Taken

“It’s like this: if cutting off my hands will make this man go away, and return my son to my bleeding arms, I’d do it. No hesitation. That’s the kind of bargain I’m willing to make.”

TAKEN

How far would you go to save the life of your child?

Taken

Chris Jordan

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Lynn Harnett, forever and always.

The author wishes to thank Diane Shaw and all the good folks at Piscataqua Savings Bank for sharing details of financial intrigue.

On a perfect day in the month of June, in a lovely field of green, my life starts falling apart. At five minutes after four in the afternoon, to be exact.

At ten of four things are still fine and dandy. I’m watching eagerly as the handsome boy with the aluminum bat steps out of the batter’s box and readjusts his gloves, just like A-Rod, his big-league hero. I lean forward in the dugout, but resist the impulse to shout encouragement. My son, tall and lanky for his eleven years, doesn’t mind the fact that his mom is an assistant Little League manager, but he has asked me not to shout from the sidelines like so many of the other parents. Parents who are, like, hideously uncool. His phrase. Tomas “Tommy” Bickford. My perfect, precious, truly gifted son. My amazing, maddening child. Amazing because he seems to be changing every day, sometimes from minute to minute. Maddening for the same reason, because I never know if he’s going to be my sweet little boy, goofy and affectionate, or if he’ll dis me with his soon-to-be-teen-stud coolness. Tommy can toggle between the two identities in the space of a heartbeat, and every time it happens it hits me like a soft blow to the belly.

At eleven he’s such a guy. And somehow I never imagined my son would be, well, a guy guy. What did I expect him to be? Did I think he’d stay my baby boy forever? Clinging to my apron strings? And I do wear aprons. Aprons inscribed with the logo for my catering company. I also make cookies. A thousand or so a day, for the upscale delis and restaurants in my neck of the Connecticut woods.

I like to think of myself as a warmer version of Martha Stewart. Warmer and a lot less wealthy. But doing okay in my own small way. Katherine Bickford Catering books over two hundred events a year. Peanuts compared to the really huge commercial catering firms, but more than enough to keep my twelve employees very busy indeed. Average event, eighty-five plates. Average charge per plate, sixty-two dollars. Do the math and you’ll discover that adds up to more than a million dollars gross. A million bucks! Of course, we showed a whole lot less than a million in profit, but still. And I really did start the business in my own kitchen. With a small, frightened four-year-old boy “helping” me sift the flour.

We’ve both come so far in the last seven years that it sometimes takes my breath away. Especially when I admit to myself that when we started out I was even more terrified than the four-year-old. Terrified of suddenly having to raise a child on my own. Terrified I would never get over the grief of losing Ted, the love of my life, my sweet husband. Terrified that I would simply vanish into the black hole of despair if I stopped moving or stopped mothering for even a minute.

Even now, seven years later, just thinking his name gives me a Ted-size pang of melancholy. Like a low, mournful note on a cello, quietly sounding in the deepest part of me. But the anxious fear is gone. Over time the grief has become regret, for all the things poor Ted has missed. Tommy on his first bicycle—Don’t touch me, Mom, I can do it all by myself! Tommy on his way to first grade, fiercely insisting that he not be accompanied into the school—the bravest kid in all the world that day.

Amazing boy. For the first month or so after Ted died, he came to our bed—my suddenly lonesome bed—and slept at my side in a fetal position, reaching out in his sleep as if he thought I, too, might vanish from his life. And then one day at breakfast he quietly announced that he was “too big” to sleep in his mommy’s bed. Hit me two ways, that one. Fierce pride that at four he had such a strong sense of self. And regret that he didn’t seem to need me quite as much as I needed him. At least while he slept.

How many hours did I stand in Tommy’s bedroom door that first year after Ted passed, watching him sleep? More than I care to admit. And yet just watching him helped me. As watching him now helps remind me of who I am. My first and most important identity: Tommy Bickford’s mom. Proud to be, even if he doesn’t want me shouting his name from the dugout.

What the hell, let him deal with it.

“Come on, Tommy! Clean stroke! Good at bat!”

Stepping back into the batter’s box, he shoots me a glare. Also a grin, like he knows Mom can’t help herself.

The pitcher, a husky kid who looks as if he’s been taking steroids—hasn’t, I’m sure, but he has that beefy look—peers in for the sign, flings back his arm and delivers the ball. Not exactly a fastball—I’m guessing 70 mph or so on his dad’s radar gun—but straight and true and heading right for the catcher’s mitt.