MARY CLARK - Piece of My Heart

When he had asked about the father to be, Sandra had shaken her head. “Someone she met at one of the beach bars out there. A onetime thing, she said, and completely out of the ordinary for her. She doesn’t even know the boy’s last name or how to get in touch with him again. I’m still shocked that she did something so stupid and reckless.”

Father Horrigan offered to speak to Michelle if he could be helpful, and he was surprised when she took him up on the offer. When she came to him, her face was of course fuller from her pregnancy, but she was still the same sweet, polite young woman he had met when she was a teenager. He offered the church’s support and assistance if she wanted to raise the baby, but she was adamant that her first choice was to place the child with a family who would love him as if he were their own. A sonogram had confirmed she was expecting a boy.

“I don’t want anything from them,” she had said. “And I don’t even want them to know who I am. But I want to be absolutely positive that they are good people who will give him a good life, and then I could go on with mine. But how can I be sure when so many people are not who they appear to be?”

It was one of those moments that made Father Horrigan believe that sometimes God puts people in the right place at the right time. He knew the perfect couple: Andrew and Marcy Buckley. He could still remember the relief on Michelle’s face when he described the couple who would give her baby a loving home. And, of course, the joy on the adoptive parents’ faces when they picked up Johnny at the hospital. He had taken a photograph so he could show it to Michelle. “I can tell they already love him,” she had said.

He wanted to believe that Michelle had never regretted her decision, but she never came back to church again, nor did she return his phone calls when he tried to reach out to her a few times. Sandra made the decision to switch to another parish a few months after the adoption. Seeing the Buckleys without having a relationship with her grandchild was simply too much for her to handle, she said.

Of course, Father Horrigan assumed that, as the parish office manager, Cynthia knew none of this.

“It must have been seven years since I saw Sandra last,” Cynthia said. “It’s a shame that she suddenly stopped coming.”

“Is it possible we still have her contact information?” he asked. “I’d like to give her a call.”

Maybe he could put Marcy’s mind at ease without breaking his promise to Michelle.

A few minutes later, he was back inside his house, dialing Sandra Carpenter’s number. After three rings, a woman answered.

“Hello?”

The voice at the other end of the line sounded weaker and much older than the one he remembered. “This is Father Mike Horrigan from Blessed Sacrament Church. I was looking for Sandra Carpenter.” It had been seven years since he’d spoken to her. She had probably changed her number since then.

“Well, you found me, Father Mike. How nice to hear from you.”

Her voice brightened slightly, but still seemed frail. They spent a couple of minutes chatting about her retirement from her secretarial position with the federal government and a new priest at St. John’s who was creating quite a stir incorporating what she called his “stand-up comedy routine” into his services.

“Well, I’m happy to hear you found a home there. We were sorry to lose you at Blessed Sacrament. I hope you don’t mind, but I was wondering how things worked out for Michelle. Where is she these days? Is she here in D.C.?”

He had decided that there was no need to upset Sandra or Michelle by telling them that Johnny was missing. He hoped that he could get confirmation from Sandra that Michelle was nowhere near Long Island, New York, without causing unnecessary anxiety.

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. “Sandra? Are you there?”

“I guess you didn’t hear the news.”

He could tell from the tone of her voice that the news wasn’t good. “I’m sorry. No, I didn’t.”

“I lost her.”

“Oh, Sandra. I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“I’d say I lost her the first time not long after the baby was born. She became a completely different person. Distracted. Depressed. Defeated. She withdrew from everyone she knew, including me. She lost any desire for happiness. Any thoughts of returning to college were out the window. She moved to Denver for a while, then to Philadelphia. She’d call me on birthdays and Christmas, but otherwise, she was practically a stranger.”

He told her again he was sorry. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No. My daughter died six months ago.”

“Oh, Sandra. No.”

“It was a drug overdose. The police found my number in her cell phone, so at least someone told me. I still can’t believe she’s gone. At least she knew her son has a good life. Despite everything she went through afterward, she told me that she never regretted having him or giving him a chance at a happy life. How is little Johnny, by the way?”

Chapter 13

The humming sound beneath Johnny Buckley suddenly changed. The car was slowing down. His body rocked in the trunk as they drove over a series of bumps. He believed they were pulling off the highway, maybe onto a dirt road.

The car came to a halt. The engine stopped, too. He heard one of the car doors open. Maybe it was two. He couldn’t tell. And then there was silence. Complete and total silence.

He began to take slow breaths—in and out—the way his mom had said they did in her yoga class. She told him doing that would make him calm. It had worked when she took him to the dentist. It was helping, but he was still so afraid.

Please, please don’t leave me here, all alone.

“Hello?” he cried out. “Is anyone there?”

More silence. What if no one ever came for him? What if he was never seen again and died out here by himself?

“Can anyone hear me?” His voice was louder this time, but, still, no one answered.

He pounded his palms against the top of the car trunk. “Help! Help! Someone please help me!” He yelled as loud as he could.

The trunk popped open, and he screamed from fright. A three-inch crack of light appeared between the hood and the trunk. Someone was standing behind the car. A gray T-shirt, untucked except for the spot where it hitched up over the top of a gun tucked inside the man’s waistband. That’s all Johnny could make out other than the treetops and sky around them.

“See, that’s why we needed to pull over in the middle of nowhere.” The man’s voice was deep. He sounded casual, like there was nothing weird about making Johnny ride in the trunk or the weapon only inches away from Johnny’s head. “Had to see whether you were going to act up or not.”

“Please, mister. Don’t hurt me.”

“That’s the last thing I want to do, but I will if I have to. You understand? And I can go back to that hotel and find the rest of that family, too, if you don’t do what I say. I can’t have you yelling and screaming, do you understand?”

Johnny said nothing.

“That’s better. Now… are you hungry?”

He shook his head, but then realized the man couldn’t see him any better than he could see the man. “No, my stomach hurts.”

“That’s probably nausea from the chloroform. I was afraid of that. You didn’t throw up in there, did you?”

Johnny couldn’t tell whether the man was actually worried about him or was angry about the possibility of a mess in his car. “Uh-uh.”

“Don’t say ‘uh-uh.’ It’s not polite. You’re old enough to say yes or no, properly, like a young man.”

“I’m sorry. No, I didn’t get sick.”

“That’s better. Here, you’re probably thirsty, and this will help your stomach.” The man reached in and handed Johnny a can of ginger ale.