Chapter 1 Philadelphia, 2000
He lay dying amidst the sirens, the screams of horror, and the chaotic sounds. Excruciating pain radiated through every limb, then nothing—not even numbness. It made him wonder if he even had limbs anymore.
What the hell happened?
Jake carried his three-year-old daughter Jennifer from the playground to the car. Her tired legs hung from his arms as her head nestled his chest. As Jake opened the car door and clipped the child into the car seat, his eyes drank in her innocence. He marveled that God had blessed him with such a perfect wife who had given him this remarkable child.
He smiled as the girl tugged on her stuffed animal and rubbed her eyes, which demonstrated her need to sleep. “Daddy, juice,” she said as she kicked her feet.
“We'll be home in a few minutes, Jennifer,” he said, but had no intention of taking her home. His wife, Monica was suffering from the flu, and he wanted to give her as much relaxation time as possible. He planned to drive for an hour before heading home, not realizing the drastic events that would soon occur.
The car lurched out of the parking lot and turned onto the main road while music played on the radio. He whispered the words and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and dash. He drove the streets aimlessly as Jennifer quieted and fell asleep, her breathing deepening to prove it.
After twenty minutes, Jennifer woke. “Daddy, I want Rainy.”
Before making the next turn, he looked both ways, turned the steering wheel, and replied, “Rainy's on video at home. We can watch her when we get there.”
“No! Now! I want Rainy now!”
He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he glanced in the rear view mirror to look at his daughter. Jennifer yanked on her car seat strap, trying to get out as she kicked. “Now! Rainy now!”
Jake's hand searched behind him in the back seat to confirm the belt was secure around the child. It was a huge mistake to take his eyes off the road, and he wouldn't live to regret it.
Brakes screeched, but it was too late. Pain shot through his body as shards of glass buried themselves into his skin. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, and daggers of crunching metals pierced his ears. A curtain of darkness loomed over him as sirens wailed in the distance.
“Jennifer ... Baby ...” he struggled.
“Buddy, stay still. I'm here to help. We need to cut you out of the vehicle.” The voice chiseled through the chaotic soundtrack of the accident, giving Jake hope.
“Get my girl ... get my girl ...”
“We're losing him! Get those cutters over here!”
Shouts from afar alerted Jake to further danger, “The engine's on fire, get the kid! Hurry!” More sirens erupted around him as voices overlapped.
“Daddy. Daddy.”
“Jennifer ...”
The fireman assured him, “We got her, she's safe. It's your turn to get rescued and become a local celebrity.”
The pain subsided into numbness before dissipating completely. In his last moment, he opened one eye to see the fireman tugging on him as a huge ball of flames blanketed them both.
Burnt flesh filled his nostrils and booming cannons burst in his ears before all went black and silent. It was over.
Chapter 2 Six Months Later
“Mama! Mama!” Jennifer cried.
Monica rushed into her three-year-old daughter's bedroom, fumbling at the wall for the light switch. “It's okay, sweetie, I'm here.” As she flipped the switch, her eyes squinted with pain as they adjusted to the glare of the lamp.
“Mama! The bad man!” Jennifer repeated, while tears streamed down her cheeks.
Monica raced to her child's side and rocked her, stroking her head. The sweet smell of baby shampoo filled Monica with maternal desire to protect her child. “There's no bad man here, honey. It was a dream,” she tried to reassure Jennifer. Monica reached for the stuffed Dalmatian that fell from the bed. She fluffed out its soft fur. “Here, look, Rainy fell off the bed. I told you that Rainy will always protect you. Do you want me to turn on her video?”
Jennifer swatted the dog from her mother's hand. “But Mama, he shot me, he shot me.”
Monica's throat tightened as her fingers squeezed her daughter tighter. Her eyes roamed the small bedroom as if searching for an answer. A three-year-old talking about shootings? The pink ruffles around the white canopy bed betrayed her, because they held no answers.
As the child calmed, Monica whispered, “Are you all right now? Do you want to come sleep in my bed?”
Jennifer rolled over to grab her Dalmatian. “No Mama. He gone now.” She snuggled with the dog, almost as if she had forgotten what had happened. A sleepy smile spread across Jennifer's face as her eyes closed and she relaxed.
Monica let out a deep sigh then pressed her lips against her child's smooth forehead. A cold sweat broke out over her. Why is this happening to her? It's been six months. Shouldn't it stop soon?
Monica left the light on as she exited the room, feeling defeated.
As she walked to the kitchen in her bare feet, the cold hardwood floor jolted her awake. She poured herself a glass of water as she yawned. While sipping from her glass, she heard Jennifer scream again. “Mama!”
Startled, Monica jumped and dropped the glass, which shattered on the floor. I can't take anymore of this. Something has to be done, she thought.
“I'm here, Jennifer ,” Monica called out from the hall.
Jennifer sat on the edge of the bed, clinging to her stuffed dog. Her watery, red eyes closed tight as mucus ran from her nose and down her face.
“He killed me, Mama. And you weren't there. Where were you?”
Monica pulled her daughter to her chest again and whispered, “I'm here, Baby, right here.”
“Not in San Francisco, you weren't.”
Monica pulled back from the child as her eyes widened and wandered over her daughter's face. Jennifer's puffy angelic cheeks and golden curls emitted innocence. But something tormented this angel. Something that gave her knowledge she should not possess.
After an hour of Jennifer crying and shaking, mother and daughter fell asleep in the child's bed together.
The next morning, Monica's sister, Gail, knocked on the front door. As she entered the house, she started questioning Monica, “What had you so freaked out on the phone?”
Monica led the way to the kitchen adorned with new appliances and marble counter tops. She poured them both coffee in silence as she collected her thoughts. Monica's hand shook as she passed a steaming cup of java to her sister. “Something strange is going on with Jennifer. I'm confused what to do about it, and I'm not even sure if I believe it.”
Gail took a sip from the mug. “What do you mean? What's going on?”
Monica sipped from her cup, hoping the warm liquid would calm her. “She screams from nightmares and talks about strange things no three-year-old should know about. She says a man killed her, shot her.”
Gail laughed, “Is that all? She's afraid of the boogeyman, and you're freaking out like this?”
Monica's stomach tightened as she gulped hard, “This is no boogeyman. Her dreams are so vivid. Last night she told me she lived in San Francisco, and she pronounced it the correct way. Tell me how a three-year-old does that.”
“She's almost four,” Gail shrugged as she placed the mug on the counter. “She probably learned it from the news. You always have CNN on, and it makes her smarter than other kids.”
Monica rolled her eyes, “Oh yeah, that must be it. Thanks for your support.”
Her sister huffed back, “Well, what response did you want? It isn't like she needs a doctor. The kid is having nightmares. All kids have nightmares.”
“No,” Monica's head swung violently from side to side. “You didn't see her, she's tormented on a nightly basis.” She didn't appreciate her sister's cavalier attitude.
Gail replied between sips from her mug, “I would be worried about her if she didn't have nightmares. After all, she was in the car when Jake died. You never know what she might remember. Perhaps her brain is processing the accident and his death.”
Monica nodded. “I understand that, but I expected nightmares about the accident or about her father dying. Even being scared that I would leave her, too. But this? This whole thing is creepy.” A shiver crawled over her like ants marching across her whole body.
Gail patted Monica's hand, “It will be all right, she just needs time. It's only been six months. And the nightmares didn't occur before the accident, right?”
Monica's mouth twisted in response, “True. They didn't start until after the accident. Perhaps you're right. It's possible this is the after-effects of the trauma.” Tension released from her body as she contemplated her sister's suggestions. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the aroma of her morning brew.
Just then, Jennifer screamed from the other room. “Mama! He's here!”
The two sisters rushed to the girl's room to find Jennifer convulsing on her bed, with her eyes rolled back. The urine soaked pink bedspread lay sprawled out as sweat beads saturated the child's face. Her thin pajamas appeared translucent as they clung to her body.
“Oh my God! Jennifer, can you hear me?”
Gail darted to the phone on the wall and dialed 911 as Jennifer's arms fluttered through the air. Saliva seeped from her mouth and down her chin.
“Operator, we need help. My three-year-old niece is convulsing.”
The operator's muffled questions caused Monica to shout across the room, “Tell them to get here now.”
Gail ended the call, “They're on their way. Calm down and make sure she doesn't hurt her head.” The two women placed pillows around the child to ensure her safety.
After several minutes, her body went limp. With her eyes still closed, the girl uttered, “Presidio.”
Gail furrowed her brows and asked, “Did she say ‘Presidio'?”
With her arms cuddling her daughter, Monica replied, “Yeah. Does that ring a bell? What is it?” Monica's eyes never left her daughter.
“The Presidio used to be a military base in San Francisco. There's an 80's movie about it. What the heck are you letting her watch?”
Monica whispered, “Are you all right now?”
Jennifer's blue lips quivered, again her body flailed about the bed like a flounder on the floor of a fishing boat. Her body fell limp in her mother's hands.
“Oh my God! She's not breathing! Help!” Monica shouted as fear shot through her.
Gail pushed her sister out of the way and searched for Jennifer's pulse. “None.” She placed her ear near Jennifer's mouth, no respiration. “Call 911 again, tell them we have a code blue.”
Gail's fingers found a spot on Jennifer's chest and pumped a few times. She pinched the child's nose and breathed two quick breaths into her lungs, making the child's chest rise. Nothing. More pumps of the chest and another two quick breaths, still nothing.
Monica's own pulse hastened as her fingers strangled the phone receiver. “It's my daughter. Are the paramedics on the way? We have a code blue. Help! I think she's dying!”
A knock at the door interrupted the call, and Monica rushed to find the paramedics waiting. “Help, please. She's in the bedroom.” The two uniformed men hustled down the hall, following closely behind the distraught mother. One man unpacked a box filled with tubes, bandages and other equipment, as the other man checked Jennifer's vitals.
One asked Gail, “How long have you been performing CPR on her?”
Gail moved out of the way. “It's been a few minutes. I tried, but I couldn't revive her. Please help her.”
Monica clutched her sister as the paramedics worked. Tears rolled down her face as she prayed in a low murmur. “I can't lose her. I can't. First my husband, now her?” Her embrace tightened around Gail's neck.
“Is she allergic to anything?” the paramedic questioned.
“Augmentin, the antibiotic,” Monica struggled to get out, then collapsed to the floor with helplessness. She rocked back and forth with her hand clasped at her chin. A river of tears held back by a dam of anticipation.
The two men spoke back and forth about numbers and stats, drugs and injections. The sounds formed a white noise as Monica felt herself drifting away. She watched in horror, desperate for her child to live, but the scene turned surreal.
Jennifer finally gasped for air, causing Monica to jump into her sister's arms. The desperate cries of the women turned into a muffled laugh of relief.
“She's breathing. We need to get her to the hospital ASAP.” The lead paramedic picked up the child and carried her to the ambulance without waiting for a response from the women.
“Baby, can you hear me?” Monica exclaimed as she and Gail followed the men out of the house.
They reached the ambulance with tubes still attached to Jennifer, and the paramedic informed the women, “There's not enough room in here for both of you. Follow us to the hospital, and I promise I'll take good care of her.”
Jennifer opened her eyes, looked up at the man and said, “The Presidio. He shot me at The Presidio.”
With a puzzled look, the man's eyes squinted, and he prepped the girl for travel.
He closed the door on Monica's face, blocking her reach to Jennifer's limp spaghetti body. “Let's GO!” he shouted to the driver.
Monica stood in shock as the ambulance pulled away. Disbelief filled her.
Gail snapped her out of it, “Monica, let's go!” She grabbed her sister's hand and pulled her to the car to follow the speeding ambulance.
He lay dying amidst the sirens, the screams of horror, and the chaotic sounds. Excruciating pain radiated through every limb, then nothing—not even numbness. It made him wonder if he even had limbs anymore.
What the hell happened?
Jake carried his three-year-old daughter Jennifer from the playground to the car. Her tired legs hung from his arms as her head nestled his chest. As Jake opened the car door and clipped the child into the car seat, his eyes drank in her innocence. He marveled that God had blessed him with such a perfect wife who had given him this remarkable child.
He smiled as the girl tugged on her stuffed animal and rubbed her eyes, which demonstrated her need to sleep. “Daddy, juice,” she said as she kicked her feet.
“We'll be home in a few minutes, Jennifer,” he said, but had no intention of taking her home. His wife, Monica was suffering from the flu, and he wanted to give her as much relaxation time as possible. He planned to drive for an hour before heading home, not realizing the drastic events that would soon occur.
The car lurched out of the parking lot and turned onto the main road while music played on the radio. He whispered the words and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and dash. He drove the streets aimlessly as Jennifer quieted and fell asleep, her breathing deepening to prove it.
After twenty minutes, Jennifer woke. “Daddy, I want Rainy.”
Before making the next turn, he looked both ways, turned the steering wheel, and replied, “Rainy's on video at home. We can watch her when we get there.”
“No! Now! I want Rainy now!”
He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he glanced in the rear view mirror to look at his daughter. Jennifer yanked on her car seat strap, trying to get out as she kicked. “Now! Rainy now!”
Jake's hand searched behind him in the back seat to confirm the belt was secure around the child. It was a huge mistake to take his eyes off the road, and he wouldn't live to regret it.
Brakes screeched, but it was too late. Pain shot through his body as shards of glass buried themselves into his skin. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, and daggers of crunching metals pierced his ears. A curtain of darkness loomed over him as sirens wailed in the distance.
“Jennifer ... Baby ...” he struggled.
“Buddy, stay still. I'm here to help. We need to cut you out of the vehicle.” The voice chiseled through the chaotic soundtrack of the accident, giving Jake hope.
“Get my girl ... get my girl ...”
“We're losing him! Get those cutters over here!”
Shouts from afar alerted Jake to further danger, “The engine's on fire, get the kid! Hurry!” More sirens erupted around him as voices overlapped.
“Daddy. Daddy.”
“Jennifer ...”
The fireman assured him, “We got her, she's safe. It's your turn to get rescued and become a local celebrity.”
The pain subsided into numbness before dissipating completely. In his last moment, he opened one eye to see the fireman tugging on him as a huge ball of flames blanketed them both.
Burnt flesh filled his nostrils and booming cannons burst in his ears before all went black and silent. It was over.
Chapter 2 Six Months Later
“Mama! Mama!” Jennifer cried.
Monica rushed into her three-year-old daughter's bedroom, fumbling at the wall for the light switch. “It's okay, sweetie, I'm here.” As she flipped the switch, her eyes squinted with pain as they adjusted to the glare of the lamp.
“Mama! The bad man!” Jennifer repeated, while tears streamed down her cheeks.
Monica raced to her child's side and rocked her, stroking her head. The sweet smell of baby shampoo filled Monica with maternal desire to protect her child. “There's no bad man here, honey. It was a dream,” she tried to reassure Jennifer. Monica reached for the stuffed Dalmatian that fell from the bed. She fluffed out its soft fur. “Here, look, Rainy fell off the bed. I told you that Rainy will always protect you. Do you want me to turn on her video?”
Jennifer swatted the dog from her mother's hand. “But Mama, he shot me, he shot me.”
Monica's throat tightened as her fingers squeezed her daughter tighter. Her eyes roamed the small bedroom as if searching for an answer. A three-year-old talking about shootings? The pink ruffles around the white canopy bed betrayed her, because they held no answers.
As the child calmed, Monica whispered, “Are you all right now? Do you want to come sleep in my bed?”
Jennifer rolled over to grab her Dalmatian. “No Mama. He gone now.” She snuggled with the dog, almost as if she had forgotten what had happened. A sleepy smile spread across Jennifer's face as her eyes closed and she relaxed.
Monica let out a deep sigh then pressed her lips against her child's smooth forehead. A cold sweat broke out over her. Why is this happening to her? It's been six months. Shouldn't it stop soon?
Monica left the light on as she exited the room, feeling defeated.
As she walked to the kitchen in her bare feet, the cold hardwood floor jolted her awake. She poured herself a glass of water as she yawned. While sipping from her glass, she heard Jennifer scream again. “Mama!”
Startled, Monica jumped and dropped the glass, which shattered on the floor. I can't take anymore of this. Something has to be done, she thought.
“I'm here, Jennifer ,” Monica called out from the hall.
Jennifer sat on the edge of the bed, clinging to her stuffed dog. Her watery, red eyes closed tight as mucus ran from her nose and down her face.
“He killed me, Mama. And you weren't there. Where were you?”
Monica pulled her daughter to her chest again and whispered, “I'm here, Baby, right here.”
“Not in San Francisco, you weren't.”
Monica pulled back from the child as her eyes widened and wandered over her daughter's face. Jennifer's puffy angelic cheeks and golden curls emitted innocence. But something tormented this angel. Something that gave her knowledge she should not possess.
After an hour of Jennifer crying and shaking, mother and daughter fell asleep in the child's bed together.
The next morning, Monica's sister, Gail, knocked on the front door. As she entered the house, she started questioning Monica, “What had you so freaked out on the phone?”
Monica led the way to the kitchen adorned with new appliances and marble counter tops. She poured them both coffee in silence as she collected her thoughts. Monica's hand shook as she passed a steaming cup of java to her sister. “Something strange is going on with Jennifer. I'm confused what to do about it, and I'm not even sure if I believe it.”
Gail took a sip from the mug. “What do you mean? What's going on?”
Monica sipped from her cup, hoping the warm liquid would calm her. “She screams from nightmares and talks about strange things no three-year-old should know about. She says a man killed her, shot her.”
Gail laughed, “Is that all? She's afraid of the boogeyman, and you're freaking out like this?”
Monica's stomach tightened as she gulped hard, “This is no boogeyman. Her dreams are so vivid. Last night she told me she lived in San Francisco, and she pronounced it the correct way. Tell me how a three-year-old does that.”
“She's almost four,” Gail shrugged as she placed the mug on the counter. “She probably learned it from the news. You always have CNN on, and it makes her smarter than other kids.”
Monica rolled her eyes, “Oh yeah, that must be it. Thanks for your support.”
Her sister huffed back, “Well, what response did you want? It isn't like she needs a doctor. The kid is having nightmares. All kids have nightmares.”
“No,” Monica's head swung violently from side to side. “You didn't see her, she's tormented on a nightly basis.” She didn't appreciate her sister's cavalier attitude.
Gail replied between sips from her mug, “I would be worried about her if she didn't have nightmares. After all, she was in the car when Jake died. You never know what she might remember. Perhaps her brain is processing the accident and his death.”
Monica nodded. “I understand that, but I expected nightmares about the accident or about her father dying. Even being scared that I would leave her, too. But this? This whole thing is creepy.” A shiver crawled over her like ants marching across her whole body.
Gail patted Monica's hand, “It will be all right, she just needs time. It's only been six months. And the nightmares didn't occur before the accident, right?”
Monica's mouth twisted in response, “True. They didn't start until after the accident. Perhaps you're right. It's possible this is the after-effects of the trauma.” Tension released from her body as she contemplated her sister's suggestions. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the aroma of her morning brew.
Just then, Jennifer screamed from the other room. “Mama! He's here!”
The two sisters rushed to the girl's room to find Jennifer convulsing on her bed, with her eyes rolled back. The urine soaked pink bedspread lay sprawled out as sweat beads saturated the child's face. Her thin pajamas appeared translucent as they clung to her body.
“Oh my God! Jennifer, can you hear me?”
Gail darted to the phone on the wall and dialed 911 as Jennifer's arms fluttered through the air. Saliva seeped from her mouth and down her chin.
“Operator, we need help. My three-year-old niece is convulsing.”
The operator's muffled questions caused Monica to shout across the room, “Tell them to get here now.”
Gail ended the call, “They're on their way. Calm down and make sure she doesn't hurt her head.” The two women placed pillows around the child to ensure her safety.
After several minutes, her body went limp. With her eyes still closed, the girl uttered, “Presidio.”
Gail furrowed her brows and asked, “Did she say ‘Presidio'?”
With her arms cuddling her daughter, Monica replied, “Yeah. Does that ring a bell? What is it?” Monica's eyes never left her daughter.
“The Presidio used to be a military base in San Francisco. There's an 80's movie about it. What the heck are you letting her watch?”
Monica whispered, “Are you all right now?”
Jennifer's blue lips quivered, again her body flailed about the bed like a flounder on the floor of a fishing boat. Her body fell limp in her mother's hands.
“Oh my God! She's not breathing! Help!” Monica shouted as fear shot through her.
Gail pushed her sister out of the way and searched for Jennifer's pulse. “None.” She placed her ear near Jennifer's mouth, no respiration. “Call 911 again, tell them we have a code blue.”
Gail's fingers found a spot on Jennifer's chest and pumped a few times. She pinched the child's nose and breathed two quick breaths into her lungs, making the child's chest rise. Nothing. More pumps of the chest and another two quick breaths, still nothing.
Monica's own pulse hastened as her fingers strangled the phone receiver. “It's my daughter. Are the paramedics on the way? We have a code blue. Help! I think she's dying!”
A knock at the door interrupted the call, and Monica rushed to find the paramedics waiting. “Help, please. She's in the bedroom.” The two uniformed men hustled down the hall, following closely behind the distraught mother. One man unpacked a box filled with tubes, bandages and other equipment, as the other man checked Jennifer's vitals.
One asked Gail, “How long have you been performing CPR on her?”
Gail moved out of the way. “It's been a few minutes. I tried, but I couldn't revive her. Please help her.”
Monica clutched her sister as the paramedics worked. Tears rolled down her face as she prayed in a low murmur. “I can't lose her. I can't. First my husband, now her?” Her embrace tightened around Gail's neck.
“Is she allergic to anything?” the paramedic questioned.
“Augmentin, the antibiotic,” Monica struggled to get out, then collapsed to the floor with helplessness. She rocked back and forth with her hand clasped at her chin. A river of tears held back by a dam of anticipation.
The two men spoke back and forth about numbers and stats, drugs and injections. The sounds formed a white noise as Monica felt herself drifting away. She watched in horror, desperate for her child to live, but the scene turned surreal.
Jennifer finally gasped for air, causing Monica to jump into her sister's arms. The desperate cries of the women turned into a muffled laugh of relief.
“She's breathing. We need to get her to the hospital ASAP.” The lead paramedic picked up the child and carried her to the ambulance without waiting for a response from the women.
“Baby, can you hear me?” Monica exclaimed as she and Gail followed the men out of the house.
They reached the ambulance with tubes still attached to Jennifer, and the paramedic informed the women, “There's not enough room in here for both of you. Follow us to the hospital, and I promise I'll take good care of her.”
Jennifer opened her eyes, looked up at the man and said, “The Presidio. He shot me at The Presidio.”
With a puzzled look, the man's eyes squinted, and he prepped the girl for travel.
He closed the door on Monica's face, blocking her reach to Jennifer's limp spaghetti body. “Let's GO!” he shouted to the driver.
Monica stood in shock as the ambulance pulled away. Disbelief filled her.
Gail snapped her out of it, “Monica, let's go!” She grabbed her sister's hand and pulled her to the car to follow the speeding ambulance.
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