Stolen (21 page)

Three
Years Ago . . .

I don’t remember when the tears stopped falling or how
I made it to my bed, but the tears have stopped and I’m in my bed. The room is
dark. I’m alone. I hear snoring coming from the corner.  I fumble with my
lamp a moment before it cooperates, spreading light through the darkness and
casting a shadow on a sleeping Bruce.

He’s sitting on my rolling desk chair, the side of his
face flattened against his fisted right hand, which is resting on the arm of
the chair, and his long legs spread out and crossed at the ankles. He looks
like a pile of clothes that just happen to have a man in them, strewn on a
chair after a long day.

I’m mesmerized. He looks so normal, not the rugged,
overprotective Bruce I always see. This Bruce looks vulnerable; not weak, but
not invincible. He looks like everyone else.

“I can feel you staring from all the way over here,”
he mumbles, startling my thoughts right out of my head.

He isn’t moving. Did I just imagine him talking?

“Ya know, this chair is pretty damn uncomfortable, but
I managed to fall asleep in it. That’s crazy, isn’t it? I can’t sleep in my own
house, yet put me in this satanic chair and I pass right out.” He says all this
while positioning himself more comfortably in the desk chair.

“I’m sorry I was staring. It’s just that I’ve never
seen you sleep. You look different, more at peace.” Sensing his unease, I
switch topics. “How long have you been here? How long have I been here?”

“What time is it?” he asks, ignoring my questions.

Looking at my alarm clock, it reads 2:08 in the
morning. “It’s just after two.”

“Well then I’ve been here since about 10:30 yesterday
morning,” he answers my question.  “After I brought you home, you fell
right to sleep. I was downstairs for a little while, with your mom, but I
wanted to be here when you woke up. I didn’t want you to get scared thinking
you were alone,” he states as if all of this is just another day. I suppose in
my life it is.

“Where’s mom?” I ask.

“She went to bed a few hours ago. She was in here with
me for most of the day, but she seemed so exhausted I told her to get some
rest, that I would stay until you woke up. I hope you don’t mind that I’m
here?”

“Of course not, I’m glad you are,” I assure him.

“Do you want me to leave now that you’re awake?”

“No!” I whisper/shout, not wanting to wake mom, but
needing Bruce to know I don’t want him to go anywhere.

“Well then, I guess we’re having a slumber party,” he
declares, while smiling.

Laughing, I say, “I’m pretty sure this isn’t a slumber
party, and if it were, it would make The Guinness book as being the ‘worst
slumber party ever!’”

“Ouch! I’m not exactly up on my slumber party
etiquette, but I think insulting your guests would make the list of what ‘not’
to do.”

Throwing my pillow at his head, I admit through bursts
of laughter, “I guess I’m not familiar with the slumber party etiquette
either.”

“Wow, did you really just throw a pillow at my head?”

“Afraid so.”

“You’re going to pay for that,” he says as he walks
toward me holding the pillow I threw at him.

Moving at the last second before the pillow makes
contact with my leg, I jump off the bed, crouching along one side as he stands
on the other.

“There’s one thing I think I know about slumber
parties.” He draws out his words. “Is that there is always a pillow fight.”
He’s launching at me with the pillow before his last word is spoken.

Fighting the desire to scream, I stay silent so we
don’t wake mom. I don’t know how I would explain this to her. Honestly, I don’t
want to try. This is too weird for words, Bruce lunging at me with my own
pillow in an attempt to hit me with said pillow; like I said . . . weird.

“Okay, okay!” I shout, my arms up in surrender. “I’m
sorry I threw a pillow at your head! Let’s act like adults here. Now put the
pillow down,” I instruct, while dropping my hands slowly as a demonstration of
what I want him to do with the pillow.

Pursing his lips, drawing his eyebrows in in defeat,
he lowers the pillow to the bed.

“Good. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” I ask, while
walking toward him.

“Not at all,” he agrees right as he lifts the pillow
and whacks the side of my body. Laughing mischievously, he says, “I think I got
this slumber party thing all figured out now. Thanks for your help.” He smiles
at me.

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?” I scold, while
shaking my head. “Incorrigible!” I repeat.

Flopping down onto the bed, I look up at the ceiling,
wondering what exists beyond it, what exists beyond what we can see.

“You look pretty deep in thought. Care to share?”
Bruce asks.

“Do you believe in an afterlife?”

“I suppose I do,” he reflects. “But, to be truthful, I
don’t know. I want to believe, but whether that’s the same as actually
believing, I can’t say. What about you?” he presses.

“I think I do. I want to think that somewhere out
there, Rogan is waiting for me, that someday I’ll see him again, be with him
again. I don’t know if that’s just wishful thinking. I mean, the logical part
of my brain is saying ‘Don’t be stupid, of course there’s nothing more out
there!’ But the illogical part is saying there has to be more to all of this.
There has to be a reason.”

“I think that as human beings we’re born curious. It’s
that curiosity that has led to inventions, medicines, and new ways of doing
things. It’s also that curiosity that drives us to find the answers we can’t
possibly get answered. What I think is that our curiosity is the ‘more’ to the
universe. Without it, we would have no drive to continue searching. We would
have no sense of purpose. We need to feel useful, important, and in searching,
asking, questioning all the things we think we know today, we open the door to
the new questions of tomorrow.

“So whether there’s something beyond this, I don’t
know, but if there is, I hope I’m on the right side of that door when I find
it,” he says thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” I say, contemplating life and the reasoning
behind the events that keep this world spinning.

“You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?” he
pries.

“I don’t know. My mind is a mess right now. Today or I
guess, yesterday, took a lot out of me. It has me thinking a lot, and I don’t
like it. I don’t feel like me. I don’t feel like how I know I should feel.

“I don’t remember what happened after the press
conference, and I don’t care that I don’t. It seems like I’m always spacing
out, crying, or just plain passing out anymore. I feel like I’m on a precipice
between being the me I
know
, and the me I
am.
I used to be normal
and now I’m . . . I guess that’s the problem. I don’t know what I am,” I
declare dejectedly.

The bed concaves to my right, making a spot for Bruce
to lie beside me. “You aren’t who you were, but none of us are. We’re always
changing with every new experience we encounter, with every new person we meet.
That’s just a given. It’s true that in your case things change more often and
in more serious of ways, but that doesn’t change the method we all live by.

“Sometimes life just sucks. But sometimes, it doesn’t.
It’s the hope of those good times that gets us through the bad times. At least
that’s how it is for me, but I’m no philosopher, so don’t take my word for it.

“You’re going to make it through this. You’ll be fine.
I know it.”

“I’m kinda tired. You mind if I try and get some
sleep?” I ask, my eyes getting harder and harder to keep open.

“Of course not. Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,”
he says as he tucks me in before settling himself back onto the desk chair.

“Thank you for everything, Bruce,” I mumble sleepily.

Snuggling up to the pillow, still warm from his lying
on it, I turn onto my stomach, falling asleep instantly.

It wasn’t easy getting out of bed this morning, but
after some heavy cajoling by mom, I did eventually concede defeat. I could have
slept through this. I could have handled skipping today, heading right to
tomorrow. I couldn’t really have missed this, but thinking it was an option is
helping me cope.

Mrs. Morgan pulls at my arm as I’m walking into the
packed church. The service is supposed to be starting in ten minutes, but
people are still arriving. I knew there would be a lot of people, but this is
crazy. There must be hundreds of people between those in the church, those
still arriving, and those who are congregating outside the large red doors of
the cathedral style church.

Rogan’s mom is a huge believer in God and Jesus and
the like, active in all things church related, completely opposite to how Rogan
was. Though she never pushed religion on him, I think she was disappointed in
his lack of faith. He and I were the same in that regard; we believe in what we
can see, but always hope to be surprised by what we can’t. We have faith; it’s
just in facts, not myths. His mom never grasped that idea.

“I’ve been waiting out here for you to arrive,” she
says to me, her hand still holding tight to my arm. “I’d like you to sit with
me. Would you mind?” she asks, her words muffled by the handkerchief covering
her mouth.

I know that technique all too well. It’s what I do to
keep my breathing steady and even when I feel a panic attack coming on. Breathing
through fabric or into a paper bag helps calm my chest muscles, slowing my
rapid heartbeats, and if successful, keeping me from face planting in front of
hundreds of people.

“Of course I will,” I answer immediately, pulling her
into a hug.

We hold tight to one another, hugging and rocking from
foot to foot until mom reminds me that the service is about to start so we
should probably get inside. She doesn’t know that Mrs. M wants me to sit with
her. I’m hoping there will be room for mom, too.

“Can my mom sit with us, too?” I ask her after pulling
back from our embrace.

“Of course. Well, I guess we should go in.” She chokes
on her words.

“I suppose so,” I repeat, neither of us moving.

Mom coaxes me from behind, and I tug on Mrs. M’s hand
as we make our way to the front of the church. I have to lean on the end of a
pew to keep from fainting. A deep mahogany colored coffin sits directly in
front of me. I can’t look away. He’s in there. The casket is closed so I can’t
see him, but just knowing he’s within feet from me is too much.

Closing my eyes, I remind myself to breathe. I
promised I would only take shallow breaths, and I intend on keeping that
promise. Slow, shallow breaths are all I allow myself, which is enough to slow
my erratic heart.

Taking my place between Mrs. M and mom, both moms put
their hands on my shaky knees. Their touch doesn’t stop the shaking, but it’s
comforting.

The minister walks to the podium, carrying his bible.
The church silences instantly. I don’t know what he’s saying. I can’t focus on
anything other than the fact that Rogan is so close. I need to see him.

I need to see him!

Standing in the middle of the minister’s sermon, I
feel mom’s hand pulling at me to sit back down, but I can’t. I have to do this.

“Honey? No! Don’t do this! Sit back down.”

Looking briefly between her and a grief-stricken Mrs.
Morgan, I pull free from her hold. “I’m sorry,” I say as I run to Rogan.

Collapsing onto the coffin, I scream for him to come
back to me. “Please come back! I love you! Please come back to me! I miss you
so much. I can’t do this without you! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry I couldn’t save
you! Baby, please! Please!” I beg through choking sobs.

“Damn you for taking him from me!” I yell at the cross
hanging on the wall in front of me. “How could you let this happen? Where were
you when he needed you? If you really exist, then bring him back to me! Bring
him back! Bring him back!” I continue to shout.

“Honey, come on, this isn’t helping anything,” mom
says, while pulling at my waist to get me to move from Rogan’s coffin. “He’s
gone. There’s nothing we can do now but accept that. Please come sit back
down.”

“No!” I scream at her, pushing my arm into her chest
to get her to back off. “Just no! No to all of this! He can’t be dead!” I shout
as I run down the aisle.

The sun blinds me as I stand on the steps of the
church. People are holding each other, crying over the loss, acting broken.
They aren’t broken. Why are they acting as if they are? What’s wrong with these
people? Did they even know him? Did they know he lied about what his favorite
color was? That he actually liked yellow, but felt it wasn’t manly enough so he
said he liked green. Do they know that he only liked the purple Skittles? Do
they know his favorite number was seven, that he hated the number four for no
real reason? Do they know he wanted to be a science teacher, that he loved
anything science-related? Do they know he would watch The Ellen show with me in
the afternoons even though he said it was a “chick” show? Do they know he was
sweet, kind, beautiful, and perfect?