Stolen

Crescent Moon

1. First Trance

The flicker of light hit the side of my face, and danced across my eyes. It blinded me from the sea of cars gridlocked at the intersection in front of the cemetery. Blinking several times helped to clear the white spots that floated like glistening stars shimmering in the night sky across my lashes. As my pupils adjusted to the reflection of the beaming headlights, I noticed the progression of cars flowing in front of me. One by one, like a freight train humming along the track in a continuous rhythmic motion, the cars slowly passed through the intersection to a destination so final, so conclusive, so definitive. Realization finally sunk in as to what had me waiting so long at the light that I had zoomed through so many times before. To my left, an officer was directing traffic. To my right, on the edge of the cemetery, the midnight blue awning could not be missed as it shielded the tear strewn faces already seated in the front row on the lush green lawn from the blazing sun. My hand tapping on the steering wheel stopped to clutch my stomach in an attempt to calm the swelling knot as my heart broke for those left behind by the unknown soul leading this solemn convoy.

As I waited, my mind envisioned my own motorcade ending at my final resting place. I wondered what those close to me, left behind would feel. The only thing I could compare it to is the feeling that engulfed me when I found out my dad was missing. The anguish and sorrow I felt that dreary day has never left me. I refuse to believe that my beloved father has become one with the earth. As the little prickly bumps rose on my arms, my body shivered at the thought of losing someone that I loved forever, for infinity, never to see or touch again. A sigh of relief flowed from my lips when the officer waved the car in front of me along. My attention was averted away from the macob to the road ahead.

Only minutes passed before I pulled into the tiny subdivision of the place I have called home for most of my childhood and teenage years. Today was Monday, trash day, so I parked on the road in front of my house. Two large trash containers lying on their side several feet apart from one another surrounded by a few little trash souvenirs take up residence on one side of the narrow driveway. My Mom's vintage 1965 pearl white Beetle convertible, fully restored to its original factory condition, with the exception of the chrome wheels and the Porsche style fluted headlight lenses, was parked on the other side.

I remember the day my father surprised her by asking her to come outside under the farce that he needed help bringing in the groceries. Her inner hippie chic had been dying for a vintage Beetle since she sold the last one she had owned after college. I will never forget the look on her face when she saw the huge red bow gently floating in the light breeze on top of the car. Her face lit up like a bright light and the corners of her mouth curved upwards so high on each side into a huge grin. "Bill's neighbor on Hatteras Island restored this beauty for half the price!" I heard so vividly my dad's voice declaring proudly.

Bill Livingston was my dad's partner with the FBI and best friend. They became fast friends 20 years ago during their training at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. My heart ached with a familiar sadness as I realized that I had not seen my mom smile like that since that very day.

As I got out of my car, I tripped over a shredded bag of cat litter laying in a rumpled mess in the grass. I hoped the neighbors didn't hear the few choice words flowing so freely from my mouth in an angry mumble. Foul language is not typically a part of my vocabulary, but I guess the fear of the unknown is beginning to take over causing my emotions to run wild. I slowly walked up the driveway to the front door allowing the warmth of the Florida heat to sink itself into my pores. Even at 6:00 pm, the sun burned warmly on my face as I stopped and looked up toward the sky.

When I opened the front door, the interior was dim and I could hear the faint snoring coming from the living room just to the right of the entryway. I walked over to the only seating in the sparsely decorated room and pulled the cream colored blanket up over the pale bare shoulders of my mother. As I walked around the couch toward my bedroom, the embroidered initials stitched on the center of the quilt caught my eye. It was the initials of both of my parents along with their wedding date sewn inside a small pink heart. I had seen it so many times before, but this time tears welled up in my eyes. I quickly brushed them off of my face and headed into a long hot shower. As the water raced over me, I felt the tension in my muscles begin to fade. I ran through a mental check of my "to do" list before my morning flight. Wearily, I dried off and threw on a tee shirt and boxers. I threw myself across my bed landing on my stomach to read over my flight information in an attempt to have one less thing to do in the morning. As exhaustion took over and my eyes somewhere between the boarding gate number and flight times, my thoughts turned to the Outer Banks and what my new home would be like. Thankfully the anxiety did not keep me from falling asleep.