Graduation Day
On a hot, humid evening in late May, Anthony Cushing sat on a wooden folding chair in the middle of the university's athletic field. The smell of mown grass mingled with the scent of dozens of different perfumes, colognes and aftershaves to form a strong and discordant odor. The people that were sitting around him, packed like sardines in a can, were all dressed for the special occasion. Men wore suits and ties; women wore dresses and nylons. All were uncomfortable on the unseasonably warm day. But the unpleasant smell, overcrowding and heat did not dampen people's spirits, for it was graduation day. Family members and close friends were willing to endure these discomforts to see their loved ones don caps and gowns and march up to the bleachers to accept their diplomas.
Anthony and his wife were no different. Callan, their only child, was one of the graduates. The fact that she had achieved summa cum laude honors increased their parental pride and joy.
"Our baby is all grown up," Julie Cushing announced with mixed emotions.
The tears that threatened to fall were not only tears of joy. She knew her marriage was on shaky ground and suspected that now that Callan was out of school, the couple would soon separate.
"Before you know it, she'll be out of the house," Anthony replied.
And so will you, his wife thought sadly.
She then reminded herself that this was a happy occasion. It was Callan's day, and they were there to celebrate it with her.
Promptly at six o'clock, the bandleader raised his baton, and the young musicians began to play Sir Edward Elgar's "Pomp and Circumstance." That was the signal for the procession to start. The audience rose from their folding chairs en masse with their cell phones ready to capture the moment for posterity.
"Do you see her?" Julie eagerly asked.
"Not yet."
"There's Sylvana," Anthony said, pointing out one of his daughter's close friends. "And I see Eve, too."
Julie, who still preferred taking pictures with an old-fashioned camera, had her Nikon Coolpix in hand.
"There she is!" her husband cried.
The proud mother raised her camera, zoomed in on her daughter's face and pressed the shutter button. Once Callan neared the bleachers, she switched to video mode. She did not stop filming until the entire graduating class sat down.
"Here come the speeches," Anthony groaned. "Wake me when they're over."
"Come on! I'm sure they won't be that bad."
"No, but you can bet they'll be long."
Forty minutes later, Dean Werner Bodin took center stage and, after a few words, presented the class of 2008. Angelica Perrine, the class valedictorian, stepped up to the microphone to announce her classmates' names as the dean passed out the diplomas.
"Mikhail Petrov," Angelica said, giving the cue to Mikhail to cross the platform, shake hands with Dr. Bodin and take his diploma.
Fifty-six more names were called before their daughter's.
"Callan Cushing," Angelica announced.
Julie raised her camera again to film her daughter's moment of academic triumph. After a quick glance in her parents' direction, Callan walked back to her seat in the bleachers. Anthony watched his wife lower her camera. There were tears in her eyes despite the smile on her face. For a moment, he saw not his wife of twenty-five years but the pretty girl he met at his cousin's wedding.
She was so adorable! he thought nostalgically.
"I think I'll have this picture enlarged and framed," Julie said, showing him the image on her camera screen.
Anthony's gaze went from the Nikon to his wife's wrist. For their twentieth anniversary, he bought her a diamond tennis bracelet, yet more often than not, she wore the cheap Peanuts charm bracelet Callan gave her as a Christmas present when she was ten years old. Originally, it featured all of Charles Schulz's beloved characters. Sadly, Julie lost Lucy during a family outing to the beach eight years ago.
The Cushings had little interest in the rest of the ceremony. In fact, they were eager to see it end so that they could take their daughter out to dinner.
"Marcellus Moreno," Angelica said, and the next student walked toward Dr. Bodin.
The valedictorian was about to say Joaquin Glidden's name when suddenly, there came the sound of gunfire. Screams of fear and cries of pain quickly followed. Not one, but two young men were firing automatic weapons. One gunman targeted the graduates, and the other one sprayed deadly gunfire into the audience. Pandemonium reigned. People wanted to run to safety, but they were in an open field with no shelter in sight. Many ducked down on the ground between the rows of folding chairs. Roddy Hardcastle, an off-duty policeman whose son was the quarterback of the university's football team, tried to restrain one of the shooters but was killed in the attempt.
Julie, more concerned for her daughter's safety than her own, wanted to get to the bleachers.
"Stay down!" her husband yelled, tugging on her arm.
"I need to be sure that Callan is all right," the worried mother argued and pulled free of her husband's grasp.
"You have to ...."
Anthony felt a sharp pain in his shoulder.
"I've been hit," he said through gritted teeth.
In his peripheral vision, he saw his wife try to navigate her way through the chairs and crouching people. A moment later, she fell to the ground, bleeding.
"Julie!"
Her husband attempted to go to her, but he never made it. Another bullet struck him as he rose to his feet. As consciousness slipped away, he heard the welcome sound of police sirens in the distance.
* * *
No attempt was made to negotiate with the gunmen. Instead, the SWAT team was called in, and trained marksmen promptly ended the threat by shooting the two killers. Once police confirmed both young men were dead, the ambulances began arriving. Emergency medical technicians quickly performed triage to determine which patients needed immediate care. The dead were carried off the field and taken to the school's gym to await official identification.
Several of the people who had not been shot volunteered to help with the rescue efforts. Mia Zambora, a maternity nurse, was the first person to come to Anthony Cushing's aid. When she took his arm to check his pulse, his eyes fluttered open.
"Julie," he muttered.
"Just be still," Mia instructed. "We'll get you to the hospital as soon as we can."
"My wife ...."
He turned his head and saw Julie lying on a gurney and being taken to a waiting ambulance.
"I have to know if she's all right."
Hospitals and rescue squads from three counties sent ambulances. Dozens came and went. They picked up the injured, drove them to one of several different emergency rooms and returned for more victims. Since his injuries were not life-threatening, Anthony had to wait over an hour to be transported to St. Mary's Hospital. The entire time he lay on the ground, bleeding and in pain, his thoughts were on his wife and daughter. Were they both okay?
What a damned fool I've been! he thought guiltily. I had a wonderful family, and I took them for granted.
Glenda, the young woman he had been seeing for the past four months, was only three years older than Callan. He was literally old enough to be her father. Why had he put his marriage in jeopardy? Was it because Glenda made him feel young? He wasn't; his youth was gone, and no woman could bring it back.
I'll be fifty next year. Why the hell am I cheating on my wife with a twenty-four-year-old?
And what did Glenda see in him? It certainly wasn't his looks, which were average, at best. It was more likely the underpaid secretary enjoyed the dinners in the five-star restaurants he took her to, the orchids and roses he sent her and the jewelry he bought her.
I've been an ass! I only hope Julie is okay, and I can make it up to her.
Once he got to the emergency room, the waiting continued. It was forty minutes before someone came to ask him his name and inquire about his insurance coverage.
"Can you tell me if Julie Cushing—that's my wife—was brought here? She was put in an ambulance before me."
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's been a madhouse here tonight. If she is in this hospital, someone will eventually let you know."
In the aftermath of a mass shooting, no one had time to locate missing loved ones. They were too busy trying to save lives. Anthony was the thirty-seventh patient to be brought to St. Mary's that evening. At midnight, he was still waiting to be examined by an emergency room physician. Of the thirty-six patients who had arrived before him, fifteen were out of surgery and in intensive care, eight were in the process of being operated on, six expired and were sent to the morgue, and the others were in line to be examined. It wasn't until after 3:00 a.m. that Dr. Gorgio Vallone examined him.
"Where were you hit?" the physician asked.
"The shoulder and the leg," he replied.
"It looks as though the bullet only grazed your upper arm. We'll need to remove the one in your leg, though. Nurse," the doctor called, "prepare this man for surgery."
Moments later, the exhausted Dr. Vallone was examining Nehemiah Goetz, the thirty-eighth patient brought to St. Mary's. There were dozens more to be seen after him.
* * *
Since the beds at St. Mary's were all filled, Anthony was lying on a gurney in the hall.
"Excuse me," he called to a middle-aged nurse who looked as though she hadn't slept for three days.
"We'll get you into a room as soon as one is available, sir," she said.
"I'm not worried about that. I want to know about my wife and daughter, Julie and Callan Cushing."
"There's no one by either name on this floor. If they were brought to St. Mary's, they might be somewhere else in the hospital."
"Could you check for me? Please?"
"Our chaplain is contacting loved ones for the patients. Just sit tight for now. He'll get to you soon."
Before Father Domenico appeared, however, Anthony saw a familiar face walking toward him that set his heart somewhat at ease.
"Callan!" he cried. "Thank God you're all right!"
"Are you okay? What happened?" she asked, taking hold of his hand.
"I got shot twice. The first bullet grazed my shoulder. The second one entered my leg. I had to undergo surgery to remove it."
"And Mom? Where is she?"
"I saw her being put into an ambulance, but I don't know where it took her. I asked several people, but no one seems to know anything," he replied. "Either that or they're too busy to look for her."
"That's understandable. There were so many ambulances, and the victims were taken to several hospitals. It may be a while before we hear anything. I'll call around and see what I can find out, though. Did you get the name on the ambulance?"
"No. I didn't."
"The cops ascertained the identity of the killers. They were both former students at the university."
"Were they arrested?" asked her father, who had been unconscious when the police arrived.
"Hell, no! SWAT came in and shot them on sight."
"I can't say that I feel sorry for them," Anthony sighed.
"Me either. The police haven't released any final figures, but early reports say that more than a hundred people were killed. And they expect more deaths." When Callan saw the panicked look on her father's face, she quickly added, "But I'm sure Mom is okay."
"I hope so."
"Did the doctors say when you can go home?"
"The only person I saw all morning was an overworked nurse."
The father-daughter visit was cut short when an orderly arrived and announced that Anthony was being moved from the hall into a room.
"I'll see you later, Dad," Callan said.
"You're leaving?"
"I want to stop by the information desk and see if Mom is a patient at this hospital. If not, I'm going to go home and start making those phone calls."
"Come see me later, okay?"
"You bet."
* * *
In the aftermath of the shooting came outrage. Fueled by the horrific accounts in the media, people demanded tougher gun laws. As often happens in America after mass shootings, gun owners touted their Second Amendment rights and put the blame on the college for not instituting tougher security measures.
"The ceremony was held outdoors, for Christ's sake!" Callan exclaimed after reading a Facebook comment by one such person. "What were they to do? Install metal detectors on the football field?"
Disgusted by some people's reactions to the tragedy, she closed the lid on her laptop and went for a walk. The moment she opened her front door, however, a young man stepped out of his car, which was parked across the street.
"Excuse me," he called to her. "My name is Kieran Keneally. I'm with WKLN News. I understand you were one of the graduates."
"Please leave me alone."
"I just have a few questions. It won't take long."
"Don't you have a conscience?" she screamed, taking her emotional torment out on the unsuspecting newsman. "My father was injured, and I lost my mother."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't aware your mother was killed."
"I don't know if she was. We haven't been able to find her yet."
"What do you mean?" Kieran asked, sensing a good story and hoping to get an exclusive. "It's been almost a week since the shooting."
"She was taken away in an ambulance, and I haven't been able to locate her."
"Perhaps I can help."
Callan's anger was then directed at herself. Why hadn't she thought of going to the media to find her missing mother?
"Won't you come inside where we can talk privately?" she asked.
Over coffee, she relayed to the reporter what her father had told and described her attempts to locate her missing parent.
"If your father was barely conscious at the time, it might not have been your mother he saw being put into the ambulance," Kieran suggested. "It might have been another woman, and he only imagined it was his wife."
"No, I mentioned that possibility to him myself, and he swears it was her."
"Have you gone to the police?" the reporter asked.
"Of course, I did. But they're no help. They keep telling me to wait, that she'll show up. The detective I spoke to believes she's in a hospital somewhere, either in a coma or suffering from temporary amnesia. He's sure that once the doctors discover her identity, they'll contact us."
"But you don't agree with him?"
"My mother has identification in her handbag," Callan contended, "and since it wasn't found at the scene, I assume she had it on her when she was taken away."
"Someone might have stolen it," Kieran theorized. "I once covered a fire, and saw a thief stealing the watch off a dead man's wrist."
"How could people stoop to such behavior!"
"I suppose they have no conscience."
"Like reporters, huh?" she teased.
"I'm not some gossip-hungry paparazzi," he said defensively.
"I know. Can you run my mother's photo on the news? Maybe someone in your viewing audience knows where she is."
"Of course. In fact, I think your best hope of finding her is to treat this like a typical missing persons case. Start by printing flyers and distributing them throughout town. Make a televised plea asking for information. Get her name on the national databases. Hell, if you get no results, call in the state police, the FBI and John Walsh, if necessary."
* * *
Although Kieran Keneally's coverage of Julie Cushing's bizarre disappearance earned him national recognition and eventually led to a job offer from CNN, it, unfortunately, did not lead to the missing's woman discovery.
"I don't know what more we can do," Anthony said despondently on the third anniversary of the shooting.
"Kieran is talking to producers at truTV about doing an episode about Mom's disappearance," Callan told her father.
"I have mixed feelings about that. As much as I want to find your mother, I don't want to deal with all the crazies that TV coverage brings out. Remember when 20/20 ran a show about her? We had all kinds of weirdos phoning us and showing up on our doorstep: psychics, paranormal investigators, amateur sleuths and one nut who claimed he was your mother's long-lost son!"
"We can't give up hope."
"I'm not, but there comes a time when we have to get on with our lives."
"What are you saying?" Callan asked, fearing her father might rekindle his former romance with Glenda or enter a new one with another young girl.
"I'm saying when are you and Kieran going to start concentrating on your own lives? You've been seeing each other for almost three years now. Isn't it time you got married and had a family?"
"You do know he's thinking about taking that job with CNN? That would mean moving to Atlanta."
"Your mother would want you to be happy," her father declared. "If that means moving to Georgia, then so be it."
By the fifth anniversary of the shooting, Kieran and Callan were married and living in the Atlanta suburb of Sandy Springs. After relocating, Callan found a marketing job at Coca-Cola but kept in close touch with her father via FaceTime.
Five years and still no word of Julie's whereabouts, Anthony thought as he drove to his office that morning.
He never admitted it to his daughter, but he sincerely believed his wife was dead. How she died and the location of her body remained a mystery, though.
"She was in that ambulance," he told himself. "I know it was her!"
Yet no ambulance had been involved in a collision that night; all were accounted for. There were no Jane Does admitted to the hospitals; all patients, even those who died, were properly identified. So, what had happened to Julie? Surely, no one would kidnap an injured woman out of an ambulance!
Maybe I should have agreed to have her story aired on truTV, he realized. The crazies be damned! I want to know what happened to my wife.
Despite urging his daughter to get on with her life, he failed to take his own advice. He went to work, paid his bills and performed all necessary daily routines, but it was as though he functioned on autopilot. His social life was nonexistent since people he once counted among his friends felt uncomfortable in his presence. He didn't blame them. Whenever he was invited somewhere, his plus one was the memory of Julie.
As monotonous as his days were, the evenings and nights were far worse. He came home to an empty house every evening and ate his meals alone. With his wife gone, there was no one to talk to or to watch television with. And when it was time to go to bed, not only was the space beside him empty, but his sleep was often disturbed by vivid dreams of the graduation ceremony.
Asleep or awake, he frequently relived the day of the shooting. He saw his wife, camera in hand, scanning the faces of the graduates in the procession, eager to see Callan.
"If she had only stayed down on the ground when I told her to," he cried in the isolation of his Lexus, "she might still be alive."
But she was more concerned with her daughter's safety than with her own. She stood up to get to Callan, and she was shot. If she had been killed instantly, his life might be different now. He would have closure—whatever that meant. At least, he would have a grave he could visit or ashes in an urn on the fireplace mantel. Now, all he had were questions with no answers and a fierce longing to learn the truth.
* * *
Mia Zambora took his arm to check his pulse, and his eyes fluttered open.
"Julie," he muttered.
"Just be still," the nurse instructed. "We'll get you to the hospital as soon as we can."
"My wife ...."
He turned his head and saw Julie lying on a gurney and being taken to a waiting ambulance.
"I have to know if she's all right."
"I'm afraid that's impossible," Mia said. "She's gone, and you'll never see her again."
Anthony woke from his nightmare, sweating and breathing heavily. It took several minutes for his heartbeat to return to its normal rhythm. Only then did he realize what day it was.
"Fifteen years, and I'm still plagued by those damned dreams!"
The sixty-four-year-old got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Since it was Sunday, he did not have to go to work, but rather than return to bed, he made his way down to the kitchen. He knew he would get a call from Callan. Their once daily chats were now weekly, but she always called on the anniversary of the shooting, without fail.
"No doubt she'll try to talk me into retiring again."
Not only did his daughter want him to quit working, but she also wanted him to move to Atlanta. As much as he would love being near her, Kieran and his three grandchildren, he would never leave the home he had once shared with Julie. In a new house, in another state, she would be gone from his life forever. He wanted to eat his lonely meals in the kitchen she once cooked in, shower in the bathroom where she took scented bubble baths and watch football games in the family room where she once devoured episodes of The Sopranos and Oz on HBO.
As he poured himself a second cup of coffee, he heard a tinkling bell come from his iPad. That meant Callan was ready for a FaceTime chat.
"Hi, sweetheart," he answered.
"Hi, Dad. How are you feeling this morning?"
"As good as can be expected."
"Did you sleep all right?"
"Like a baby," he lied. "I wish it weren't Sunday. I don't like it when the anniversary falls on a weekend. At least when I'm at work, I can temporarily take my mind off what happened."
"I know I've told you this before."
Oh, no, he thought. Here it comes.
"But you really should take my advice. You're going to be sixty-five; you ought to retire."
"Then I'd really go nuts," he argued. "If I didn't have a business to run, I'd mope around the house all day, and your mother's disappearance would constantly prey on my mind."
"Not if you moved down here. Don't you want to spend more time with your grandchildren? And if you lived nearby, you wouldn't have to fly down here on the holidays."
"I'll see."
Callan knew from experience that her father's "I'll see" actually meant "no way in hell!"
After speaking to his granddaughters, Julianne and Sarah, and his grandson, Ronan, he said goodbye to his daughter. Before she ended the call, however, she tried one last time to persuade him to retire.
"You could sell your business and your house, and move in with us. Or, if you want to, you could buy one of those maintenance-free condos."
"I'll think about it."
* * *
Hoping to take his mind off the tragic events of fifteen years earlier, or at least to lessen the pain they caused, Anthony kept busy all morning. He went to town where he got a haircut, bought groceries and drove through the carwash. Once all his chores were done, he went through Starbucks' drive-thru and ordered a caramel crunch Frappuccino.
Julie would have gotten the mocha, he thought as he waited in his car for the drink. She always loved chocolate. Julianne and Sarah take after her. I guess it skipped a generation because Callan prefers vanilla.
He did not know what Ronan's favorite flavor was. The boy was only three years old and had yet to form strong preferences.
After tipping the barista, he put his drink in the cupholder and drove away. As he headed toward home, his thoughts were not on his missing wife but on his grandchildren. Last summer, he had flown to Atlanta and taken them to Six Flags Over Georgia. Julianne and Sarah ran him ragged, going from one ride to the next, while Callan and Kieran kept an eye on Ronan.
I actually had fun that day. Still, I can't leave here. This is our home, he reasoned. I've been living in that house since 1985.
He recalled the day the realtor showed the young couple the house. Julie fell in love with it at once. Anthony was the more cautious one. He had only started his accounting firm three years earlier, and although he had done well for himself up to that point, he feared business might drop off. If it did, they would lose the house.
"Maybe we should wait a few more years," he suggested.
"Sometimes you just have to take a chance," Julie told him.
Against his better judgment, he took his wife's advice. They bought the house, and two years later, Callan was born. He never regretted taking that leap of faith.
Anthony pulled into his driveway, turned off the engine and looked at his house. Its shingles had been painted blue when they bought the place, now the two-story home had white vinyl siding. Other than that, very little had changed. Except Julie was no longer there.
The heartbroken man finished his Frappuccino and opened the trunk of his car. He carried the two bags of groceries inside the house and placed them on the kitchen table.
It's funny how domesticated I've become, he mused as he put the milk and eggs in the refrigerator. I used to depend on my wife to do all these things.
As he had so often done in the past fifteen years, he regretted the times he had cheated on her.
"I don't know where you are," he said, his eyes brimming with tears, "but if you're dead and you can hear me, please know that I am so, so very sorry."
He wiped the tears from his eyes with a paper napkin and finished putting the groceries away. He had just put the tube of Colgate toothpaste in the bathroom vanity drawer when he heard the doorbell ring. The stranger who stood on his stoop was clearly suffering from some serious illness. He was thin to the point of being emaciated. The sallow skin, sunken eyes and haunted expression on his face left little doubt that his condition was terminal.
"Mr. Cushing?" the man asked. "Mr. Anthony Cushing?"
"Yes. That's me."
The man's complexion became even more pale—if that were possible.
"I was hoping to have a word with you."
Believing the stranger had come on some religious mission, the homeowner tried to get rid of him.
"I'm sorry, but I'm quite busy at the moment. I ...."
"It's about your wife."
Could this man really know something about Julie's disappearance? He had to find out.
"Won't you come inside?"
"I was there that night," the stranger announced after taking a seat on the living room couch.
"At the graduation?"
"Afterward. My name is Jed Polley. I am—or rather was—an EMT."
Anthony's heartbeat quickened as his hopes rose.
"We—my partner, Francesco, and I—were called after the shooting. We put your wife on a stretcher and placed her in the ambulance. I remained at her side as Francesco drove away."
"Where is she?" Anthony asked excitedly. "Is she still alive?"
"No. She died on the way to the hospital."
"Why didn't anyone notify me? Why am I only hearing about this now, fifteen years later?"
Jed hung his head in shame. He could not look the widower in the eye when he answered.
"Francesco and I were both desperate men, buried under a mountain of debt. I had just gotten married. Both my wife and I had student loans and dozens of other bills. We couldn't keep up with our car payments or our rent. The bank wanted to repossess our cars, and the landlord was threatening eviction. If that wasn't bad enough, my wife had just learned she was pregnant."
"What has any of this got to do with Julie?" Anthony demanded to know.
"When I searched your wife's handbag for some form of ID, I found her driver's license and discovered that she was an organ donor. I knew of a doctor who paid top dollar for human organs that he sold on the black market."
"Oh, my God!" the widower cried, closing his eyes and trying to blot out the image of his wife's body being cut to pieces and auctioned off to the highest bidder.
"Francesco and I figured that since she was already dead ...," Jed tried to explain but knew there was no excuse for what he had done. "No words can't describe how sorry I am."
"If you did turn my wife's body over to a ... a ... ghoul, do you really think telling me you're sorry would make a damned bit of difference to me?"
"If I did? Don't you believe me?" the stranger asked.
"Frankly, no. What about the other guy, your partner in crime? Where is he?"
"Francesco had a drug problem; he was addicted to painkillers. That's why he needed money at the time. Seven years ago, he overdosed."
"Look, I don't know why you're doing this. Maybe you think it will give me some kind of closure, but you're wrong. I just don't buy your story. After fifteen years of wondering what happened to my wife, you show up on the anniversary of the shooting with the answers. It's all too pat to be true."
"I can only imagine what hell you and your daughter went through. If it's any consolation at all, God has seen fit to punish me for what I did. Our son had leukemia. A year ago, he died. Six months later, my wife killed herself. No sooner did I bury her than I was given less than a year to live."
"You have my sympathy, but I think perhaps it's time for you to leave."
The dying man rose from his seat. As he neared the front door, he turned and apologized once again. Then he reached into his pocket. Anthony felt a moment of fear. Was this guy going to try to kill him? But there was no weapon in his hand. He opened his palm and revealed an inexpensive Peanuts charm bracelet missing Lucy Van Pelt.
"I don't know why I kept this all these years. Maybe, in the back of my mind, I always intended to give it to you."
"Everything you told me is true then?" Anthony cried. "My wife died in the ambulance that night."
"Yes. Just minutes after we picked her up."
"Was she conscious at any time?"
"Only for a moment. She said something about finding Callan, and then she closed her eyes. A few moments later, she was gone."
"That sounds like Julie. The last thing she said to me was that she wanted to make sure our daughter was all right."
The tears fell down Anthony's cheeks as he clutched the charm bracelet in his hand. He looked the dying man in the eyes and, oddly enough, his own pain began to subside.
"I know what you did was legally and morally wrong. I don't know if I would go so far as to say I forgive you, but I do appreciate your coming here today. I've always suspected that Julie was dead. It was the uncertainty that tormented me. I don't suppose you know what that doctor did with the rest of her body after he harvested her organs?"
"No, but I assume he cremated the remains. I don't imagine he would want to leave any evidence behind to incriminate himself."
With nothing left to be said, Jed Polley opened the front door and walked out. He made it as far as the sidewalk before collapsing. Anthony phoned 911. Moments later, an ambulance arrived and took the dying man away.
* * *
Callan and Kieran were waiting for Anthony when he got off the plane at Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. When they saw their grandfather toting his carry-on bag, Julianne, Sarah and Ronan ran forward and greeted him with hugs and kisses.
"How was your flight?" Kieran asked, taking the bag from his father-in-law.
"Good. I slept most of the way."
"I'm so glad you decided to move down here," Callan said.
"I finally took your mother's advice. She always used to say that sometimes you just have to take a chance. So, here I am. However, it'll be a few days before the movers bring my belongings down."
"No problem. You can stay with us until everything is settled in your condo. I've got the guest room already made up for you."
Not long after arriving at his daughter's house, Anthony managed to speak to her alone. It had been five months since Jed Polley came to see him, but he wanted to wait for an appropriate time to tell her what had happened to her mother. Surprisingly, she took the news better than he had expected.
"At last, we know what happened," she calmly announced, wiping the tears from her eyes.
Her father then took out the charm bracelet and put it on the table.
"Oh, my God! Where did you find this?"
"She wore it to your graduation. Polley gave it to me when I spoke to him."
"You're not going to believe this!" Callan exclaimed.
She went upstairs to her bedroom and returned a few minutes later.
"I was going through some old stuff in the attic about a year ago," she said as she entered the kitchen. "I found this in a box of my old toys. It was lying underneath Beanie Babies, Barbies and a Furby."
It was the Lucy Van Pelt charm.
"Your mother was sure she lost this at the beach," Anthony said with amazement.
"She must have dropped it in my toybox one day when she was cleaning my room."
This is a sign, he thought. Like this charm bracelet, the missing piece to my life has been found. I can move forward now instead of living in the past.
Salem likes to brag that he graduated at the top of his class, but that was back in 1693, and there was only one other student.
