A Strangely Amazing Mother’s Day #3
He didn’t wait for introductions. “Something bad happened! Something bad . . . and I’m praying, praying that we can find her before . . . well, she could have the baby at any time! If she’s been taken, if she tried to fight . . .”
“Mr. Lawson, we understand the situation,” Angela told him quickly, her tone even as she always managed to keep it—assuring.
“And we’re going to help you find Cindy.
May we come in for a minute? Jackson is going to go over particulars with you, and I’m going to head around the neighborhood and see if any of your friends or even acquaintances around here saw anything. But I’d like to see the house first.”
“Of course, of course, come in. There is an odd smell in the house. I thought maybe she had one of the soothing incense things burning . . . or one of her candles. She loves candles. It’s like a sweet smell, fading now,” Lawson said anxiously.
“She left her purse and phone on the table there as she always does. But when I got here, the door was locked like usual. Even here, we lock up all the time!”
“Anyone else have a key?” Jackson asked.
“No. But Cindy’s key is gone. And of course, people would say oh how obvious, she went for a walk somewhere, took off with a friend .
. . but she didn’t! She was waiting for me.
She was excited about the lecture, but equally excited that we’d just be chilling here for Mother’s Day .
. . being parents, feeling our little guy kick in her belly!
And she was already in the kitchen—we weren’t drinking, of course, but we had some sparkling juice so that today we can make an occasion and .
. . she didn’t just leave!” he finished desperately.
Jackson believed the man. He looked at Angela and after their years together, he could see far behind the blond beauty she naturally maintained to know the look she gave him in return was one that expressed her belief in the man as well.
“Well, I’m off to knock on doors,” Angela said.
“I’ll see you out. And then, Mr. Lawson, you and I need to talk. You think of anything possible at all,” Jackson told the man.
“She doesn’t have any enemies!” Marty said. “Everyone loves her.”
“Maybe someone loves her a little too much,” Angela said beneath her breath, just loud enough for Jackson to hear.
He gave her a nod, and as she left, he closed the door. He turned back, hoping there was something, no matter how minute, that Marty Lawson might be able to give him.
It could be a weird world, he knew so well. But women didn’t disappear into thin air.
*
The Dream … or the Nightmare
Cindy
She felt strangely as if she was floating on a bed of flowers at first.
And then she opened her eyes and blinked and blinked.
And the face of a stranger was staring down at her, smiling. His face was young; he was perhaps in his mid-twenties, as she was. Nice looking, handsome, dark eyes, reddish hair, and that smile, but . . .
She could not quite sit up. At first, she wasn’t sure she could talk. Then when she managed to do so, her words spat out in a massive rush.
“Who are you? Where am I? Where, where? And what am I doing here? I’m supposed to be home. My husband will be worried. What are you doing with me? Who are you? Why, why, am I here?”
“Donna, my love, please calm down. It’s just part of that sedative the doctor gave you; he said it might make you a little woozy, but it wouldn’t hurt you or the baby. Sweetheart, you were getting so stressed!” he said.
She still couldn’t quite manage to sit-up.
Of course, sitting up from lying down like this has not been easy for a while now.
But her head seemed to be filled with fog. Was she dreaming? Was this a kind of late-stage pregnancy nightmare?
“Who are you?” she whispered her.
“Oh, Donna, Donna, it’s me! David—your husband. Father of the wee one you’re soon to have! Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I should have said a resounding no. But you’ve been getting a little stressed out, and I thought you needed a good rest. And you agreed.”
“I’m not Donna and you’re not my husband!” she said.
He looked so sad—so confused. It almost made her question her own sanity.
“Donna, it’s me, David, your husband,” he said very gently. “David Johnstone. And we’re both so excited about the baby. And my beloved, my darling, my wife, I need you to rest, to feel better . . . the baby could come anytime.”
“The baby isn’t due for four weeks.” she informed him.
“Oh, sweetheart, no. He said we must be ready at any time. A baby sometimes decides for itself when it’s ready to come out. And the stress you’ve been under . . .”
“I haven’t been under stress! I’m not Donna. You may be David, but you’re not my husband and this isn’t—”
She broke off, looking around. Had she somehow gone stark, raving mad?
He was seated by her side. She was lying on a velvet covered loveseat that sat across from a crib, sheeted, freshly prepared for a newborn with a dangling puppy mobile hanging above it.
The walls were filled with fun pictures painted a light blue.
There were boxes of diapers for newborns about the room, and stuffed toys sat atop dressers she assumed were filled with all kinds of clothing for an infant.
She stared at the man. David. It could have all been right; they were both of an age. This room was prepared for an infant.
She was near her time to give birth.
But she wasn’t Donna! And he wasn’t Marty—and this wasn’t her home.
Marty . . .
He must be losing his mind!
Or . . .
She had already lost hers!
And worse. Something was happening with her body, with . . .
No! Please no, no! She couldn’t be going into the early stages of labor in the middle of a nightmare of . . . pure, simple insanity!
*
Angela
“Well,” Mrs. Thornton said, “Of course, I see people coming and going from that house. The Lawsons are having a baby. One of those chain baby stores delivered a crib, I think, went away with big boxes . . . let’s see, you know, the mailman .
. . some other delivery truck. Now, I don’t think she was home to let anybody in until this afternoon but .
. . um, right before or right after, I guess, something big was delivered.
But those two couldn’t be more excited about the baby.
Nice people. They’re loved in the neighborhood. ”
The Thornton house was the third on the street Angela had visited and each time, she was getting the same story.
Deliveries.
Yes, one man had seen her come home. No. He hadn’t seen her leave. Her car was still there, right? Had they checked out the whole house?
Yes, Angela was certain that had been done.
She was about to keep moving on down the street when she paused.
No one had seen her go out front.
What if she had gone out back? What if she had run through her back yard into the yard behind her house and out to the street from that yard or even into a neighbor’s house or perhaps out to the street to meet a friend who had gotten lost on the way to her house. . .
No. That one was too far-fetched. But maybe—
She wasn’t going to check back in. Jackson would be drawing anything he could out of Marty Lawson; he was great at getting any possible information. Besides, she was still knocking at doors, just in a slightly different direction than she had intended to go.
She patted the side of her jacket, habit, assuring herself that her Glock was in place in its holster. She wasn’t expecting any trouble; but she’d learned long, long ago that trouble could occur just about any time and anywhere.
Both backyards were nicely manicured, filled with expanses of very green grass. Winter might never have been. Trees and flowers were about. It was a neighborhood where people tended to their lawns.
There was a backdoor, but she was asking for help. She’d go around to the front.
But it was while she was on her way to the front door that she was stopped in a strange and surprising manner.
“Miss!”
There had been no one there; she was sure of that.
And now there was. Of course, she hadn’t seen him at first because he was among the spirits who—for whatever their reasons—remained when their mortal lives had come to an end.
She didn’t think he’d been dead long, though with men’s clothing it was sometimes hard to tell. He’d been buried in a handsome suit, and he’d died as an older man. He had maintained a headful of snow-white hair and sported a nicely trimmed beard and mustache combo.
“Sir,” she said, somewhat surprised he had approached her as he had.
Spirits or “ghosts” seldom expected the living to be able to see them.
Krewe members usually had to identify themselves and then get the spirits they encountered beyond their surprise to speak with them and be able to help them. But this fellow . . .
“You are one!” the ghost said, pleased that he had recognized her. “You have something about you, oh, something beautiful, of course!” For a moment, he smiled, but then his smile faded.
“You’re looking for the pregnant lass,” he said.
“I am. Do you know where she is, what’s happened—” Angela began.
“Wait! You must listen to me and understand what I’m going to explain. You cannot, you mustn’t hurt Davie! Because until you understand, I cannot help you.” he told her.
“I’m ready to listen!” she assured him.