Who's Susan?

Chapter 1

Tennis shoes

Susan Haynes drummed her fingers against the steering wheel as she waited for the light to change. She didn't understand why, but the memory of the tennis shoes bothered the hell out of her. When she woke from her day-long nap, she found the tennis shoes by her bed.

The light turned green, and she stepped on the gas. She hated the heavy Dallas rush hour traffic--especially today, and thinking about the tennis shoes certainly didn't help matters.

The problem was that she never wore tennis shoes--or any other kind of shoes--inside the house.

Slippers.

She always wore slippers inside the house. Yet when she had gotten up just twenty minutes ago, a pair of tennis shoes were by the bed.

Not slippers, but tennis shoes.

Why?

She hadn't been out all day. Early this morning she had tried to get up and get to work, but the pounding inside her head forced her to spend the day in bed.

Even now she could feel the spidery webs of pain. She shook her head. Lately, her headaches were attacking with more frequency and more ferocity.

She turned the corner and immediately spotted the familiar white stucco building, the Happy Child Daycare Center. As usual, its many tulips and marigolds brightened the place and filled the air with their sweet aroma. When Susan had first seen this place advertised in the Dallas newspaper, the picture reminded her of fairy-tale building she once saw in a Mother-Goose book.

"Hello, Mrs. Haynes," Dorothy Cortez, the daycare center director, said. She was a plump, tall woman who always found the time to smile. She finished fixing a little girls' pony tail, scooted her back to the playground and turned her attention to Susan. "What can I do for you?"

Susan almost smiled, then realized Miss Cortez was serious. "I came to get Timmy."

Miss Cortez smiled rather awkwardly. "Huh, yeah. Sure." She took a small step toward the back of the daycare center where the four-year old class was held. "I must be going bonkers," she said. "I could have sworn you already picked him up."

Susan shook her head. "No, not yet. You must be thinking about yesterday."

"I guess so," Miss Cortez answered. "I really should take some time off." She winked and left. From where Susan stood, she could hear the TV blaring the theme to Sesame Street.

A few minutes later Miss Cortez reappeared. She stood with shoulders sagging, her hands constantly twisting and turning the folds in her blouse. "Can we go into my office?" She tried to sound normal but her voice was too high pitched. "Please," she added as she pointed to the closed door Susan knew led to her office.

A powerful attack of nerves gripped Susan. "Timmy?" An impatient, nervous edge was evident in her voice. "Has something happened to him?" The room closed in on Susan. "Is he hurt?"

"Mrs. Haynes, I don't know what kind of game you're playing." Miss Cortez's voice was rough and unusually low. "But we don't appreciate it. You know darn well that you yourself came at noon to pick him up."

Susan stood numb, her heart pumping too fast, not quite understanding what Ms. Cortez had said. She looked past the director's head. A foot-tall paper cowboy someone had painted was taped to the wall. It had a purple hat. Red hair. Yellow shirt with green sleeves. Purple hands. Red pants. Blue boots. Susan wondered if that was Timmy's. She resisted the urge to run up to the wall, yank it down, and cradle it to her chest.

Her eyes swung back to Ms. Cortez. "If I had already picked up my son, then why would I be here?"

"I don't know," Miss Cortez answered, then quickly added, "Why don't we go to my office where we'll be more comfortable?" She reached for Susan in order to lead her to the office.

Her touch infuriated Susan. "You find him. And you find him now!" Susan hissed as she repeatedly pointed her finger at Miss Cortez's chest.

"Mrs. Haynes, you were here at noon and you picked him up. Everyone here at the center will swear to that." Her voice was soft, yet emphatic. "Don't you remember coming here?"

Susan remained perfectly still, remembering. Remembering: tennis shoes, not slippers, but tennis shoes.

A tremor glowed deep within her. What was happening? Those damned accursed headaches.

Where is Timmy? Oh, God, where is my son?