once-lost rush of warmth stirs inside for the big lug. “That’s great because truth be told, I’m kind of scared and could use your big shoulders to support and protect me.” I just spilled the beans. And, was I flirting with my own husband? “I didn’t want to bother you during this important time for work, and honestly I didn’t think it was a threat until more notes started arriving,” I hear myself gush. “I have the police, my parents, and Misty here to help me, honey. I thought it would be fine. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” I stare at our wedding picture over on the dresser, remembering how happy we were. I know we can get there again. A thin smile finds its way to my face.
“Don’t you worry, babe, I’ll make sure everything is okay. Oh, that’s my flight. I’ll see you when I get home. Love you.”
Dreaming is something I do well. Since the first time I became pregnant, I’ve started to understand this mother’s intuition thing more clearly. My awareness heightens
, I experience coincidences more often, and I imagine things and then they happen. I’ve heard this phenomenon is common when women are expecting, but to experience it firsthand is miraculous.
Tonight. I’m dreaming that Barney and I are having a practical conversation while sitting together in my room on the hardwood floor. Barney’s voice is like a twenty-year-old college guy as he warns me, “Mom, I smelled something very familiar on those pink notes—a scent that’s been around you other times.”
Dreaming, I respond, “Oh Barney, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know, Mom, but I’m bummed about that dead bird. I know the bad man did it so he could get my attention.”
My dream continues as I ask Barney if he thinks my doctor has anything to do with this mystery.
“Mom, I know the doctor is a helpful man, but I feel unsure about him—there’s some smell near him.”
I nod, still dreaming.
“Mom, I miss having Dad around. What I mean is, I like my belly rubs and walks with you, but they’re different with Dad—more boy-like.” He leans in so I can scratch behind his ears.
Roooww, roooww, roooww!
Half awake and trying to blink the blur from my eyes, I hear my dog barking in a very agitated way while pacing back and forth next to my bed.
Now fully awake, I roll over a mountain of pillows and realize the phone is ringing. The red glowing numbers on the bedside clock indicate it’s 5:45 a.m. as I blindly fumble for the phone situated next to it.
“Mrs. Ryan?”
A voice I don’t recognize. What’s wrong? I hope it’s not the stalker. “Yes?” I reply, my response barely above a whisper.
“This is Officer Jon Meacham at Good Faith Hospital. I’m sorry to say your husband has been in an accident.”
Rubbing my sore eyes and brow, I choke on the words, “Steven? What happened?”
“The doctors are working on him now,” he says. “You should get here as soon as possible.”
“Is he okay?” My voice becomes increasingly stern, but I don’t care.
I hear a deep exhale on the other end of the line. “They brought him in unconscious. We won’t know until he gets out of surgery.”
Trying to register what I’m hearing, I reply, “Uh… Should I come to the hospital…or…I mean, what time will he be out of surgery?”
“Ma’am, I think you should come now, just in case…”
“In case what?”
“Just please come to the ER, as soon as you can.”
Knowing they’ll be awake getting ready for their morning walk, I quickly text my parents to come over right away. I scramble out of bed, almost tripping over Barney, who is crouching down, scared, on the floor. There’s not a doubt in my mind that he understands something bad is happening. I take a few seconds to squat down and squeeze him tight and lovingly. Now sitting cross-legged on the cold floor with tears welling up in my eyes, I tell him, “Everything will be okay, puppy. I’m going to see Daddy.”
Sitting in place, Barney curls up on my lap and starts licking my leg. He snuggles in between my knees, pawing at my arm. Our gaze locked. I know we are sharing a connection that is much stronger than most people could ever imagine. Is it my imagination or does my dog feel my pain? Maybe he’s trying to comfort me during this horrible experience? It’s possible I’m still dreaming and I’m wishing for a personal connection with my dog to help me cope. I look him straight in the eyes and say, “I wish you could understand me—the actual words I’m saying. I’m so worried about Steven.”
He studies me with deliberate attention then starts to wag his tail, jumping his front paws up and down.
Caught completely off guard, I nudge myself closer to Barney and hug him tighter. A reassuring embrace I need right now. The look we share tells me all I need to know. I believe he’s going to stay by my side and protect me from whatever happens for as long as he lives. At least, that’s what I think.
Before heading downstairs to update my parents and get to the hospital, I lean in and give my dog another extra-long hug and say, “Thank you, Barney, I love you.”
Thankfully, my parents live close by. The relationship we share is very symbiotic. They’re always here for me; I need them right now. I can’t lose my husband or my baby.
“Thanks for coming over and agreeing to help with the boys this morning.” We exchange quick hugs as I continue, “The boys are still sleeping, but when they wake up please feed them, grab their backpacks, and get them to school. You can tell them I had a morning meeting and I’ll pick them up later, okay?”
I pause and catch my breath and continue what I know is rambling. They know what to do. They’ve done it hundreds of times. My panic about Steven seems to be showing itself in an odd, overly talkative way. “Please don’t mention any of this to them. Also, Mom can you feed Barney and make your awesome Grandma Pancake recipe for the boys? Save one for me.”
“It’s no problem, honey,” Dad responds with a sympathetic smile. “Once you get any other details from the hospital, remember to call us. Now get going.”
“I’ll pray for Steven and don’t worry about the boys, I’ll get started on my recipe right away and wrap one up for you to eat when you return.” Mom replies with a supportive smile.
Whenever I would get extremely stressed or worried, my Mom would come to the rescue with her grandmother’s secret recipe of paper-thin crêpes—love from the kitchen. She called them Grandma Pancakes, complete with warm syrup and a dollop of whipped cream on top. My great-grandmother brought the recipe with her when she arrived in this country from Sweden. I used to roll them with a fork, stuff a piece of crispy bacon in the middle, and eat it like a hot dog. Instantly, my Mother’s love from the kitchen would make everything seem better. Now, I can focus all my energy on my husband, because I know my boys are in good hands.
I’ve always disliked hospitals. I appreciate what they offer the masses, but I associate them with illness and death and that “particular” smell: industrial strength cleaners, medicines, and oddly unhealthy food. This hospital is no different. Smells aside, this one is quite nice as far as hospitals go. I know because I gave birth to both of my sons here, in the new women’s wing. It’s a state-of-the-art facility with shiny, high-tech equipment and a clean, modern décor throughout the halls. Medicine has come such a long way. Now they even have medication to help moms-to-be avoid going into preterm labor. Let’s hope they work.
Dressing while you’re half-asleep can be risky business. I glimpse at my outfit in a window as I’m rushing down the hallway and chuckle despite my heartache and anxiety. Pink Lacoste polo (in place of my Pooh nightshirt) and teddy bear pajama bottoms with brown Ralph Lauren sneakers—no socks in sight. What in the world? Why didn’t Mom or Dad say anything? I guess we were a little distracted this morning.
I speed walk past reprint paintings of mountains and trees on the walls to the ER’s reception desk, arriving out of breath. I mumble something to the person there about needing to find my husband, Steven Ryan. She informs me he was moved and gives me directions to the ICU check-in desk near his room, three floors up.
In the elevator, I share the space with a gurney carrying a young child with a broken leg. It’s clear she’s medicated. Her little brown eyes, peeping through her brown, wavy bangs, have that starry gaze. Her mother is clutching the side rail of the moving bed, wiping her sniffling nose with the tissue in her other hand. This, is why I don’t like hospitals.
Steven is in intensive care. Meanwhile I’m also in need of intense care—mentally, emotionally, and physically. We are quite the pair. I brace myself for Steven’s condition and approach his room, escorted by the nurse.
I watch him in the hospital bed, slowly breathing in and out, so helpless; his tan, strong arms move rhythmically with each exhale. The purplish-red bruises on his face and the stains of blood in his hair indicate the accident was serious. No one has taken the time to tell me what happened, but clearly it could have been fatal. I’ll hav
e to get a full report from the doctor when I see him.
I decide to get silent, block out the external sounds, and hone in on Steven to see if I can pick up on anything in his subconscious—now that I know women are very intuitive when they’re pregnant, I figure it’s worth a try. In meditation class, people are always talking about how intuition works. There’s always a first time for everything. Focusing this way will help me cope and maintain my composure.
I close my eyes, open my heart, and clear the clutter in my mind for what feels like a very long time—just breathing. I’ve seen psychics on television communicate with people through their minds, so it must work.
Silence.
Steven.
Betsy?
Can you hear me?
I can hear you! I think.
Your heart is beating, fast. The baby is here with us. She’s beautiful.
OH. MY. GOD. I can’t believe my thoughts. I can actually hear and feel him in my heart. The butterflies whirling inside give me the sensation that I’m floating, filled with momentary bliss. Eyes closed, I sit as still as possible, clutching on to this fleeting moment while my rigid grip on the chair keeps me grounded. I don’t want it to end. Is this what it feels like to be in the presence of angels?
Suddenly, someone drops a metal tray off in the distance, shaking me from my meditation. My eyes pop open and adjust to the blurry background of blinking lights. My mind races with hundreds of thoughts, questioning where I am and who is here with me. Whoa, what did I just experience? Was I imagining what I heard—making it up? Also important, did he just say, she?
Wait—I was communicating with my husband! Like a chocoholic looking for another candy bar, I desperately close my eyes again and try to recreate the miraculous experience once more. I have so much to ask.
This chair is uncomfortable. The nurse’s station is making too much noise, and I’m starving. Ugh, I can’t do this. How did I do it before? Maybe I need to not try, to get back into that weird, floating place. This is so foreign to me. How do those psychics do it on television? I used to think they were phony, but I just did it. I must try again.