Two Years Ago

Harper disappeared three days ago, and I’m starting to think she’s dead.

I called the cops, but they know her. We’ve gone through this song and dance before. Harper disappears for a while, goes on a fucking bender, gets ripped and wasted and shoots up as much heroin as she’s physically able to before she finally comes crawling back home. We’ve been doing this for years, and although I’ve gotten her into rehab twice now, it never sticks.

I don’t know how to leave her. I don’t know if I even can. It’s not love at this point and hasn’t been for a while now. Maybe it’s just this feeling of crippling duty, like if I leave her and she fucking overdoses, it’ll be my fault.

She wasn’t like this when we first met three years ago. Fuck, there were warning signs, but they’re easy to ignore for a woman like Harper. She’s beautiful, outgoing, funny as all hell, and the last person you’d think would have a horrible drug problem. But it got worse as the relationship progressed, and I realized that I was just as stuck with her as she was stuck with drugs.

I fantasize about saving her, but I know there’s no fucking saving her. At this point, I’m resigned to the whole thing. I’m in this for a long time, for the rest of my life really. I doubt we’ll ever get married or have some storybook romance, and I guess that’s fine with me. She is what she is, but she’s not the important thing anymore.

I knew that the second she said she was pregnant.

It wasn’t planned. I don’t even know how it happened, but it happened during one of the rare times she was sober, right after a stay in rehab. I know the baby’s mine, especially after seeing him. Ryan has my nose, my chin, he’s my son without a doubt. He’s the son I’ve always dreamed of, the start of the family that I’ve always wanted. He’s my little dream baby, and I loved him more than I can possibly explain.

Keeping Harper sober during those nine months was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but we got through it. Problem is, as soon as Ryan was born, she relapsed and she relapsed hard.

That was four months ago. Chubby little baby Ryan basically only knows his daddy. Harper’s been in and out of our little house since basically the first week we brought Ryan home. This is without a doubt the worst she’s ever been, and I’m just waiting to find her dead in a ditch somewhere.

I linger in Ryan’s room. The lights are off and he’s been asleep for an hour now. It’s eight at night, and he’ll probably stay down until five in the morning. He might wake up once in the night, but his sleeping has gotten so much better. I smile, looking down at his cute little face, his chest rising and falling slowly.

I turn away, shutting the door quietly. I check the monitor, and he’s definitely down. I grab a beer, watch some baseball, and I’m in bed by nine that night. I try Harper’s cell once, not really expecting anything, and sure enough there’s no answer. I turn out the lights, set up the monitor on the nightstand next to my bed, and I go to sleep.

This has been my routine for a while now. It was hard when he was first born, being the only person taking care of him. I probably would’ve lost my job if I didn’t fucking own the business myself. We install and repair power lines, and we’re doing pretty good with all the government contracts we’ve picked up the past few years. I have good guys taking care of the business on that end, and they all know my situation, so I have a lot of flexibility.

I’m looking forward to getting back sooner or later, but right now Ryan is my priority. I know I’ll have to get him into daycare soon, it’s just hard to walk away, and I keep having this fantasy where Harper gets her shit together, realizes she wants to be a mom, and actually comes home to live with us.

I know it’ll never happen. I go to sleep early, knowing I’ll be getting up early with Ryan. Tonight’s no different, and I sleep a deep dreamless sleep. When I finally wake up, it’s not to the sound of Ryan fussing and crying, but to sunlight coming in through the curtains.

I blink and grunt a little bit. I don’t remember the last time I woke up to actual sunlight. I check the time and nearly gag.

It’s after ten in the morning.

“Ryan,” I say, rolling over. I grab the monitor and turn it on, heart beating fast in my chest.

I stare for a second, unable to understand what I’m seeing.

I jump out of bed, flinging the monitor away. I run out of my room and across the hall. I throw open Ryan’s door, but I don’t know what to expect.

It’s completely trashed. Clothes are thrown around, diapers strewn about on the floor, toys everywhere.

And Ryan’s gone.

I’m having a heart attack, I think to myself. This is a bad dream. I’m going to die. I run back into my room, grab my phone, and call the police.

As I tell them what’s happening, I walk through the rest of the house. I stop in the kitchen and stare at a note, written in Harper’s handwriting, pinned to the refrigerator.

I’m sorry. He’s my baby. Don’t look for us. Harper.

I stare at the words and let the phone fall from my hand and clatter to the floor.

* * *

The police don’t find them.

They search for a while. Probably longer than they normally would. They search everywhere, follow every lead, but there’s nothing. Harper’s gone.

I don’t stop looking. I don’t go into work, I don’t talk to friends, I don’t do anything but look for her. I talk to her family, but they haven’t seen her, which is no surprise. Her family is notoriously difficult and dangerous, so I keep away from them as much as possible. I check with hospitals, rehab centers, hell, I even call bars, but nobody has seen Harper or Ryan.

Life goes on. I don’t give up.

I have to go back to work eventually, but my heart’s not in it. I show up, go through the motions, but I’m always mentally back in my study with my files, researching any possible lead, obsessing and wondering and praying.

They don’t turn up dead, but they don’t turn up alive, either. I can’t imagine Harper’s capable of taking care of Ryan, not the way she’s been lately. It feels laughable to me, almost insane, that she’d want to take the baby and run away. I was the only solid, stable thing in her life. I was taking care of my son just fine before she showed up.

Now they’re gone. And a hole’s ripped into my life. I’m empty, missing a piece, a broken shell of a man.

The police give up. They don’t say so, not exactly, but they start forwarding me leads instead of following them up themselves. I don’t blame them. Months pass, then a year. I’m angry all the time, I’m broken all the time. I don’t have friends anymore, I don’t have a life.

There’s only my desire to find Harper and to get my son back. I don’t give a fuck about her anymore. I’ve fantasized about what I’d do to her if I ever found her. But about a year and a half into my search, I decide to forgive her.

I just want my baby back. I just want to see my son again.

He’s probably walking by now. I wonder what his first words are, what his first steps were like. He’s eating solid foods, playing with his toys, laughing and smiling and responding. The baby I knew is gone, gone, gone, and I love all that time with him. I lost some of the most important time with him, and it kills me inside, every day.

Two years pass. I’m consumed with it, deep into my theories, following every single half-baked idea and lead. I’ve burned bridges, alienated loved ones, and I’m going to lose my business. I just don’t care. I’m broken without Ryan anyway.

And then everything changes one Tuesday morning.

It starts out like any other morning. I get up, work out, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and get on my computer. This time though, there’s an email that makes me pause.

I have a Google alert on Harper’s name. Nothing pops up, except for today. I click the email and stare at an obituary in Harper’s home town.

It’s for her, for Harper. I read it once, and I’m sure it’s her, there’s nobody else it could be. Harper Gallo died unexpectedly, such a tragedy, so young, all that usual bullshit. Sounds like drugs finally caught up to her.

But she was home. Or near home. I get to the bottom and my heart skips a beat.

She leaves behind a healthy baby boy, Ryan Gallo.

I’m packed in ten minutes. I’m in my car in twelve. I make a bunch of calls, letting people know I won’t be around for a while, and I drive straight to the airport.

My son’s alive. He’s fucking alive. And he’s in Philadelphia with her fucking family.

I have a knife in my gut. I don’t know why nobody called me. I don’t know what’s going on. But my son’s alive, and Harper’s dead. I can’t feel bad for her. I truly can’t.

All I know is I’m going to get my baby boy back, after years of searching for him. I’m getting my son back.