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Just Let Me Die Here (A Serialized Novel) 17

Chapter 17

By Megan ClancyPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 16 min read
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Just Let Me Die Here (A Serialized Novel) 17
Photo by roel on Unsplash

After an hour in the First Aid Clinic, I am finally allowed to leave. Dr. Strange is still a bit concerned about a concussion and sends me off with stern warning that if my head ache increases at all, or I feel dizzy or faint, I am to go to the hospital immediately. My arm is in a sling and the pain is still exceeding the pain killers that the German nurse gave me, but I don’t care. I have to get back to my family. I still can’t reach Tucker on his mobile. I try to assure myself that it’s probably just dead again. He must have left his charger back in the room. He is probably very worried about where I am.

As I exit the First Aid building and cross the plaza to the lounge, hobbling along in my ski boots, phone pressed to my ear, I glance over at the parking lot. Our bright yellow SUV is still parked in the front row spot where we left it this morning. They’re still here. The ringing stops and his phone goes to voicemail again.

“Hey,” I say. “It’s me. I’m sure you’re wondering where I am. Crazy story. I’ll tell you all about it later. Heading to the lodge now, so, I’ll see you soon.”

I quicken my steps, as much as can be done in clunky ski boots, still quite sore on my left side but I try to ignore the pain. I finally make it through the doors of the lodge and the heat of the blasting vents hits me. I quickly pull my beanie off and use it to wipe of the sweat that instantly pearls across my face. I stuff the hat into my pocket and quickly unzip my jacket. It takes me a second to recover before something else runs me over. The lounge area is empty. There is only one staff member, wiping off the table in the far back corner. She is wearing large headphones and cleaning to the beat of a song I can’t hear.

No Tucker. No Millie.

There really isn’t much more to the lodge, but I search every corner of it. The whole dining area is empty. The gear shop, empty. Both men’s and women’s bathrooms, empty. And the front desk is unattended. Where are they?

“Tucker?” I shout. His name melts into the soft clanging of elevator music playing over the lounge’s speakers.

“Millie? Tucker? Where are you guys?” Nothing. I pull out my phone again to check. No messages. No missed calls. I look out the lodge window to check the parking lot again. Our car is definitely still here. One of the few left.

I walk through the cafeteria space and out onto the lodge’s deck. A group of young men are huddled around a table, stuffing cheese laden slices of pizza into their mouths, following each bite with swings from various beers. Each of them has the racoon tan line blazed across his face, indicative of a day on the slopes. There is no one else out here.

“Excuse me,” I say. A couple of the guys look up at me. “Have you guys seen a tall, dark-haired guy out here?”

“Why? You looking for a man?” one responds, standing with a smirk and a bit of a wobble to his balance. His voice is loaded with beer and carnal intention.

“No, I mean, I’m looking for my husband. He would have had our daughter with him. A baby. Dark brown hair. In a purple ski suit.” The one guy sits down and returns to his slice of pizza. Defeated. No longer interested.

“Naw,” says another. “No one like that out here. Just us. No one else since we’ve been here.”

“Okay, thanks,” I say, heading back inside. Where the hell are they? “Tucker?” I shout out again. “Tucker!” No response.

I head across the plaza to the daycare center, my gait slightly more rushed. I curse these horrible boots. When is someone going to come up with walkable ski boots? And where the hell is my family?

Inside Happy Slopes Child Care, a smiling red-head stands behind the counter that blocks access to the play area in the back. I quickly scan the space over her shoulder. A few children are squatting around a pile of wooden blocks and another is in the swing that hangs in the corner of the room, but I don’t see Millie.

“Can I help you?” the fiery-haired girl behind the desk says with a smile. Maureen, her name tag reads.

“Um, yes. I hope so,” I say. “I was wondering if my husband had picked up our daughter yet.” I’m not even looking her in the eye. I am still scanning the room of children. Where is Millie?

“Let me see. What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Millie. Millie Logan.” The girl skims the top page in the binder in front of her, her finger running down the list of names. It stops just at the bottom.

“Um, I don’t see a Millie. Might she be checked in under another name?”

“No. It should be under Millie. Or maybe Mildred?” Mildred. That had been Tucker’s choice of name. Back when I was still coming to terms with the idea of becoming a mother, he had already been fully consumed by his coming fatherhood and all the tasks that went along with it.

“It was my grandmother’s name,” he had said. “I was her favorite. She would have loved to meet you and knowing that we are passing on a little bit of her to our child would have meant the world to her.” Initially, I hadn’t been a fan of the name. At all. It sounded so old. Geriatric even. But then, I did some research and found out that Mildred means “gentle strength”. I thought that was actually quite beautiful. And after the trauma of her birth, quite fitting for our little angel. Tucker always did prefer the full name, thought it was prettier. More classic. Maybe when he checked her in this morning, that’s what he told them.

Maureen runs down the list again. “I see a Mylie. Could that be her?” It had to be. Maybe the attendant checking her in misspelled it. I nod. “Okay, one second. Let me go get her.”

“Yes, please,” I say, the words exhaling with a sigh of relief. But then a new worry hits me. If Millie is still here, where the hell is Tucker? He was supposed to pick up Millie hours ago. Did he really just leave? And how? The car is still here. I am mad now. Mad and worried and shocked. And what if he didn’t leave? What if he had an accident of his own? Something must have happened to him if he never showed up to pick up Millie. My mind is running through a list of awful scenarios when the girl returns hand in hand with a blonde little toddler. The child has to be at least two years old. She is tall. She is covered in marker. She is not Millie.

“Here we are, Mrs. Logan. I’m sorry about the marker. We got a bit carried away in the arts and crafts area. There was a situation with a little boy, but don’t worry, we took care of it.” She begins to explain the center’s discipline technique, but I’m not even listening to her. I look at the little girl whose eyes are darting back and forth between myself and the young woman, clearly as confused as I am about what is going on. She has obviously been told her mommy is here to pick her up and I am definitely not mommy.

“Excuse me,” I say, cutting off the young woman’s story but trying to be polite in my panic. “But this is not my daughter.”

“Oh.” She looks moderately surprised. “You said Mylie, right?”

“Well, it’s Millie actually. I just thought there had been a typo.” Still holding on to the little girl’s hand, Maureen scans her list again, glancing back a few times at the room to check the other children before returning to the list. She turns the little girl around to check the name tag across her back. It reads ‘Mylie’. Panic begins to cross her face. This does nothing for my own level of worry. My hands grip the edge of the counter, trying to stay composed. Just as I am about to ask if I can just go back and get my daughter, a man comes through the door behind me. The little blonde girl beams.

“Daddy!”

“Hey there, love bug,” the man replies, squatting down to hug the little girl who runs into his arms. “Look at you. You made some art, did you?”

“I colored!”

“Yes, you did.” He then looks up at the woman who, now even more panicked, is desperately searching several lists. “I’m just here to pick up Mylie.”

“Are you Mylie’s father?” Maureen asks.

“That’s what it says on her birth certificate,” the man jokes, obviously not reading the mood of the situation.

“What’s her last name?”

“Bancroft.” Maureen glances back at her list. Not Logan. She looks back at the father with a tight grin, avoiding any eye contact with me. My grip on the edge of the counter tightens.

“Okay, Mr. Bancroft, if you could please just sign her out here.” The man reaches across me and squiggles a signature on the line next to Mylie’s name, before turning back to his daughter to help her get her shoes and jacket on. I watch them as they exit the day care and then look back to Maureen.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Logan. But there is no one here by your daughter’s name.”

“But she should be here. My husband dropped her off. Was she here before? Maybe he already checked her out.” She scans the list again.

“No Millie, or Mildred, Logan listed here today.”

“Was anyone else here this morning that may have checked seen her? Maybe they checked her in wrong or forgot write down her name?”

“No. It’s been me all day. Are you sure your husband checked her in to this daycare?”

“I don’t know. Is there another daycare at the resort?”

“No.”

I take one last look at the group of kids behind Maureen. Millie is not there.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I must be confused. Thank you anyway.”

Outside, I watch Mylie and her father head out towards the parking lot. A beautiful young woman steps out of a waiting car into the snow.

“Mommy!” the little girl shouts and darts across the space to the waiting woman. I feel the girl jumping into her mother’s arms, like a ghost weight hitting me in my very core. Where is Millie? What has Tucker done?

I check the lodge again, praying that this is all a mistake. I just missed them last time. They must have been in the shop, hidden behind a rack of ski jackets. Or maybe he was changing her diaper. But the space is still empty. I stick my head into the men’s restroom again, startling a very drunk snowboarder mid-pee. No Tucker. No Millie. I call Tucker’s phone once more. It sends me straight to his voicemail which, I am informed by the stiff automated voice, is full. I cross the lounge to the front desk, where a man in a tight-fitting ski jacket is now busily typing away at the computer.

“Hello,” he beams, stopping his typing and perching his hands on the edge of the desk like an alert meerkat. “How may I help you.”

“Yes, I was wondering if my husband had left a message with you. We had agreed to meet here, but I can’t find him.” The man looks around the desk.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see any messages left here. And no one has left one since I came on my shift an hour ago.”

“Oh, well have you seen a man with dark hair and a scruffy start of a beard. He would have had a little baby with him. A girl in a purple ski suit and lots of brown curls.”

“No,” he says. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen anyone fitting that description.” My face drops and the man picks up on my worry. “Is everything okay.”

“No. I don’t know. They should be here. I was skiing and we were supposed to meet here when I was done and then I got in an accident and I was stuck in the First Aid Clinic and I’ve been calling and calling and I can’t find them anywhere and I don’t know what to do because I can’t find my husband or baby anywhere.” It all comes pouring out, my words an avalanche on this man who, I’m sure, was expecting a simple “I’m fine” response.

“Okay, okay,” he says, trying to calm the crazy lady in front of him. Please, just sit down a second. I will get security over here.” He points me to the couches by the fire place as he picks up the phone and dials security.

Only a handful of minutes pass before I am joined on the couch by two security guards in bright yellow jackets, but my mind is already spiraling. Where is Tucker? What has happened to Millie?

The security guards are both overly tanned and have thick Ray-Ban sunglasses propped up on the tops of their heads. I look back and forth between the two and it takes me a moment to realize that they are actually twins. I tell them that I was supposed to meet my husband and child here a couple hours ago but that I got in an accident and only now was discharged from the First Aid Clinic. They ask me to describe my family members.

“And you can’t think of anywhere else they may have gone?” Twin One asks.

“No. And our rental car is still in the parking lot, so I don’t know how they would have gone anywhere.” The twins look at each other over my head and then back at me.

“And you’re sure your husband has your daughter?” Twin Two asks.

“Yes. I checked the day care and she’s not there so Tucker must have picked her up. Although they also said she was never there to begin with, so I don’t know what to think.” The twins look at each other again.

“Well, ma’am,” Twin One says. “We haven’t had any reports of accidents regarding anyone fitting your description of your family members, so they are most likely fine.”

“And your daughter is probably with your husband, so there shouldn’t be any concern for her safety,” Twin Two says. I nod. Twin One stands and the other follows.

“We will do a search of the area, just to make sure, but more than likely, they just took the shuttle back to town. You keep calling your husband to try and get in contact. And for now, why don’t you go back to your hotel.”

“What?” They want me to go? Leave? How can I leave without my family?

“You’ve clearly had a tough day,” says one of the twins, I can’t tell which is which anymore. He reaches down and helps me up off the couch. I cringe at the pain that shoots up my side. “You should go back to your hotel and rest. And besides, your husband and daughter are probably there waiting for you anyway. You let us know if you find them, though.” I balk.

“Don’t worry, Miss. We have all your information and will contact you the moment we find anything.” They walk me to the front desk and the meerkat perks up again.

“Would you like to leave a message in case your family shows up looking for you?” he asks.

“Yes, actually. That sounds good.” I leave a note telling Tucker that I have gone back to The Scarlett House and that he needs to call me on my cell phone. I don’t write down the actual words I want to say to him at this moment. “Thank you,” I say to the man, handing him the note. He nods with a smile and returns to his typing.

I hobble out to the rental car, leaving Twins One and Two to begin their search, change out of my ski boots, and get in behind the wheel. They are nowhere around here, but where did they go without the car? In the rearview mirror, I see Millie’s empty carseat. A weight drops in the pit of my stomach. I turn the ignition and head back to The Scarlett House.

I plan to go straight to our room. I will find Tucker there, with Millie napping soundly in her crib, and I will whisper scream at him about how worried I was about them, how awful it was that he left without me, and why hadn’t he come to get me at the First Aid Clinic. Wasn’t he worried about me? Didn’t he care about what had happened to me? And how the hell had he gotten back here to begin with? I am working myself up into fully pissed off, each new thought only worsening Tucker’s case as I make my way up the front steps, holding my breath through each pained movement. I sit in one of the deck chairs and pry my shoes off with my one good arm. I leave them just next to the door and storm inside. But as I cross through the front room, Ruth’s voice stops me.

“Oh, hello dear, did you forget something?” Her warm smile briefly deflates my anger.

“No, just back from skiing,” I say, trying to be pleasant.

“A bit of an accident I see.”

“You could say that. Have you seen my husband?”

“Um, no dear. I haven’t.” She looks confused. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.”

“Sorry, Ruth,” I say, cutting her off. “I’m just a bit worried at the moment.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Maybe. Could you just let me back in to our room for a minute?”

“Of course.” I follow her up the stairs, praying for a miracle the whole way. This isn’t true. This can’t be happening. She’s not remembering things right. They did come back. They are here. Tucker and Millie will be there when we get to the room. My growing anger with him barely masks the pain that strikes with each step.

Ruth slips the key into the door and pushes it open, allowing me to enter in front of her. The room is empty. No Tucker. No Millie. All our luggage, save for my suitcase that is still open next to the bed, is gone. And there, on the bedside table, where just this morning there was a pile of Tucker’s wallet, watch, and a handful of Canadian coins, is now just one item. My passport. Hanging over the edge, as if tossed there as a last-minute thought.

The truth hits me. They are gone.

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About the Creator

Megan Clancy

Author & Book Coach, wife, mother, adventure-seeker.

BA in English from Colorado College & MFA from the University of Melbourne

Writing here is Fiction & Non-Fiction

www.meganaclancy.com

Find me on Twitter & IG @mclancyauthor

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