Fiction

Shoot Past the Moon

Posted on December 4, 2021 by jamiegregory

[12 minute read or listen to this story narrated by Jamie Gregory on the Short Stories for Busy Bookworms podcast below]

I rearranged the padfolio, stack of papers, and water bottle on the podium for the umpteenth time as more people continued to meander in and take a seat in front of me. Whew, ok, take some deep breaths. You’ve got this.

I tried to distract myself and calm my nerves by gazing out of the bookshop’s windows which lined the city street. It was a chilly, early spring evening and there was a drizzle outside being illuminated by the streetlights. I was snapped out of my trance by the bookshop owner approaching the podium to greet the crowd.

“Good evening, everyone.” He said and paused to let the chatter simmer down. “Welcome to Beehive Books. I’m Jack Browerton and I’m the owner here. I want to thank all of you for coming tonight. Without further ado, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to tonight’s guest author, Anna Bensley. Her debut novel, a moving memoir about growing up in poverty, entitled “Where I’m from, I Must Not Stay” became a New York Times Bestseller practically overnight. She’s a fellow Ohioan and we’re thrilled to host her tonight for the first of many stops on her book tour. We invite you to purchase a signed copy of her memoir before you leave tonight. Now, please help me welcome Anna Bensley.”

I was faintly aware of the brief round of obligatory applause from the crowd while my trembling hands adjusted the podium microphone.

I cleared my throat and said, “Uh, hello everyone. My name is Anna Bens — well, I guess you already know that.” I let out a nervous chuckle which was echoed by a few people in the crowd. “You’ll have to bear with me. Writing a best-selling novel is much easier than public speaking, in my opinion.”

Jack, coming to my rescue, interjected from the back of the crowd, “Hey Anna, may I suggest that we start with some Q&A?”

“Oh, sure,” I said, relieved.

“I’m sure the odds were stacked against you after growing up in lower-class America. What inspired you to become an author?” He said.

“I thought someone might ask that question. I’m going to answer it by sharing a personal story, an excerpt from my memoir.” I said. I flipped to page 58 in my worn-out copy of the book and began reading aloud.

—

I tiptoed across the threadbare carpet of my mom’s bedroom in our dilapidated mobile home, still wearing my pajamas. Dust bunnies were floating through the rays of early morning sun seeping through the window. She was sprawled out asleep on her mattress that rested on the floor. Maybe someday we’d be able to afford bed frames. I felt guilty waking her knowing that she’d worked the night shift at the gas station and only had a few hours to sleep until her day shift started at the local diner. But it was payday and my last chance to ask for some spending money for the annual Secret Santa Shop at school.

One glorious day per year the school gymnasium was transformed into the Secret Santa Shop where students could buy Christmas gifts for their family members at “kid-friendly prices”. I’m not sure which kids found the prices to be friendly but I wasn’t one of them. Each year I left the gymnasium empty-handed while my classmates delighted in sharing their festive finds. Next year I’d be moving on to middle school where they no longer indulge in such activities.

With high hopes, I gently nudged her awake. “Mommy? Mommy, wake up. I need to ask you something.”

She slowly rolled towards me. “What is it, honey? I need to get some sleep before —”

“I know. I’m sorry, Mommy. I was just wondering…um…did you decide if I could have any spending money for the Secret Santa Shop at school today?”

“Oh, honey…I’m so sorry. I was really hoping that I could give you some money for that this year. But things have been slow at the diner recently so my tips haven’t been very good. And someone called from the electric company yesterday, threatening to shut off our electricity if I don’t pay the overdue bill.” She said.

I tried my best to hide my disappointment. “Oh…well…it’s ok Mommy,” I said.

“You don’t need to buy me any gifts anyway, sweetheart. Just make me a beautiful card like you did last year. That’s better than anything you could buy at the Secret Santa Shop.” She said while patting my shoulder. Then she yawned and said, “Now you better go get ready so you don’t miss the school bus.” She laid back down and turned her back to me, ending the conversation.

I returned to my bedroom where a small dresser from the thrift store held my dwindling wardrobe. Besides the fact that I was constantly outgrowing clothes, there was the ongoing problem of them being destroyed by our tenants, the mice. My mom’s meager income had to be carefully rationed between food, utilities, and gas money. Spending money on clothing and entertainment was a luxury we simply didn’t have. The older I got, the harder it was to fit in at school when I looked like a walking advertisement for the local second-hand clothing store.

I yanked one of the dresser drawers open and grabbed the most festive garments I could find, a stained red sweatsuit that was now two sizes too small. I pulled the sweatsuit on and pretended it was an ornate Christmas dress. I slipped my tattered gym shoes on and wondered if they’d get me through another midwestern winter.

In the kitchen, I made my usual breakfast of generic cereal and the last few swigs of now expired milk. On the school bus, I occupied a seat by myself and rode to the school in silence despite being surrounded by energetic conversations. At some point in elementary school, the differences among students became obvious and cruelty emerged. Fact: I was one of the poorest kids in school and I might as well have been invisible.

Later that day, I followed the rest of my class to the gymnasium for the Secret Santa Shop with a sick feeling in my stomach. My classmates were comparing how much spending money they had as if it was a contest. I tried to linger near the back of the pack since this was one conversation I wanted to be excluded from. We were almost at the gym entrance when Sophia Larson, the most popular girl in class, rounded on me.

“Hey, Anna. Good news, I heard they’re going to have a special table this year where everything only costs $1.00.” She said, loud enough for everyone to hear. I stared at my feet, wishing a trap door would suddenly appear there and suck me away. “Oh, sorry. I forgot, even $1.00 would be too expensive for you.” She said with a sneer.

“Sophia, that’s enough. Please apologize to Anna.” Said our teacher, Mrs. Hampton.

“Sorry, Anna….”Sophia said. Once Mrs. Hampton was out of earshot she added, “Sorry that you’re just poor trailer trash.”

My classmates scattered throughout the gym like they were shopping for the year’s must-have gift on Black Friday. Meanwhile, I plopped down on the bleachers and buried my nose in a book from the school library. A few minutes later I sensed someone sitting down next to me and looked up from my book to see Mrs. Hampton.

“Anna, you might run into a lot of people like Sophia Larson in your life. There’s no excuse for the way bullies treat people, but you need to learn how to stand up for yourself. She’s just going to keep picking on you if you let yourself be an easy target. Now tell me, is it true what she said? That you can’t afford to shop for gifts today?”

“Yeah…it’s true. My mom didn’t have enough money for it.” I said, with a sigh. I stole a sideways glance at Mrs. Hampton and decided that she had the kindest, caramel-colored, eyes I’d ever seen. I suddenly felt compelled to tell her more. “My dad left us. My mom has two jobs…but…we’re still poor. It’s not fair.” I said, my eyes welling up with tears.

“You’re absolutely right. It’s not fair. But the good news is, you don’t have to be poor for the rest of your life. You’re a smart kid, Anna. You have a ton of potential and if you put your mind to it you can have the life of your dreams when you grow up.” She said.

“You really think so?” I said, wiping a tear from my cheek.

“I know so. Keep doing your best in school, get a job when you’re old enough to start earning your own money, and find something you’re passionate about to study in college. What do you daydream about? What do you want to be when you grow up?” She said.

“Um…I don’t know…I love reading books and going to the library. My mom can’t afford fancy toys or movie theater tickets, but library books are free. Maybe I could work in a library someday?” I said.

“Yeah…that would be good. But imagine if the library was full of books that you wrote. As Norman Vincent Peale once said, ‘Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.’ Speaking of books, I see that you’re reading ‘The Giver’. That book usually isn’t assigned until middle school —”

“I know. I asked the middle school librarian for a book list so I could start reading ahead.” I said excitedly. Mrs. Hampton grinned at me and nodded her head a few times.

“Ok, I’ll make you a deal.” She said, “I’ll give you $10 to buy gifts at the Secret Santa Shop today —”

“Oh, no that’s ok, Mrs. Hampton. That’s really nice of you but I couldn’t pay you back and —”

“Just hear me out. You don’t have to pay me back with money. I want you to pay me back with book reports.” She said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I want you to complete one book report for each dollar I’m giving you. So, ten book reports total and I’ll give you until the end of this school year to do it. Think of it as your way of ‘paying me back’ and beginning your career as a librarian, or author, by reading and analyzing classic books.” She said while she pulled a ten-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to me.

I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. I leaped up from the bleachers and gave her a big hug. “Oh, Mrs. Hampton, thank you so much! I’ll write the best book reports you’ve ever seen.”

With time running out, I browsed the gift-laden tables as fast as I could. I spied a home manicure set at the “Gifts for Mom” table. It brought back memories of my mom before Dad left us when she had the time, energy, and money to spruce herself up regularly. I cautiously flipped the package upside down to search for the price tag, praying it didn’t cost too much. Luck was on my side because the price was exactly ten dollars. Sophia Larson got in the checkout line right behind me and I braced myself for more taunting.

“I thought you didn’t have any shopping money, Anna. That manicure set costs ten dollars, you know.” She said, pulling the same manicure set out of her shopping bag which was bulging at the seams. “Did you steal money from someone or are you hoping they’ll just feel sorry for you and give it to you for free?”

“No, Mrs. Hampton offered to give me the money and I’m paying her back by doing extra credit. Ten book reports by the end of the year. Middle school books.” I said with all the confidence I could muster. Then I turned on a dime, leaving her somewhat speechless for once, and handed the manicure set to the cashier. “I’d like to buy this for my mom,” I said, full of pride.

I took advantage of the free gift wrapping supplies provided by the school. When I arrived home Mom was still working at the diner so I put her gift in one of my empty dresser drawers where I kept it hidden until Christmas morning.

I barely slept a wink on Christmas Eve night. I woke up before Mom the next morning. I made her a cup of instant coffee, some toast, and a bowl of cereal all of which I placed on our rickety kitchen table next to her gift and a handmade card.

I crept into her room and gently prodded her awake. “Mommy…wake up. I have a surprise for you.” I said.

“A surprise? For me?” She said with a yawn.

“Yep! Come on. It’s in the kitchen.” I said, giddy with excitement.

Mom sauntered into the kitchen rubbing the sleep from her eyes. When she saw the display on the table she froze and a silent tear trickled down her cheek.

“What…is this?” She said.

“I made you some breakfast and…I bought you a gift. Merry Christmas, Mommy.” I said.

“But…where did you…how did you buy me a gift?” She said looking confused and concerned.

“My teacher, Mrs. Hampton, let me borrow some money so I could buy you a gift at the Secret Santa Shop —” I said.

“Oh, Anna…you know we can’t pay her back. Haven’t I told you not to borrow money from people?” She said.

“Don’t worry, Mommy. We have a deal. I’m paying her back by doing extra credit. Book reports. And they’re middle school books too. Mrs. Hampton says maybe I could be a librarian someday…or even an author.” I said. She started crying harder and I was having trouble interpreting her reaction. “Mommy…are you upset with me?” I said.

“No honey, not at all. I’m just overwhelmed by how special you are and how lucky I am to be your mom.” She said, smiling through the tears.

Later that night our power went out (Merry Christmas to you too, electric company), so we had a manicure party next to the fireplace while we sang Christmas carols. It was the most magical Christmas I’d ever had.

As for my deal with Mrs. Hampton, I finished all ten book reports with a month to spare so I threw in one more for good measure before the school year ended. Reading those middle school classics gave me an insatiable hunger for literature and set my life on a trajectory that was beyond my wildest daydreams. That extra credit assignment became the turning point when a poor girl from the trailer park began to rewrite the story of her future, one chapter at a time.

—

I glanced up from my book, expecting to see half of the audience asleep. But to my surprise, all eyes were locked on me and a few people were even dabbing away tears. A couple of people started a round of applause that swelled to a level of enthusiasm that embarrassed me.

“Oh…thank you…thank you, everyone,” I said, fighting back tears of my own. “Now that I’ve shared that excerpt I’d like to turn your attention to my book’s dedication page.” I said flipping to the beginning of the book and reading aloud, “This book is dedicated to Mrs. Hampton, for empowering me to shoot for the moon.”

After fielding several questions from the audience I relocated to the book signing table next to the podium. After thirty minutes of mingling and signing my hand was cramped and my mouth was sore from perpetually smiling. With my head down, I grabbed another copy of my book from the stack, ready to greet the next person but I suddenly sensed that nobody else was in line, or so I thought. I glanced up from the table and saw a woman standing at a distance, staring at me with a smile on her face. She had kind, caramel-colored eyes.

“Mrs. Hampton? Is that you?” I said.

She approached the table and said, “I see that you landed on the moon like I always knew you would.”

“I can’t believe you’re here!” I said, running around the table to hug her.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Now, Ms. Bensley, can I get your signature please?” She said, holding out a copy of my book.

I signed it for her on the dedication page. When I looked up to hand it back to her she was extending her credit card to the bookstore employee seated next to me to pay for the book.

“Nope, I can’t let you do that. This one’s on me.” I said.

“No, I insist.” She said, thrusting her card forward.

“Mrs. Hampton, this is my way of paying you back, for real this time. It’s the least I can do. Those book reports…and you…you changed my life.” I said.

She slipped her credit card back into her wallet and pulled a manila folder from her messenger bag. “Speaking of those book reports…I thought you might want these, to see how far you’ve come.” She said, handing me the folder.

I slowly opened the folder to find all eleven of the book reports I’d completed for Mrs. Hampton in elementary school. My juvenile handwriting gave me a chuckle. The margins were chock full of notes from Mrs. Hampton.

“You kept these…all this time?” I said.

“I kept them for this moment. So they could serve as a reminder of everything you’ve overcome to get here and the potential you have within you to keep going. Shoot right past the moon, Anna, and who knows where you’ll land next.” She said.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: Write about a character who won’t (or can’t) shop for the holidays.

The Gift of a Fresh Start

Posted on November 27, 2021 by jamiegregory

[12 minute read or listen to this story narrated by Jamie Gregory on the Short Stories for Busy Bookworms podcast below]

Content warnings: kidnapping and domestic violence.

It wasn’t the first time I had received someone else’s mail. Our mail carrier, Mr. Jacobs, was a friendly old soul but the neighborhood consensus was that it was time for him to ride his mail truck off into the sunset of retirement.

It was a rainy Friday evening in mid-November. My students were getting antsy for Thanksgiving break and, let’s face it, so was I. By the time I left the building, my car was the only one sitting in the school parking lot. I tugged down on the hood of my raincoat, wind whipping around me, and made a mental note to switch to my winter coat next week.

The entire drive home was a battle against the rain. As I pulled into my driveway I slowly released my white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. Before pulling into the garage I glanced sideways at my front porch. I had been doing some early Christmas shopping and was eagerly awaiting some packages. Sure enough, there was a substantial pile of cardboard boxes waiting for me, now damp from the rain most likely.

I scurried through my condo to the front door, flicking on lights as I went. My cat, Samuelson, followed after me, voicing his dismay that I had neglected to greet him. I scrambled to bring the soggy packages inside and placed them on the coffee table in the living room. I kicked off my shoes, hung up my dripping raincoat, and poured myself a glass of wine. On the way back to the living room I grabbed my notebook that contained my Christmas shopping lists.

I’m one of those start-celebrating-holidays-way-too-early kinds of people. Combine my elf-like holiday spirit with my obsession with organization and, well, let’s just say that I take my Christmas shopping very seriously. I started opening the packages one at a time to inspect the contents and mark the gift items as “delivered” in my notebook.

The silky voice of Nat King Cole was singing about chestnuts and Jack Frost when I pulled a small package from the pile. It appeared to be a standard cardboard Amazon box but there was something strange about the shipping label. It was addressed to me as expected but there was no return address or any information to indicate who the sender was. As I began to open the box I realized that this was a previously used box, something the mystery sender had tried to conceal. Unlike all of the other packages, this box did not contain any of the products I had purchased from the lists in my notebook.

The package merely contained two boxes of dark brown hair dye and three white envelopes, each labeled with hasty handwriting. One envelope said, “To Ms. Anderson – Open immediately”. Ms. Anderson…that’s me. A second envelope said, “To Jessica – Open immediately”. Jessica? Who’s Jessica? The third envelope said, “Travel documents”. Well, this is weird….Feeling a little rattled by this mysterious package, I decided I might need to fetch another glass of wine before I further inspected its contents.

When I returned from the kitchen I picked up the envelope with my name on it and gave it a scrutinizing stare for a few seconds. Oh, what the heck. My life could use a little more excitement. I opened it and pulled out a handwritten letter.

—

Dear Ms. Anderson,

I’m sorry if this package caught you off guard. You don’t know me but I desperately need your help. You are the only person who can help me save my sister and nephew. Their names are Jessica and Christopher Bates and they live in your neighborhood. Christopher attends the middle school where you teach.

This might come as a surprise to you but Jessica’s husband Tom is very abusive. Jessica has been too scared to call the police and I’m the only person she has confided in. She’s genuinely afraid that their lives are in danger and I believe her.

Six months ago I relocated to Ontario for a new job which is something we’ve kept a secret from Tom. I’ve made arrangements for Jessica and Christopher to travel to Ontario and start a new life with new identities. Everything that they need is in this package but I need your help to pull this off.

Tom leaves on the morning of Monday, November 15th for his last trip distributing turkeys throughout the state (he’s a truck driver). He should be gone for a few days, at least. Please hand-deliver the other items in this box to Jessica as soon as possible on Monday once Tom has left. He drives a black Ford Ranger and usually parks in the driveway so it should be easy to tell if he’s gone. Their address is 521 Blanchair Lane.

I know I’m asking a lot of you. I promise that nobody will ever know that you were involved in this. Just think of it this way, you’re just doing me a favor by delivering a “gift” to Jessica.

Sincerely,

A concerned sister

—

I stared at the letter for a moment and contemplated pinching myself to see if I had fallen asleep on the couch and all of this was a dream. Right on cue, Samuelson woke up from his own dream, poking my leg with his outstretched paws confirming that I was indeed awake.

Christopher Bates…that name definitely sounds familiar…but I can’t picture him, I thought as the faces of dozens of students flashed through my mind. I walked over to my bookcase, found last year’s school yearbook, and started flipping through the pages searching for his photograph. There he is!

He had unkempt dirty blond hair and hazel eyes. Unlike his classmates, with their cheesy grins, the camera captured a rather melancholy expression on his face. Oh, yeah…now I remember him.

He was in my first-period class last year. The poor kid was painfully shy and almost skittish. He never interacted with the other kids in class and he always sat by himself in the cafeteria. The thing I remembered most about Christopher was that he was excessively absent from school. This fact stood out in my memory because we report attendance during our first-period class. He would often return from an absence with some sort of bruise or injury and a handwritten note from his mom explaining what had happened ranging from sports injuries to falling off his mountain bike during vacation. Her notes always had a lighthearted “boys will be boys” tone to them so I never felt there was cause for concern. In my eyes, he was just a very accident-prone kid who kept to himself and managed to get decent grades despite his attendance record. How did I miss these red flags? I should’ve reported this to someone….

My gaze shifted back to the open box on the coffee table and the remaining envelopes inside. I was tempted to open them but I wasn’t sure if I should. I already opened the one that was for me. Those are for Jessica…wouldn’t that be, like an invasion of privacy? But isn’t this whole situation one big invasion of privacy? The cat is already out of the bag. And if I’m actually going to go through with this, shouldn’t I know all of the details? But wait…am I going to go through with this?

It might have been the two glasses of wine getting the best of me, but I suddenly felt incapable of making decisions. So, I decided to sleep on it and reevaluate the situation in the morning. After all, I had until Monday to make up my mind.

Following a night of restless sleep, I started the next morning with a pot of extra strong coffee. I carried my steaming mug into the living room and turned on the gas fireplace hoping it would help me relax. Sitting on the couch, once again I stared into the box that had turned my life into a plot worthy of a Made-for-TV-Movie. My brain must have subconsciously made the tough decisions for me during the night because I suddenly grabbed the envelope labeled, “To Jessica – Open immediately” and ripped it open. It contained another handwritten letter.

—

Dear Jessica,

If you’re reading this letter that means it’s Monday, November 15th, Tom is gone, and Ms. Anderson must have pulled through for us like you thought she would. I’ll keep this brief because I know you have a lot to do. Once Tom has been on the road for a little while, don’t forget to call the school and say that you need to pick Christopher up because you forgot that he has a dentist appointment or something.

There should be another envelope from my package labeled, “Travel documents.” Inside it, you’ll find new passports for you and Christopher with your new identities and photoshopped portraits. Use the hair dye I sent to dye your hair and Christopher’s to match the passport photos. I have a friend who retired from a job in the Witness Protection Program and he created these passports for you. So don’t worry, they’re legit!

You’ll also find your flight itinerary and some cash which should hold you over until you arrive in Ontario. Don’t use your credit card in case Tom checks the statements.

I know this might be hard, but you’ll have to pack very lightly. Just remember, that most of your possessions can be replaced. I love you and I can’t wait to help you and Christopher start a new life here. You can do this!

Love, Sissy

—

Wow, I gotta hand it to ya, Sissy. You really thought this through.

I opened the “Travel documents” envelope more out of curiosity than necessity. The passports for Sarah and Johnathan Andrews, as they were soon to be called, both brunettes, were definitely legit. The itinerary showed a one-way red-eye-flight to Ontario scheduled for Monday night. Smart. Don’t waste any time, just get there ASAP. And travel when there are fewer people in the airports.

Well, there you have it. I had all the facts, now I just had to wait until Monday to do my part. I spent the rest of the weekend unsuccessfully trying to distract myself from this epic family drama that I had been cast in.

My first-period class on Monday morning passed in a blur. Over the weekend I’d given a lot of thought to my game plan and the sequence of events for this day. I needed a way to discreetly leave school, at least temporarily, to go deliver the package to Jessica, and the earlier the better. The only option I could come up with was to leave during my lunch period under the pretense of going to grab a fast-food lunch. That was the only acceptable time for a teacher to leave the building.

Second period is my planning period. I made a fresh cup of coffee in the Keurig in my classroom and tried to calm my nerves by partaking in my daily ritual of checking the attendance report on my laptop. After each teacher submits the attendance for their first-period class, a schoolwide report is emailed to everyone at the beginning of second period showing who’s absent for the day. Since our student enrollment is somewhat small it doesn’t take long to skim the report. Near the top of the alphabetical list, I saw the name Christopher Bates and my heart dropped.

Wait…why is he absent? He’s supposed to be here this morning. Jessica is supposed to come to pick him up. Something about this doesn’t feel right….

It only took me a few minutes to come up with a plan. I picked up my desk phone and called the secretary in the school office.

“Elmwood Middle School, this is Mrs. Francis, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Mrs. Francis. This is Becca Anderson. I have a terrible migraine and I don’t think I’m going to make it through the rest of the day.” I said in the most pitiful voice I could muster.

“Oh honey, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, I felt it coming on this morning on my drive in and I tried to take some medicine but it’s just not working. I’m starting to feel nauseous and —”

“Oh, you poor thing. Even Wonder Woman herself couldn’t handle middle schoolers in that condition. Let me see if I can get someone to cover your third-period class and find a sub for the rest of the day. I’ll call you right back.”

Well, I guess all those years in the school drama club must have paid off.

I started packing up my belongings and laid my binder containing my emergency sub plans on my desk. I was chugging the rest of my coffee when the phone rang.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hi, it’s Mrs. Francis. Ok, so Mr. Scott has offered to cover your third-period class. It’s supposed to be his planning period so you’ll owe him one. And I have a sub lined up for the rest of your class schedule. Go home and get some rest.”

I thanked her and slipped out of the building. Since I already had the package in my trunk I drove straight to the Bates house as fast as I could.

The first thing I took note of was that Tom’s black Ford Ranger was MIA. Ok, that should be a good sign. My hands were trembling as I carried the package up to the front door. I rang the doorbell and waited for a few minutes. The family dog was barking up a storm inside but other than that there was no response. I rang the doorbell a second time. Again, just the dog answered from within. I glanced around to make sure there was no one nearby and tried turning the doorknob. To my surprise, the door opened. The dog came running at me with his tail wagging. Luckily, his bark was worse than his bite. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, instantly enveloped by the silence of the house.

“Hello?” I said tentatively. “Is anyone here?” My ears started to adjust to the silence like eyes in the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a clock ticking and the faint electrical humming of an appliance.

From the entryway where I was standing, I could see into the living room and the attached kitchen. The house was in disarray and there were signs of a struggle everywhere I looked. Furniture was overturned and a lamp covered in bloodstains lay shattered on the floor. In the kitchen, it looked like someone had been interrupted during breakfast. A bowl had clattered to the floor leaving a puddle of cereal and milk on the kitchen island.

I returned to my car, with the package in tow, and drove to the Sheriff’s Office where I insisted on talking to the Sheriff himself. After showing him the package and telling him the whole story he promised me that three things would happen: they would immediately file missing person reports for Jessica and Christopher, find them as quickly as possible, and protect my anonymity.

During the evening news that night the Sheriff held a press conference regarding the situation with the Bates family and urged anyone who knew something to call the tipline. I’d watched enough crime shows in my lifetime to know how urgent this situation was and how important the next forty-eight hours would be.

I struggled through the next day at school but I tried my best to just act natural which was easier said than done with all of the rumors flying around. Later that evening I had just sat down to eat a Lean Cuisine meal for dinner when my cell phone rang.

“Hello? This is Becca Anderson.” I said.

“Hello, Ms. Anderson. This is Sheriff Williams. Do you have a minute to talk?” He said.

“Uh, yeah, of course,” I said.

“I just wanted to let you know that we’ve located Jessica and Christopher Bates and they’re safe in our custody. As we expected, they were kidnapped by Tom Bates. His employer helped us track him down with the GPS they use to track their fleet of semi-trucks. Apparently, Tom took Jessica’s phone, read some text messages from her sister, and deduced that they were planning something. Jessica and Christopher both sustained some injuries from the domestic dispute that occurred in their home. Tom had bound them and was hauling them in the refrigerated cargo section of the truck with the frozen turkeys so they were nearly hypothermic when we found them. But we have medics attending to them as we speak. I wanted you to be among the first to know. I’m not sure what Tom had planned but if it wasn’t for you Jessica and Christopher might not have been found alive.” He said.

I was silent for a moment, tears streaming down my face, letting his words sink in. “What…” I cleared my throat and tried again. “What’s going to happen to them?”

“Well, it’s safe to say that Tom is going to prison for a long time. And I’ve already started making calls to connect Jessica and Christopher with the Witness Protection Program in Ontario so they can be near Jessica’s sister for support. They deserve a fresh start and thanks to you, we can give them that gift.” He said.

As I hung up the phone my mind wandered to my notebook containing the frivolous Christmas shopping lists I’d been so concerned about just a few days earlier. Two things are certain: I now have a new standard for giving meaningful gifts and I’ll never look at an Amazon box the same way again.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

Jamie Gregory

Mom by day, writer by night.

Shoot Past the Moon

S1 E3: Shoot Past the Moon (A Coming of Age Short Story) – Short Stories for Busy Bookworms

The Gift of a Fresh Start

S1 E6: The Gift of a Fresh Start (A Suspenseful Short Story) – Short Stories for Busy Bookworms