Gone

The smell of freshly brewed coffee and slightly stale donuts creates an effortlessly comfortable aroma. There is something about an independent cafe that warms the spirit. Whether its rustic tables, the lack of matching uniforms, or the many succulents, they make you feel like you belong. 

I watch as my wife carries a small tray of drinks and scones over to our table before leaving to check out the quaint 'take a book leave a book' library. Taking a sip of my espresso, I scan the room: grad students are studying, teenagers are pretending to enjoy black coffee, one other small family is laughing away, and a man sits quietly alone in the corner. My stomach clenches as I survey him: he is the right age, caucasian, about six feet tall, with dark brown hair. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath before looking to his right hand. The scar is there; it stretches from his thumb to his wrist and grows more prominent as he reaches for his coffee. At that moment, I feel all the warmth leave my body. Here in the middle of Scotland, in some random coffee shop, I found him. Frozen, with my cup still pressed against my bottom lip, I watch him drain the last of his coffee and stand up to leave. Instantly, I follow suit but far less gracefully. Something in my gut told me this man was the one that ripped apart my family. He was the one who took my son, and I wasn't about to let him walk out of here. He took John. Spilling most of my expresso and knocking over a few scones, I make my way around the table.

From far away, I hear someone mutter, "Dad, where are you going?". Mark, my youngest, stares up at me from across the table. I had completely forgotten he was there. "I- I'll be right back," I stutter. "No, Dad, stay." I look away from Mark's face to the man tossing his empty cup in the trash. "I'll only be a moment. I'll just need five min-" I trail off while watching as the man packs up his bag. I start towards him, but Mark beings again, "It's not him, Dad, it's not him, you need to stay here." "yeah sure thing, sure thing bud," I reply, not taking in what he was saying. The man zips his bag as Mark grabs my arm tightly, making me turn to look at him. "I know that look in your eyes, Dad, I've seen it a hundred times. You cannot leave now. It's not him, and it will never be him." Mark pauses and looks away from my eyes. I see no point in lying to Mark, I don't have the time, and he's seen the man too, "You can't know that for sure, Mark." "but-" "I'll be back before you know it" Mark looks up at me again "Johns gone, dad," his voice lowers to almost a whisper "He's dead, and whoever took him is long, long gone."

The word dead seems to echo in my head. Did he say Johns dead? Dead? I go to reply, but my throat seemed to have sealed itself shut. It was the first time I had ever heard Mark say that. I have known for quite some time that he had given up on us finding John, but he had never said that. I glare at him, how dare he, how dare he. 

"How can you say that, how could you even think to say that." I feel like I'm seeing him for the first time, and it disgusts me. "Dad, its been almost nine years. What more do you expect?" I see tears forming in his eyes, but he looks more angry than sad. "We're on vacation, and Mum can't come back and find you gone, not again. You can't, please."

I fumble from my youngest son's grasp and look from his pleading face to the man almost out the door and back to Mark. "Son, I have to go."

"Dad," He reaches out, but I'm too far gone, I look at his fingers grasping, trying to pull me back to him but I cannot go. "I can't go on living if there is any chance that that man was the one who took John."

Mark wasn't going to give up. He starts to yell as the door closes behind the man; he will soon be out of sight. "He's not the man that took John!" The cafe went silent.

I cower, mumbling, "I have to know for sure. I can't let him get away, not again. I have to know John- I mean- Mark" Now I yell too "- Goddammit Mark, I have to know. What happened to him? What happened to my little boy? I need to find the answer. I need to know. I need to. I know he was your brother, and I know you loved him, but it's different for me. I was supposed to protect him. It was my job, and now I need to know!" I go to the door and but stop to take one look back.

As Mark looks at me, I see his shoulders deflate. He looks much younger than 13, and he needs guidance. Needs his dad to hold him and tell him stories of when his older brother would take him to the swings, and above all, he needs one normal family vacation. He needs me, but so does John. "When will this stop, dad? When will you start to move on? You cannot go on like this forever, when will you give up and say goodbye?"

I sigh, "When I have my answer," I look from his face to my wives. She, along with everyone else in the cafe, heard most of what was said. Slowly she shakes her head but says nothing. She doesn't have to, I've heard it all before. She wants me to stay too, to be here in this moment, but I can't. "I love you both, but I have to do this. I'm sorry." I say, heading out the door.