A Mother's Claim. Janice Kay Johnson

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      Perhaps the boy’s biological mother had been a teenager living on the street, unable to care for him. Marlee might even have found him abandoned.

      God, how Nolan wanted to believe in that as an explanation.

      In the weeks that followed, he had trouble thinking about anything else. His heart and his conscience engaged in silent warfare.

      It’s the right thing to do.

      I could lose him.

      If his parents pop up and want him back...what will that do to Christian?

      He told himself constantly that he could take his time, think about the consequences of every conceivable choice. That baby boy had become Christian Josiah Gregor a very long time ago, which meant there was no hurry for Nolan to make a decision. A few weeks, months, at this point, what difference did it make?

      * * *

      FLOATING ON A cloud of well-being, Dana Stewart didn’t want to open her eyes. The aftereffects of a dream lingered. She could feel the precious weight of her son in her arms, smell baby powder and his natural sweetness. The sensation of happiness was so rare she would have given anything to hold on to it.

      But, inevitably, she woke up and the glow succumbed to crushing pain and guilt.

      Still she lay there, refusing to open her eyes. If she did, she’d have to see her empty, lonely bedroom, the one she’d once shared with her husband. She and Craig had divorced a year after Gabriel’s disappearance.

      Too awake now to hold on to the dream, she opened her eyes at last to see her bedroom door open to the hall, as always. She never closed her door or the one into Gabe’s room, not anymore. Dana knew how irrational she was being, but she couldn’t fight a desperate need to...hear.

      She followed her usual routine: check her phone to be absolutely sure she hadn’t somehow missed a call or text, get out of bed, choose something to wear, shower, force down some toast or a bagel with peanut butter.

      It had taken her years to do more than snatch a few hours of interrupted sleep. Even now, she didn’t sleep deeply.

      She didn’t enjoy eating anymore, either. It had always puzzled her that she hadn’t gone the other way; she’d loved food, once upon a time, loved to cook and had been just a little plump. Now...she ate to sustain life. She doubted Craig would recognize her. Occasionally, she encountered an old friend and saw shock.

      Really, she was healthier than she’d ever been. She ran up to five miles a day, usually when she got home from work. Her diet consisted of whole grains, vegetables, fruit and nuts. She had a runner’s thin body but didn’t care how she looked.

      On the surface, she lived—had friends, spent time with her family, held a fulfilling job. But she would sacrifice every other relationship to find Gabriel. That hole inside her, the search, secretly consumed her.

      She haunted websites devoted to missing children, posting reminders of her lost son wherever she could. Once a year, she called the detective who had investigated fruitlessly, even though he was now a district commander in the Aurora, Colorado, police department. He was always polite and sympathetic; yes, he would do some follow-up. He always called a few days later to say that nothing new had come up. Although she knew he was thinking it, he didn’t say, Lady, your son is dead. You need to deal with reality.

      If she had believed, truly believed, that Gabe was dead, she wasn’t sure she’d have reason to live. But if Gabriel ever was found, he would need her. She couldn’t surrender entirely to despair.

      She would go to work, immerse herself in other people’s problems, try to find them help, soften their burdens. She’d come home, run until her body ached, eat what she must, read or watch some meaningless television show and finally go to bed, where she would only allow herself to sleep lightly, listening for the faintest of sounds.

      She would keep doing it.

      But every hour, every day, every week and month and year, scoured her out until less and less of the old Dana survived.

      * * *

      UNCLE NOLAN HAD been really quiet since Christian got home from school. Well, not home home—most days, if he wasn’t hanging with friends, he rode his bike to his uncle’s business, which had a private beach on the Columbia River. Uncle Nolan had bought the business when he came back from Afghanistan for good, and immediately made a deal with a really cool small inn to take over an old boathouse and expand it on land leased from them. Then he’d sold the original building on the main street.

      It wasn’t like he’d been busy today; hardly anybody wanted to rent windsurfing gear or a sailboat or kayak in late January, when the weather was this cold and wet. Usually Uncle Nolan didn’t seem to mind slow stretches; he said the busy seasons more than made up for them.

      But today he’d been sitting behind a computer and barely looked up when Christian walked in. All he said was, “Homework.”

      Uncle Nolan used as few words as possible, listening more than he talked. This was kind of different, though. Usually he at least said hi and asked about Christian’s day. He’d been more withdrawn since Mom died. He brooded a lot, which was okay. Christian did, too, going up to his room to lie on his bed, stare up at the ceiling and wonder how Mom could have done that. Hadn’t she worried about him at all? He knew she was sick, but hadn’t she loved him? What if she had changed her mind at the last second but it was too late?

      Was dying like they said, following a white light? In killing herself, had she committed such a sin she was condemned to a horrible eternity? Or was she just...gone? Erased? Uncle Nolan had talked with him about what different people believed and had shaken his head when Christian asked what he thought.

      “I wish I could tell you.” He’d stared into the distance, but not as if he was seeing anything. “You know what I did in the military.”

      Christian nodded.

      “I saw a lot of men killed.”

      Christian knew his uncle had probably killed a bunch of those men. Sometimes he thought that’s why Uncle Nolan was so quiet. Maybe those dead men haunted him.

      But what he’d said then was, “I’ve never seen a ghost. Never had a hint of one of my buddies coming back to let me know he’s okay on the other side. Not sure I believe it when someone claims Grandma appeared the day after the funeral to say goodbye. But I can’t discount the possibility that there is an afterlife. Any minister will tell you there is, and most people believe it.”

      “I wish—” Christian wasn’t even sure what he’d meant to say. He wished Mom hadn’t done it? Or that she was watching over him, like people had claimed she was? Or that she hadn’t been crazy to start with?

      But Uncle Nolan had pulled him into a tight hug and said, in his deep voice, “I do, too, son.”

      And Christian knew he really did understand. That he had all the same wishes, never sure which one to go for, because he had loved Christian’s mom even though he got really mad at her, too.

      They had sat there long enough Christian should have been embarrassed, but he wasn’t, because Uncle Nolan wasn’t. Nobody could say Uncle Nolan wasn’t a really tough guy. If he thought it was okay to hug, then it was.

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