Young Revelations (Young Series) (27 page)

“Not exactly,” she says evasively.

“So where did you get it?”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “You really want to know?”

I think for a moment, then roll my eyes. “Reilly,” I say grudgingly.

“Word travels fast around here and he called to see what he could do to help. When I told him I was on my way to make sure Sam doesn’t end up back in the hospital, he offered to drop off a prescription to keep her blood pressure as normal as possible. He said it’ll make her a bit drowsy, but it’s preferable to the other risks.”

I have to agree with that and mentally, grudgingly, thank Dr. Mark Reilly for his thoughtfulness. Still, the cynical part of my mind has just added him to the list of suspects and I’ll be watching Samantha very closely for any adverse affects from whatever the good doctor prescribed her. “I’ll sit with her for a bit,” I tell Claire. She nods in understanding and heads up the stairs.

On my way to the couch, I run my hands down my face, trying to think of some way to apologize for this, since I have no doubt in my mind this has happened because of me. I slide down beside Samantha and pull her into my arms. She stiffens for a moment, but eventually relaxes and I’m relieved. We haven’t sorted out our issues from last night, and while that’s the last thing we need to be concerned about right now, part of me feared she might not want me near her because of that.

“Why is this happening?” she asks me.

I wince that the hollowness of her voice. “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “Samantha, I am so sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t, Matthew,” she warns. “Not now. I just want to find Tyler.”

Nodding, I sigh. I don’t know what else to do right now. Upstairs is a team of law enforcement who has dedicated themselves to searching for Tyler and if by chance they can’t find him, no one will. And that is one thought I will never speak aloud to Samantha. Her breathing evens out and I look down to find her asleep. This is good. This way she’s not worrying herself sick. I on the other hand can barely see straight between my worry, frustration, anger, and fear. I am going to fucking destroy whoever has done this and I don’t care if I go to jail for it. Target me. Hurt me. Leave my family alone. They’re innocent in all of this and they don’t deserve to be put through this misery. The problem is that people know my family is my soft spot, probably my only one when it comes down to it. My job is not made for family men and I probably should have learned that years ago when I nearly lost my arm. I think once this is over I’ll have to figure out how to change that aspect.

I have no idea how much time has passed since I came down here,
but I start a bit when I feel a tap on my shoulder and realize I’ve drifted off into my own dazed world. I look up and find Claire standing over me.

“Marcus wants to talk to you about something,” she whispers.

I sit up as quickly as I can without jostling Samantha and lay her down on the couch. “Have they found him?” I ask urgently.

“I don’t think so,” Claire tells me regretfully. My heart sinks another foot or two. “But I think they might have a lead.”

Nodding, I turn to press a kiss to Samantha’s forehead. “Take care of her,” I murmur to my sister before taking the steps two at a time until I’m walking through the crowd of people in my home. Reflexively, I glance at a wall clock and find two hours have passed since I came home. What little I know has told me Tyler has been missing nearly six hours how. He could be anywhere…

“We need to talk privately,” Marcus says tersely by way of a greeting. He doesn’t waste a second leading me up to my office where Leo is standing over my desk looking completely shell-shocked. “This just came in from a CCTV camera in Pennsylvania. The Amber Alert for Tyler red flagged it.”

My heart is racing as I join Leo at my desk. He takes several steps sideways and I notice faintly he’s out of arm’s reach from me. I’m looking at my computer screen at three people I know quite well. One is Frank Marone who seems to have grown himself a beard since I last saw him. The second is my son, who looks completely unharmed—thank God. And the third…

“Fuck,” I exclaim brokenly, fisting my hair in my hands. “Natalie?”

“Seems so,” Marcus says quietly. “Leo positively identified her for me. It would seem she’s the woman who picked Tyler up from school.”

This is a fucking nightmare gone worse. The woman I had, ju
st last night, vehemently defended to my fiancée has kidnapped my son. And now I know without a doubt she was the one behind Samantha and Tyler’s kidnapping a few months ago. She’s probably also behind everything else. “Why is she with Marone?” I hear myself asking, uncertain why this is the question at the forefront of my mind.

Marcus reaches over and presses a button on the keyboard and the photo changes. Now it’s Frank and Natalie engaging in what looks to be a lovers’ embrace. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say in disgust. I glance over to find Leo looking more pissed off than I’ve seen in years and I realize he’s been played as well. “Why are we still standing here? Where is this place?”

“We’ve already sent teams to the town,” Marcus tells in a soothing tone.

“Fuck that!” I yell. “I’m going down there!”

“I figured as much,” Marcus says dryly. “We’ve got a plane ready to take off. You should probably bring Samantha up to speed first, though.”

I was afraid he’d say that. I know he’s right, but this terrifies me almost as much as my son being in the hands of Frank fucking Marone. “I’ll meet you down at the car,” I say quietly, turning on my heel and heading out of the office, imagining how horribly this conversat
ion is about to go. Downstairs, Samantha is awake again and holding a cup of some steaming liquid in her hands, talking quietly with Claire. I take a moment to just look at her, knowing this could have been avoided if I’d just listened to her and believed her last night. If we get through this without her hating me, it will be a miracle.

“Claire,” I say tightly, drawing their attention immediately. “I need to talk to Sam privately for a moment.”

Sam’s eyes are wide and fearful as they take in my expression, but Claire stands without hesitation and walks past me, grasping my arm briefly as though she knows what’s going on. “Tyler?” Samantha whispers desperately the moment Claire is gone.

I swallow hard and take several deep breaths as I move to sit beside her, taking both her hands in mine. Her eyes are panicking and I know she’s thinking the worst case scenario. “We know where Tyler is,” I tell her softly. “There are teams moving in right now and I’m getting ready to fly down to meet them.”

“Where?” she asks immediately.

“Some town in Pennsylvania. Samantha, Frank Marone is involved. We’ve got photos of him with Tyler from twenty minutes ago,” I say. She gasps and pales, and it’s only going to get worse from here. “But he’s not working alone.”

Her brow furrows as her breathing increases. “Who?” she breathes.

She knows the answer to the question—I can see it in her eyes—but she wants me to admit it out loud. “Natalie,” I whisper.

I wait for a response—visibly, audibly, anything… Her eyes dull, her entire body that just a minute ago couldn’t get any more tense relaxes, and she slowly pulls her hands from mine as she stares at me expressionlessly. “Natalie,” she repeats in a murmur. Her eyes dart away for a few moments and when she finally looks back, she looks resigned and determined. I feel my heart stop beating as she takes a deep breath and very slowly lifts her right hand to her left, her fingers hesitating over her engagement ring for several seconds. With what looks like a very painful move, she removes the ring from her finger and sets it on the coffee table in front of us. I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t do anything aside from watch Samantha reach up to her neck and push aside her hair to reach the clasp of her locket to remove it. The locket I bought her years ago, but never gave her because she’d left before I had the opportunity. It was my way of marking the day our family was completed. I’ve already planned on taking it the day our daughter is born to add her picture. Very calmly and very silently, Samantha places the necklace gently on the table beside her ring, then brings her hands back to her lap as though she has to fight the urge to reach for them again.

“Samantha?” I say weakly.

When she meets my gaze again, I’ve never seen such resignation in anybody’s eyes. “Go get my son from Pennsylvania,” she says, her voice impossibly even. “When you get back, he and I are leaving. We can’t do this anymore. And the fact that you don’t trust me when I tell you something, then something like this happens…” She shakes her head, blinking back her tears. “We’re done. No more.”

“You don’t mean that.” I’m not sure if I’m making a statement or begging her to change her mind. “Sam…”

She shakes her head. “Just stop,” she begs. “Go get Tyler.”

Somehow I find myself on my feet and look down where Samantha is curled up under her blanket, not looking anywhere near me. Maybe it’s disbelief, maybe it’s my brain reminding me there are still very important things to get done tonight, but I’m completely numb as I reach down and take the ring and locket and slide them into my pocket. I want to bend over and press my lips to her skin
, just a chaste peck on her forehead, but the moment I try, she backs away from me, rejecting me. I don’t understand how she can be so calm about this when I’m barely holding it together. “I’ll bring him back,” I say tonelessly. “I love you, Samantha. So much.”

Her only response is a sniffle as I turn and walk up the stairs. Claire is waiting for me in the kitchen and opens her mouth to speak, then closes it quickly when she sees my face. I don’t stop to speak, feeling my devastation turning to fury beyond anything I’ve ever felt in my life and I have a very bad feeling that somebody is going to die tonight.

Outside, Marcus is waiting for me beside the car. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t try to reassure me. He ushers me into the car, gets in behind me, and instructs the driver to get us to the airport.

We’re getting my son back.

Six years ago…

Of all the things I’ve done in my life,
all the experiences and dangers I’ve faced, nothing compares to this moment. I’ve never been more scared and worried in my life and I can’t think of anything that could come close as I rush through the hospital corridors fresh off a plane that flew far too slowly for the situation. Leo is right on my heels, directing me which way to turn and we both come to a sudden halt when we spot Claire and Bonnie sitting in chairs in the middle of the hallway, both of them staring at the door across from them.

“Claire,” I choke out. Her eyes snap over to mine and she jumps from her chair and practically throws herself into my arms.

“How is she?” I ask desperately.

Sighing shakily, my sister pulls away. “She’s okay,” she says flatly. “We don’t even know why this happened. She was perfectly fine this morning, then she started complaining about sharp pains in her belly. We had her lying down and within minutes she was hanging over the side of the bed throwing up, and that’s when Bonnie saw the blood.”

My hands are fisted in my hair as I fight against my emotions. “Where?” is all I can manage to say through my closed throat. Claire points at a door and I faintly nod before rushing to that door and pushing it open. I immediately find a team of doctors surrounding a bed. Straining my ears, I realize I’m hoping to hear a baby’s cry and I don’t know what it means that I don’t—has Samantha not given birth yet? Or has the baby not survived?

One of the doctors notices my arrival and walks over to me. “Sir, I’m sorry but you can’t be in here right now,” she says firmly, resting a hand on my arm to turn me around.

“My wife,” I choke out.

“Matt?”

I completely ignore the doctor’s orders, pushing past her and see Samantha in bed looking pale and sweaty, and with tears streaming down her face. “Samantha,” I whisper, closing the distance to her bed. I bend down and hug her as best I can with the IVs and other monitoring equipment attached to her, and she begins sobbing.

“I didn’t even get to see him,” she sobs. “Didn’t get to hold him.”

“Shh, baby,” I reply mechanically. “It’ll all be okay.”

She shakes her head, pulling away from me, and I suddenly wonder if our son has died. “He’s too early,” she tells me. “They don’t know if he’s strong enough and I can’t get anybody to tell me what’s going on.”

I’m relieved to hear her talking about the baby in the present tense, but I hate seeing her in so much pain. “I’ll find out,” I promise her. “And any child of yours is going to be too strong for his own good. Got that?”

She gives me a shaky, watery smile and I return one of my own, pleased that even in such dire moments, I can still make her smile. “I’m glad you’re here,” she murmurs, her eyelids getting droopy. I suspect there’s a painkiller in one of those IVs.

“There’s nowhere else I would ever want to be,” I tell her. “Get some rest, Sam.” Not that she has much choice as the medication kicks in. Before I’m standing fully again, she’s out cold. I look around me to find most of the doctors have left; only one is hanging around, presumably to talk to me.

“Mr. Young I take it?” he ventures. He
is an older man with stark white hair, a weathered face, and kind eyes. I nod, reaching out to shake the proffered hand. “I’m Dr. West, the OB/GYN on duty today. Shall we step out into the hall?”

I hesitate, glancing back at Samantha. I don’t want her to wake up and find me gone…

“She’ll be sleeping peacefully for the next couple hours,” the doctor assures me. “And we’ll know the moment she wakes.”

Resignedly, I place a brief kiss on her lips and follow the doctor out of the room. “Why did this happen?” I ask him the moment the door is closed. “She’s been perfectly healthy all throughout her pregnancy. Why now?”

“It could have resulted from any number of things,” the doctor tells me. “We’ve ruled out anything she might have done to intentionally cause such a premature birth and we’re now checking for any unknown abnormalities with Samantha’s health.”

I let this sink in for a minute. “And the baby?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor sighs, tucking the chart in his hands under his arm. “As I’m sure you’re very much aware, Mr. Young, your son is twelve weeks early. Right now, we’re concerned with a large number of things in terms of his health. He’s very small, as I’m sure you can imagine—at birth, he was two pounds, one ounce and measured just around nine inches long. Our biggest concern at the moment is getting him to breathe. He will be incubated and we will be using machines to help encourage the breathing reflex until he can do it on his own and his lungs finish developing. As of right now, he would not survive the night without those machines. Other concerns involve keeping him warm and ensconced in blankets to mimic the womb; though babies, particularly premature ones, don’t react to stress the way we do, they are still at risk for stress and this is a time a baby should be sheltered from that completely to allow his body the time it needs to grow.”

“Can I see him?” I ask hoarsely, suddenly desperate to lay eyes on my son.

The doctor hesitates. “I don’t know how much experience you have with preemies, Mr. Young, but before you see your son, I feel it only fair to warn you he doesn’t resemble a baby born at the full 37 weeks. He’s very tiny, his color is and will remain a tinged purple until tomorrow at the earliest—a result from losing the air supply from the umbilical cord—and you will not be able to hold him.”

“I don’t care,” I tell him. “I want to see him. When Samantha wakes up, she’s going to ask if I’ve seen him, and I need to be able to tell her yes.”

The doctor smiles in understanding. “Of course,” he says, placing a hand on my back to lead me down the hall.

We arrive in the NICU and I’m immediately handed a set of scrubs and told to wash and sterilize my hands thoroughly. Even if I’m not touching my baby, apparently I can still transfer any germs or viruses I might be carrying to him or one of the other babies. A nurse places a mask over my mouth and nose as extra precaution, and I’m finally granted access into the NICU. There are four babies in here, three of whom I’m told will be leaving the NICU today or tomorrow to be reunited with their families. The fourth, it goes without saying, is my son. Aside from the placard attached to the end of the incubator outlined in blue with large black letters that spell out
YOUNG
, I just
know
he’s my son. He’s the smallest baby I’ve ever seen in my life. There’s a tube taped to his face, a blue knit cap on his head, which is easily smaller than my fist, and he’s wrapped in probably several layers of blankets.

This is my son. This is the creation Samantha and I made together. Maybe I’m biased, but he’s beautiful. I don’t know how long I stare at him, longing to hold him, but eventually I leave and return to Samantha’s room. Claire and Bonnie have left—I make a mental note to call our families later to bring them up to speed—and Samantha is sleeping peacefully.

Hours later, she’s awake again when I enter her room with dinner, and immediately I sense she’s about to have a panic attack. “Is he okay?” she demands shakily.

I smile at her, hoping to set her mind at ease. “Yes,” I assure her, abandoning my bag of food so I can sit at the side of her bed, one hand resting up near her head. “Sam, he’s great. Very small and he’s got a long way to go, but he’s perfect.”

Her body seems to deflate as she relaxes slightly. “You saw him?” she whispers, her eyes filling with tears.

“Briefly,” I tell her. “I’ve been told you should be able to see him a little later. You’ll have to go into the NICU in a wheelchair, but…”

“I don’t care,” she says. “I just want to see him.”

While we eat dinner, even though we’re not entirely sure whether Samantha is cleared to eat, we make our phone calls, first to her father, brother, and sister, then to my family. Everybody seems thrilled for us, even if we can hear an undercurrent of concern in their voices when we tell them the current state of our son’s health. A stream of nurses comes in to check on Samantha and finally a doctor arrives to approve a trip to the NICU. I can see my wife practically shaking in anticipation as I help her into the wheelchair and begin pushing her through the hospital on a path I have a feeling we’ll be taking for a long time to come. After helping her into the appropriate NICU attire, I get into my own and we enter the room. Our son is exactly where I saw him last and I’m smiling at the very sight of him.

I park Samantha’s wheelchair as close to him as I can and kneel beside her, watching her expression as she takes in our baby for the first time. A look of bliss crosses her face which wars with sadness and fear as she’s also forced to look at the tubes attached to him. “Beautiful, isn’t he?” I whisper, trying to force her attention back to our son. “I’m no expert, but I think he’s going to look just like you.”

I don’t miss the look of gratitude in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. I grin at the look in her eyes now as she takes in our son—she’s fallen in love with him just as quickly as I have. “I think he’s got your nose.”

I chuckle. “If you say so,” I murmur, leaning up to press a kiss to her lips. “I love you, you know.”

She nods. “I know,” she responds quietly. “I love you too.”

We focus on pointing out what few features of our son that we can make out and debate on which of us they resemble until a nurse comes in with a clipboard. “It’s just occurred to us that we haven’t given this little guy a name yet,” she says cheerily. I wonder briefly if the hospital hires nurses for the NICU specifically to cheerfully address the parents. “Have we thought of one?”

I glance at Samantha, raising my eyebrows in question. We’ve come up with a list of names, but we believed we’d have another three months to make a
final decision. Samantha’s brow is furrowed slightly as she thinks, then her eyes light up and I know she’s settled on something. She nods, turning towards the nurse. “Tyler Matthew Young,” she says quietly, her eyes locked on me still. I swear my eyes begin to water at her words.

––––-o––––-

Over the next couple weeks, all our time is spent at the hospital, even after Samantha is discharged three days following giving birth. That was a rough morning. Samantha was understandably upset that not only did she feel as though she was abandoning her child, but we were going home without him. It took me nearly an hour to calm her, even though I felt exactly the same way. Neither of us could go anywhere near the nursery we’ve had set up for Tyler. I took time off work, Samantha took time off school, and our days were spent at our son’s side. Things have been touch and go with Tyler. There were days we’d walk into the NICU and knew Tyler was doing great, and there were days they wouldn’t even let us into the NICU because he wasn’t doing so great. I can’t even count the number of times a doctor or nurse has pulled me aside to tell me they weren’t sure whether my son was going to survive the night. He was having trouble with his lungs. Still not breathing on his own. His immune and nervous systems weren’t developing they way they should. More than once I’ve caught myself planning my son’s funeral arrangements should the worst come to pass.

Samantha has been inconsolable on the days following one of Tyler’s rough nights. She longs to hold him, kiss him, be a mother to h
im. But we’re still not permitted to touch him. She’s afraid that if he does survive this, he won’t know her as his mother, that they’ve been separated too long. I try to tell her not to be foolish, of course he’ll know her, but I don’t think she believes me. There’s only so much I can do to make her feel better right now, and that’s killing me.

Today, Tyler is one-month old. Samantha has insisted we mark the occasion like an actual birthday complete with a tiny blue onesie that says birthday boy. As we approach the NICU, my blood begins to freeze. Something isn’t right. I glance down to see if Samantha has noticed, but she’s looking at a text message for Claire. We enter the unit and our favorite nurse Mary looks up from where she and several others are gathered around Tyler’s incubator. I can’t tell what they’re doing, but when she spots us, I expect her to give me a regretful expression right before crossing over to tell us Tyler didn’t survive the night. Instead, a huge grin spreads across her face.

“What are they doing?” Samantha asks, eyeing the crowd of nurses around our son.

“I don’t know,” I answer. We both pull on our scrubs and thoroughly wash our hands on habit, then head inside where Mary is practically bouncing in excitement. “Is everything okay?”

She smiles at us, jerking her head towards Tyler. “Come see,” she says gently.

Samantha and I exchange a glance and follow Mary to Tyler. The crowd of nurses parts to let us through and it take me a minute to figure out what has everyone so rapt. Tyler’s tiny face is contorting. He doesn’t seem to be in pain, but he’s struggling to do something.

“What’s he doing?” Samantha asks, her eyes focused on Tyler.

“We think he’s trying to open his eyes,” Mary tells her softly. “He’s been doing this for the last hour or so.”

Silently, Samantha and I sit on either side of Tyler and watch. Within twenty minutes, we see real progress. His right eye cracks open and the lights in the room dim, presumably to encourage him to open it further instead of snapping it shut against the bright invasion. Samantha gasps a couple minutes later as Tyler’s eye opens completely. I’m grinning like an idiot, and I couldn’t care less. “He’s got your eyes, Sammy,” I whisper.