I was at the door of our nine-story brick apartment building, holding a large duffel bag in one hand and a pale blue bundle with my newborn baby Michael in the other. I wasn’t worn out since I hadn’t slept in four days and nights in the maternity unit. I was scared like an animal, and my whole body was frozen in a shell of ice.
The old lady was to blame. She appeared out of the thick autumn fog like a ghost, a figure in a worn, dark gray coat with ragged sleeves. She gripped my arm with thin yet strong fingers and growled right in my face. Her breath smelled like some weird, bitter plant.
“Don’t you dare go in there,” she said, her eyes drilling into mine. “Do you hear me, girl? Please call your dad. Right away. “Right now.”
I tried to tear my arm away, but I reflexively held Mikey nearer to my chest to protect him. This woman was off in some way, and it made me uneasy. She wasn’t like the other grandmothers who sat on the benches at the door and spoke about the neighbors. Her eyes were penetrating and nearly black, and there was no sign of the foggy film of old age. They had an intense inner fire and a deep comprehension of things that most people can’t understand. She wore a dark blue scarf that was almost violet and tied it low on her head, over her gray eyebrows, so it cast a shadow over her face. Her wrinkles were deep, like fractures in dry ground, but her hold was as strong as steel.
There were many fortune-tellers and mystics in our suburban area on the fringe of the city. They put up foldable tables near the train station and laid out their cards. They called out to those who walked by, offering to read their futures for $20 or $30. But they never surprised new moms with scary, confusing messages.
“Please, let me go,” I begged, looking around in a desperate hope of seeing a neighbor or even just one living person. But the courtyard was completely vacant, as if everyone who lived there had just disappeared. A chilly wind in October blew yellowed leaves across the damp asphalt, making little whirlpools. A crow cawed from the top of a nearby building in the distance. It was a lengthy, scary sound that seemed to mean trouble was coming. The sun was already behind a thick layer of clouds at four-thirty in the afternoon, making the world look dark and anxious.
Andrew, my spouse, was scheduled to meet me. He had promised just two days before, when he went to the hospital with his arms full of apples, juice, and a big bag of tiny baby clothes. He kissed me, looked at our sleeping boy with such love, and took pictures of him from every angle, sending them to his parents and friends. He had promised to be there when I got out of the hospital. He said he would hire a big taxi, buy me roses, and decorate the flat with blue balloons.
But he called this morning when I was happily packing my things. His voice was short and to the point. He had said, “A last-minute business trip to Denver.” ” A big contract, three million dollars on the line.” The client is hard to work with and wants to meet in person. My supervisor says I have to go today. “I have to go now,” he said. “I’m truly sorry, but work is work.” The mortgage has to be paid. The infant needs stuff.
I was so devastated that I wept openly in the ward, concealing my face in the pillow to prevent the other new mothers from noticing. A nice nurse had calmed me and said it was because of postpartum hormones, but the bitterness stayed. What kind of work travel couldn’t wait for the birth of your first child? For months, I had pictured this day: the three of us traveling home, Andrew tenderly holding our boy. Instead, I was alone, fatigued to the bone, with a twenty-pound duffel bag and a nine-pound infant. A silent cab driver left me off and didn’t even help me with my bags.
“Listen to me cautiously, girl.” The old woman held on tighter, her fingers biting into the fabric of my coat. “Your father is still alive. Can you hear me? Do you get what I’m saying? He is still alive. Give him a call. Right now. Do you still have his old cell phone number? The one that’s still in your phone?”
A cold like ice swept through me, freezing my heart, lungs, and spirit. The planet turned on its axis.
Eight years ago, my father passed away. The 23rd of March, 2017. I remember the date better than my birthday. The doctors eventually indicated it was a massive heart attack. There was no chance. It happened so quickly and without warning that we couldn’t even get him to the hospital. He was sitting on the old couch in the living room, watching a football game. My mom was in the kitchen, and I was in my room getting ready for my college tests. We heard a groan and a loud, rattling sound. Mom was the first one to go in. It sounded like a nightmare as she screamed. I ran outside to see him. His face was gray, his lips were blue, and he was holding his chest. I called 911 with shaking hands and yelled out our address. It seemed like forever that we waited for fifteen minutes. The paramedics only shook their heads when they got there. “He’s gone.”
My father had always been there for me, as a rock, a friend, and a protector. He worked as an engineer at the local plant and didn’t make much money, but he never complained. He taught me how to ride a bike, assisted me with my arithmetic schoolwork, and read me adventure stories every night before bed. My world went gray after he died. I couldn’t do anything because the grief was so strong. I was studying to be an elementary school teacher in college, but I almost dropped out. My mother broke. In just one month, she aged ten years and became a ghost of her former self. She still lived alone in our old two-bedroom apartment, eight years later, as a ghost tortured by memories.
“Are you making fun of me?”” My voice shook, and heated tears made it difficult to see. “My dad is dead.” It’s been eight years. It has been eight years. What do you mean? Stop bothering me, you crazy woman. “My baby is getting cold.”
“He is alive,” the elderly woman said again, her conviction so strong and terrifyingly sure that I got shivers all over . “Call his old number. The one you have in your phone. You didn’t erase it, did you? Your heart wouldn’t let you. And don’t you dare go into that terrible flat until you’ve talked to him. Please, girl, I’m begging you. Please, for the love of God, don’t go inside.
Mikey moved around in his warm, silky blanket and gave out a quiet moan. His little nose was sniffing. He was undoubtedly hungry, or maybe he could tell I was scared. I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t know if this vision was genuine or just a hallucination I was having because I wasn’t getting enough sleep after giving birth. The birth had been protracted and painful, with more than twelve hours of intense labor. I felt empty and depleted, but this woman in front of me was definitely genuine. And the dread in her dark eyes was real, too.
She looked carefully at the building, her eyes on the dark windows of our fifth-floor home, number 53. “There’s danger in your apartment.” “Life-threatening danger.” For you and your son. If you go in there now, you’ll wish you hadn’t until the end of your life. Get in touch with your dad. He is waiting for you to call. But you have to hurry. “There’s not much time.”
Then, I felt a jolt, like a strong electric current, go through me. I remembered the number for Dad’s old cell phone. Mom wanted to cancel the line after the funeral, but I begged her not to. I paid the $15 a month for the basic plan myself. It was the final, thinnest thread that tied me to him. When I was at my lowest, I would sometimes call the number simply to hear the long, sad rings. I would cry silently as I told the nothingness about my life—about my first teaching job, meeting Andrew, our wedding, and my pregnancy. It was a covert way to keep him close.
Finally, the old woman let go of my arm and walked aside. “I’ll wait over here,” she responded, her voice quieter but still strong. “Go sit on the bench under the maple tree.” You’re exhausted. I can tell just looking at you. And don’t be afraid to call. “Everything will be fine.”
I don’t understand why I did what a total stranger told me to do. It may have been the tiredness, the hormones, or some deep, unexplainable feeling. My grandma always told me to trust my gut and listen to what my heart was saying. Something deep inside me was shouting, not in words but with a raw, old instinct: Do what she says. Don’t go into that apartment. Call.
I moved carefully to the old green bench that was peeling paint under the naked maple tree. It was chilly and wet from the rain that had just fallen. I cautiously sat down and put Mikey on my lap. I took out my phone with fingers that were numb and wouldn’t listen. The screen got blurry because my hands were shaking so much. I moved down to the letter “F.” There he was. “Dad.” The contact picture was a small square shot I took five years ago at his last birthday party. He was smiling widely at our cookout in the backyard. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.
The scene was just crazy. My dad was gone. I had stood by his open casket, kissed his chilly forehead farewell, and thrown some soil on his coffin. How could he still be alive?
But my hand, as if it had a mind of its own, moved to the screen and hit the green call button.
I could hear my heart pounding against my ribs in my ears. I put the phone to my head and closed my eyes tightly. The rings started—long, dull sounds that faded into nothing. One ring. Two. Three. No one would answer, of course. The number was probably disconnected, or worse, given to someone else. I was about to hang up and cry because it was too much for me to handle when someone picked up on the sixth ring.
A click. A crackle of static. And suddenly there was a voice.
“Natalie? Sweetheart? Are you that?”
The voice sounded scratchy, strained, and full of static, but there was no doubt that it was his. The phone fell from my increasingly weak fingers and landed on my lap next to Mikey’s bundle. I grasped the cold metal edge of the bench and held on as the ground slipped away from me. The world whirled in a dizzying circle, and darkness grew at the corners of my vision.
I grabbed the phone back, my hands shaking, and pressed it hard on my ear. “Dad?” I breathed,” I said, my voice a broken, strange croak. “Is it really you, Dad?””
“It’s me, my love, it’s me.” That voice, that voice I hadn’t heard in eight long years, was shaking and full of tears that hadn’t fallen yet. “Oh my God.” At last. Thank you for calling, honey. I was distressed that I might be too late. Natalie, please tell me fast where you are right now. Are you at home? Are you in the flat?”
“I’m… I’m outside.” “On a bench,” I mumbled, trying to catch my breath. “With… with the baby. How, Dad? How can this be? You are dead. I went to your funeral. “I saw you.”
He cut me off and said, “I’ll explain everything later, I promise.” His voice was suddenly strong and forceful. “There’s no time now.” You need to listen to me exactly. Don’t walk into that flat. No matter what. Please gather your son and your belongings, and exit the building. Go to a friend’s house, a library, or a coffee shop. Not at home. Can you hear me?”
I looked at our home, the building. Two years ago, Andrew and I acquired a two-bedroom condo with a 30-year mortgage. We did the work ourselves, painting the walls, laying the laminate flooring, and putting together Mikey’s white crib with love and joy. What could be so deadly in there?
“Please, Natalie, my dear,” Dad’s voice was urgent and shaky. “Please, just believe me on this. I know that nothing makes sense, but do as I say. Leave that place right now. I’m already going. I’ll be there in 20 minutes, maybe 25 at the most. “Wait for me somewhere safe.”
For twenty minutes. My father, who I had been sad about for eight years, would be here in twenty minutes.
“But why can’t I go in?” “I begged, my head spinning. “Dad, just say something.”
He was quiet for a while, and all I could hear was his heavy breathing and the sound of cars driving by. Finally, he said, “There’s an explosive device.” “One that was manufactured at home. When you open the door to the apartment, it will go off. I don’t know what caused it, but I know it’s there. Natalie, they were going to kill you today. You and the baby.”
I couldn’t breathe anymore. A bomb. The explosion occurred in my apartment. Someone intended to kill me. My baby kid and I. “Who?” “I was able to get the word out. “Who wants to kill us? “Why?”
“Your husband,” Dad remarked. And with just two sentences, everything in my life fell apart. Andrew. He set it all up.
The world seemed to swim in front of me. Andrew, my husband, the father of my child, and the person I had loved and trusted without question. I whispered, “You’re lying.” “That can’t be done.” Andrew would never… he loves me.
“Listen, Natalie,” Dad’s voice was forceful again, breaking through my shock. ” He has been seeing a woman from his company, Jessica Riley, for the past year and a half. He wants to marry her as soon as you leave. There is a $300,000 life insurance policy in your name. You signed the papers six months ago. Do you remember? He said that was a normal part of getting a mortgage.
I remembered. He said it was merely a formality that he brought home some paperwork from the bank. I signed them without reading them since I trusted him entirely.
“Three hundred thousand,” Dad said, “and the apartment would be his. The insurance company would pay off the mortgage.” And he wouldn’t have to deal with a child he definitely didn’t want. He could start a fresh life with his young girlfriend. Isn’t that a wonderful plan?”
No. I shook my head and cried. No, no, no. It wasn’t true. He couldn’t. He was very excited about the baby, putting together the crib, picking a name…
“Sweetheart, he was acting. Dad’s voice became softer with pity as he replied, “An excellent one.” “I’m truly sorry, Natalie, but it’s the truth. I have evidence. Pictures and recordings. “When I see you, I’ll show you everything.”
My brain wouldn’t let me understand it. My dad was still living. My spouse wants to kill me. There was a bomb in our house. “But… how do you know about the bomb?” I asked, holding on to the one thing I could understand.
He paused before answering, “Because I’ve been working for a special federal task force for the past eight years.” “I had to pretend to die to keep you and your mom safe.” I was a witness in a big case of corruption against high-ranking local officials. They said they would protect me as a witness, but that meant I had to go away. Die in an official way. It was the only way to keep you both safe.
It was like I was in a violent action movie. Protection for witnesses. It felt as if I was witnessing an unreal death. “Who was in the coffin?” I asked in a low voice.
The deceased was an unknown male, approximately the same age and body type as I am. We couldn’t find his family. They… they made it hard to tell who they were. We couldn’t inform your mom because it would have put her in danger. It was best that she didn’t know much. And we couldn’t tell you for the same reason. ” I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through, my love.”
Oh my God, Mom. For eight years, she had mourned a living man, and her life was ruined by a death that never happened. And the lady who stopped me? I inquired, gazing across at the weird fortune-teller who was still standing by the edge of the courtyard and observing me. “Who is she?”
“My coworker,” Dad said. “Agent Mariah Evans.” I asked her to keep an eye on your building today, just in case. Today was the day, according to my source.
The individual in question was a fake fortune teller. A secret agent. Everyone was acting out a part.
“Put Mariah on the phone,” Dad said. “She’ll take you to a safe place.”
I rose up, picked up the duffel bag, and slowly walked up to the woman while holding out my phone. I said softly, “It’s for you.”
She picked up the phone and spoke in a low, clipped, businesslike voice. I stood next to her, holding my son, and looked at our apartment building. The fifth floor’s windows were dark. There was a bomb behind those windows, in the warm home where Andrew and I had spent so many pleasant nights. The bomb was designed to kill me and my son. And my husband, the man who had vowed to love and care for me, was on a “business trip” to make sure he had an excuse.
How could he do that? How could you sleep next to someone, kiss them, chat about your future child, and plan to kill them?
Mariah gave the phone back. “Your dad wants you to go to the ‘Daisy Cafe’ on the next street,” she added, her voice returning to normal and no longer sounding like it was coming from a mysterious place. ” It’s a five-minute walk.” I’ll go with you. You can wait for him there. I have already phoned the police and the bomb squad. They’re leaving the building now. “Come on, dear.”
She picked up my hefty luggage, and we walked away from my house. My home. My life. It had all been a lie.
The Daisy Cafe was a modest, friendly spot with yellow curtains and the smell of coffee and cakes. It was a small, regular, tranquil place, far away from bombs and betrayal. Mariah took me to a corner table and helped me get comfortable with Mikey.
After a few minutes, she looked at her phone and said, “The bomb squad is here.” “They’re getting the people out of there.” In five minutes, your dad will be here.
Five minutes. After eight years of thinking my dad was dead, I was going to visit him in person.
“You know the whole thing?” I asked Mariah.
Mariah nodded. “I do.” We’ve been working together for six years now. Your dad is one of the greatest detectives in the Organized Crime section. That bribery case he saw eight years ago was a real mess. There was no other choice but to fake his death. He has been keeping an eye on you and your mother from a distance ever since. He did a comprehensive background check on Andrew when you got married. He looked clean. But your dad saw some strange things six months ago. He discovered the hidden lover and the growing debts from online gambling. He began to probe deeper. Two weeks earlier, someone in the criminal underworld told him that Andrew had engaged a professional, a former expert in demolitions, to “fix his wife problem.”
Two days ago. The day Andrew came to the hospital and brought me fruit, kissed me, and told me he missed me. He had gone home and let the man who was going to kill us in.
Somebody in a dark jacket and pants came in through the cafe door. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with short hair. He was different—thinner, older, and had new creases around his eyes—but I knew him right away. My dad was the one.
We looked at each other from across the room. His face crumpled with feelings. He walked up to me quickly, almost running. “Natalie,” he said, his voice breaking.
He wrapped his arms around me and held me in a tight, frantic hug that took my breath away. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into my hair as his shoulders shook with silent tears. “I apologize for everything, my love. For the hurt, the tears, and these eight awful years. There was nothing more I could do. “I had to keep you safe.”
I held him back with my free arm while I cried. We stood there for a long time, an island of intense emotion in a calm cafe. He was still alive. For real. Hot.
Finally, he stepped back and stared at the sleeping baby in my arms. He said, “My grandson,” his voice shaking. “Can I?””
I cautiously handed Mikey over to him. Dad held the baby like he was the most important thing in the world, and his gaze followed the baby’s tiny, lovely face. His cheeks were wet with tears. The burly federal agent who had pretended to die was wailing like a baby.
Mariah murmured softly from the window, “The bomb has been disarmed, Frank.” ” It was real. The entire floor would have been affected. Currently, Andrew Carter is being arrested at the Denver airport.
That’s it. They were taking my spouse into custody. In just one day, everything I had worked for over the past two years fell apart.
Dad got down next to me and gave me Mikey back. He took my hand and whispered, “I know this is hard.” “But you will get over this, Natalie. You are strong, much like your mom. “You’ll get through these difficulties and come out even stronger.”
“Mom,” I said softly. “When will she realize you’re still alive?”
He let out a heavy, painful sigh. “Tonight. Once you have completed your statement, I will meet with her. I’m going to see her. I’ll go over everything.” I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me, but I have to try.”
“I know she will,” I answered, even though I wasn’t sure but really wanted to. “She loves you.” She never stopped.
The next three weeks were like a dream. I moved back into my mother’s apartment, where I had lived as a youngster. My new life was a bizarre mix of the past and the present. Dad moved in with us and slept on a cot in my old room. The little space was suddenly full with the ghosts of who we used to be and the strangers we had become.
The reunion with my mother had been a tempest of astonishment, sadness, and eight years of anger that had been building up. Slowly, painfully, it began to turn into forgiveness. I saw them navigate the fragile terrain of their rediscovered love, speaking to each other with the careful civility of strangers, slowly learning how to be husband and wife again. Dad loved Mikey so much that he changed his diapers and rocked him to sleep for hours. It was like a grandfather making up for ten years of missed time.
The trial went quickly. Andrew looked like a ghost, a man with no life who couldn’t look me in the eye. He said he was guilty. There was a lot of proof, like financial transfers to the hitman and text exchanges between him and his girlfriend Jessica about their future after I was “gone.” The day before my discharge, she wrote him, “Soon this will all be over, and we can finally be together, my love.” I can’t wait. I already know what dress I want to wear to the wedding.
She had been organizing her wedding to happen at the same time as my burial.
Andrew was sentenced to fifteen years in a prison with the highest level of security. Jessica, who helped, got eight. I sold the house to pay off the mortgage and put the rest of the money in trust for Michael’s future.
One night in December, when it was snowing, I was rocking a cranky Mikey in the living room as my parents talked quietly in the kitchen.
“I never stopped loving you, Laura,” I heard my father say, his voice full of feeling. “Not even for a second.” I took all those risks and did everything I could to keep you and Natalie safe.
There was a lengthy gap, and then my mother spoke softly. “I understand, Frank.” It just needs some time. Eight years is a long time to be sad over a man who was still living.
I heard my mother cry softly and my father whisper to her to make her feel better. They were getting better. We were all getting better.
I gazed down at my son, who had finally fallen asleep with his tiny fingers wrapped around my finger. The tiny family I had tried to make with Andrew was a deception, a meticulously planned illusion that had broken into a million pieces. But from the ashes, my first family was coming back to life.
Things didn’t go the way I thought they would. It was a jumble, full of problems, and hurt by betrayal. But it was also true. My dad was still living. My son was well. My mom was learning how to smile again. I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time when I glanced out the window at the pure, white snow covering everything. A calm, weak, but lasting feeling of tranquility. The storm was over. We had made it.