Chapter 2 - Forty-Seven Dead Rings
By two hours, the pleasant festive buzz around me began to turn into a nightmare of white noise. The scent of cinnamon roasted nuts and pine needles suddenly smelled sickeningly sweet. My hands were shaking so violently that I nearly dropped my phone on the floor twice.
I had dialed his number twelve times. Then twenty. Then thirty-five.
Every single call went straight through four rings before being swallowed by his generic voicemail. I sent frantic text messages that sat on delivered status without changing to read:
Daniel, where are you?
The babies are crying. I’m running out of formula.
Did you get into an accident? Please answer me.
I’m calling the police if you don't pick up in five minutes.
Nothing. Just the flat, silent glow of my screen.
Caleb was screaming now, his face flushed bright crimson, while Hannah sobbed in sympathy from her car seat, kicking her little feet until her cream shoes popped off onto the dirty floor. I dropped to my knees, desperately digging through the diaper bag. My heart plummeted into my stomach.
In my rush that morning to dress the twins in their matching outfits, I had only packed two pre-measured bottles of formula. Both were now empty. I had one clean diaper left for Hannah and none for Caleb.
""Shh, baby, shh,"" I pleaded, bouncing Caleb against my shoulder while tears burned hot against my cheeks. Shoppers walked past, casting curious, uncomfortable glances at the unraveling mother kneeling on the floor surrounded by baby wipes and crying infants. Nobody stopped. In a busy mall during the holidays, a mother with screaming babies was just a nuisance people hurried to avoid.
My mind raced through terrifying scenarios. Did a distracted driver hit him on the outer beltway? Did he slip on black ice in the parking lot and hit his head between two parked trucks? Was he lying unconscious in the sub-zero snow while I sat inside waiting like an idiot?
I stood up, holding Caleb with one arm while pushing the heavy double stroller with the other, marching toward the main information desk near the central fountain. The teenage girl behind the counter was filing her acrylic nails, completely disinterested in the world.
""Excuse me,"" I begged, my voice cracking. ""Has there been an accident reported in the north parking lot? A pedestrian hit, or a hit-and-run?""
The girl looked up, chewing gum slowly. ""Uh, mall security hasn't called anything in. If somebody got hit, CPD would already have squad cars with sirens out front. I haven't heard anything.""
""Can you page Daniel Whitmore over the mall intercom? Please. He went to get our car two hours ago and hasn't come back.""
She sighed, reaching for a beige telephone receiver. A moment later, the overhead speakers chimed, interrupting a Mariah Carey track: Daniel Whitmore, please report to the central customer service desk. Daniel Whitmore.
I waited beneath the speaker for ten agonizing minutes. The chime didn't repeat. Nobody came walking down the wide corridor.
I checked my call log. Forty-seven calls. Forty-seven unanswered pleas sent into the void.
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My legs finally gave out. I collapsed back onto the green bench near Santa’s empty red velvet throne. Santa had stepped away for his scheduled afternoon break, leaving only an empty chair flanked by towering artificial candy canes. Caleb was coughing from crying so hard, and Hannah was whimpering softly, her thumb shoved into her mouth.
I buried my face in Caleb’s little cranberry shoulder and sobbed openly, completely shattered by the cold realization that my husband wasn't lying in an ambulance. He had simply walked away.
