“But this is an emergency,” Michael answered, putting in a little extra effort to make sure his desperation came through. “She has my children.” His voice cracked slightly. That was authentic.
“Yeah, I got that. But I’m sorry. We don’t give out rider information. I suggest you—”
Michael ended the call before she could finish. He didn’t need to hear her say the word “police.” It would push him to the edge of insanity.
The rest of the drive passed in a blur, something akin to blackout time. One minute he was somewhere in New York and the next he was pulling into his driveway in Lexington, with only the thrumming of his caffeine-addled brain and his exhausted muscles to show for the trip. The tidy blue colonial gave him none of the warm feelings he usually associated with coming home. The porch lights were on, along with a single light in the kitchen, but really it was the alarm system—advertised with an ADT lawn sign—that kept the burglars out.
Michael parked the car, leaving his luggage in the trunk but taking the whiskey. He entered through the front door, silencing the beep of the alarm with the push of a few buttons. He headed to the kitchen, hating the quiet. On the built-in desk stood a mini-mountain of toys and kids’ knickknacks. Sadness tore through him at seeing the faces of his children peering out at him from the artsy black-and-white family photographs that Natalie had framed and hung on a nearby wall. The pain inspired him to try again, one more call, and once more he got pushed to voicemail.
In a daze, Michael made his way to Natalie’s first-floor office, located off the kitchen. She’d taken her computer with her. “Emails,” she’d said when he asked why she felt the need to bring her laptop on vacation. “I can’t do emails on my phone, and I’m in the middle of a big project.”
She was always in the middle of a big project, so Michael thought nothing of it—until now.
What did she have on that computer? Something she might not want him to see? Something that could potentially explain what she’d done? Natalie’s desk was spartan. The drawers contained a hodgepodge of office supplies, but nothing of consequence. Still, he sifted through every scrap of paper in that desk, and even dumped out the brown grocery bags destined for the recycle bin. Nothing. It was all just trash.
Her office, like the kitchen, featured framed pictures of the family hanging on the walls. Smiles and loveable expressions gazed back at him, echoing the past. In a moment of raw clarity, Michael saw something else: the fragility of it all. This house, sturdy as could be; a marriage lasting well over a decade; children; the bond, the glue that strengthened the foundation of their lives—all of it was an illusion. It was like a building on a movie set—realistic from the outside, but pass through a doorway and you’d see the struts holding a two-dimensional shell upright. Over the course of a day, Michael made thousands of decisions, but now he understood to his core how it took only one decision, one choice, one action, to dismantle an existence, one mistake to undo it all. That wasn’t security; it was living life on a tightrope.
Michael had had enough. There was nothing here. No clue. No insight to be gleaned. Two minutes later, he was pacing between the kitchen and his wife’s office, on hold with the Lexington police department.
Lexington was a bedroom community of Boston, but police business didn’t adhere to a nine-to-five schedule. Getting a detective to pick up his call dragged on for a few minutes, affording Michael a chance to think some more about his kids. Was Natalie with it enough to give Addie her inhaler? Could she pay proper attention to the children while on the run? Running from him, of all people, their father. Stress can easily exacerbate asthma symptoms. If Natalie wasn’t careful, if she didn’t watch for the triggers, Addie could be in serious danger.
The detective finally got on the phone. He introduced himself as Detective Alan McCarthy. Michael launched right into his saga, same story he’d told the Amtrak attendant, but this time with a different ask.
“I need you to issue an Amber Alert.”
“Is she … it’s Natalie, right? Is she your wife?”
McCarthy spoke in a low, nasally voice, and Michael pictured him as a heavyset man, further weighted with fatigue, but he knew that was conjuring a stereotype.
“Yes, Natalie is my wife. She’s taken our kids, and I don’t know where she went.”
“Amber Alerts require certain criteria to be met, Mr. Hart, for us to issue one. She’s got custody, right? You aren’t divorced, or divorcing, so there’s no court order here?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, then, that’s a no. Your kids haven’t been abducted. They’re with their legal guardian.”
Michael shouldn’t have been surprised by this duplicate of his conversation with the New York City detectives. Even so, he staggered back as if McCarthy had just delivered him a body blow.
“But they may be in danger. Natalie isn’t well. She’s got a serious sleep disorder and my daughter has asthma. If my wife isn’t careful, Addie could have an attack, and it could be fatal.”
It was Michael who had shortness of breath.
“Is she suicidal? Any diagnosed psychosis?”
Michael couldn’t lie.
“No. Not to my knowledge.”
“So no self-harm, no mental health crisis, no custody violation.”
“She has insomnia,” Michael said in an imploring tone as if that would sway him.
“Who doesn’t,” replied McCarthy. “Listen, Michael, I feel for you, I really do. If I was in your situation I’d be doing the same damn thing, calling around, asking for help, but the law here is clear-cut. I can’t order an Amber Alert for your kids when they’re with their mother and legal guardian. I’m sorry. Have you filed a missing persons report?”
Michael revealed that doing so was Plan B. McCarthy then helped him fill out the correct paperwork, which took the better part of twenty minutes to complete. He provided all the pertinent information—names, dates of birth, and physical descriptions, which included a photograph of his family that he texted to a number the detective supplied.
He thanked McCarthy for his time and effort, though he wasn’t feeling particularly thankful. After ending the call, Michael grabbed the whiskey bottle, which he’d left on the kitchen island, and poured some of the liquid into a glass. He went upstairs to lie down and think. His footsteps rattled like cannon shots in the quiet of the home. Was he imagining it, or was that scent of vanilla still haunting him?