A Father's Love (11 page)

Although I knew that no such missing puzzle piece existed on my end, it was futile to attempt to explain that to others.

Friends who knew me well were certain that I had done nothing to precipitate Bruna's actions, but they seemed nonetheless nervous and flustered around me, not quite knowing how to act. For my part, I wanted to prove to them that their confidence in me was not unfounded, that I had not done anything to cause Bruna to leave the way she had. I had honestly been a loving husband and a doting father. The problem? I wasn't rich, and apparently Bruna wanted somebody who was.

As much as I needed the support of friends, and to be with other people simply to maintain some sense of normalcy in my life, I tended to avoid parties and other social gatherings as much as possible. It always felt awkward, even when I attended birthday parties or other functions that Bruna and Sean and I would previously have enjoyed. I didn't feel that I could pretend to be happy while my son was being held captive in a foreign country, yet at the same time I didn't want to be a “downhead,” a wet blanket on someone else's festive occasion. I knew every time I did something with our old circle of friends, the conversation would eventually turn to Sean and whether there was any update on his situation—often there wasn't. Consequently, if I couldn't gracefully get out of attending a function, I'd stop in for just a few minutes and then try to make as hasty an exit as possible.

When friends asked me to go out with them, I declined. About the only place I would go in the evenings was to my folks' home. I could feel myself changing from the upbeat, happy-go-lucky prankster I once was to a morose, contemplative loner. And as much as I recognized that the sadness was destroying me, I felt helpless to overcome it. Instead, I grew more and more sullen and reclusive.

One night, about a year after Bruna's departure, my friend Al Applegate called asking me to go out to dinner with him. As usual, I immediately began making excuses as to why I did not want to leave the house. “Get dressed,” he said. “It's my birthday. We're going out to dinner and I'm going to have a couple of drinks. You are my designated driver. You have no choice.” I rarely drink, but occasionally I'd have a beer at a barbecue or a drink with some of my boat captain buddies after being out to sea. I could probably count on my fingers the number of adult beverages I'd consume in a year. But Al was a social drinker, and after all, it was his birthday. Perhaps subconsciously, I was glad he was using the occasion to pry me out of the house.

We went to Buona Sera, a restaurant in Red Bank. After dinner we moved to the bar area, which was crowded with people. I became engrossed in watching an NBA basketball playoff game on television, while Al enjoyed a few beers. About that time, the bartender turned a shot glass upside down in front of me, the traditional signal that somebody had bought me a drink. He pointed across the large square bar toward a table at the side of the room, where an attractive young woman was sitting with a friend. She smiled at me and waved discreetly. I nodded and waved back in appreciation and mouthed the words “Thank you.”

I looked back at the bartender and said, “Get her a drink, please, or refill whatever she has, and I'll take another cranberry juice.” The bartender acknowledged the drink order, and in a few moments delivered a fresh drink to the smiling woman. Although I was not afraid to talk with strangers, especially pretty ones, I normally didn't initiate such encounters. I certainly didn't attempt to make eye contact, but when I looked over and saw her again, she was still smiling at me.

A few minutes later, the young woman pressed through the crowd at the bar and stepped over to where I was sitting. I smiled at her, held up my glass of cranberry juice, and we struck up a conversation.

“Hi, I'm Wendy,” she said pleasantly. We went through the basics of “What's your name?” and “Where are you from?” As it turned out, Wendy had not in fact purchased that drink for me. It was an elderly gentleman sitting next to her and her friend Mary who had done so. The man had overheard Wendy and Mary talking about me, so he'd bought me the drink on her behalf! “He said he was tired of listening to us just talking about you and wanted to see if he could initiate some contact.” Wendy laughed as she told me the story, and I chuckled along with her. She was easy to talk to, friendly, and kind. Her smile seemed to light up the room.

She told me that she worked in procurement—acquiring property or services and negotiating contracts with suppliers—for a large corporation about an hour north of the restaurant. “What do you do?” she asked.

“I'm in advertising,” I said. I always felt awkward saying, “I'm a male model,” when I first met someone. “And I sell a bit of real estate, and I also have a charter fishing business.”

We talked easily for a while about our lives, and she told me that she had been married previously, so it seemed natural to ask her if she had any children. “Yes, I do,” she replied without hesitation. “I have two boys. Do you have kids?” she asked.

“Yeah, I do,” I answered. “I have a son who was kidnapped.”

Wendy's jaw dropped. “What?”

“My wife kidnapped my son and took him to Brazil. I haven't seen him for nearly a year.” I attempted to briefly explain to her the nightmare in which I had been living.

Wendy seemed fascinated but didn't quite know how to process the story I had just shared with her. We talked a little more, and she introduced me to her friend, Mary, a bright, married soccer mom, who was employed as an investigator for a consulting firm that worked with the government. I could tell that Mary was probably good at her job, because she had a million questions for me. Much to our surprise, our conversation revealed that Mary lived around the corner from me, a mere two minutes away from my house. With the many people from all over the area at Buona Sera that night, how ironic that I would meet one of my neighbors!

When Al and I were ready to go, we said good night to the women. Before we left the restaurant, though, Wendy gave me her business card and we exchanged phone numbers. There was something special about this woman who had just suddenly been dropped into my life; I wanted to stay in touch with her.

I drove Al home, happily fulfilling my designated-driver duties. Al thanked me for going out to dinner with him, but I was equally appreciative to him for getting me out of the house. I had no sooner arrived back home, and fed Tuey, when the phone rang. It was Wendy. She lived about forty-five minutes away, so she was going to stay overnight at Mary's. “We're still wide awake, and Mary wanted some coffee, so we're at Dunkin' Donuts not far from your house. Can we get you anything? We're going to pass right by your place.”

I looked at my watch. I'm not a big coffee drinker, especially at that hour, and I didn't want to eat or drink anything that would make me feel more anxious than I already was. I had turned into a bundle of nerves since my life became so filled with turmoil. In fact, after the realization set in with my friends and family that Bruna wasn't coming back and had actually abducted Sean, several of them suggested that I seek professional help and go on antidepressant medication. That was not for me. I am not a depressed person by nature. I was dealing with a cause-and-effect situation; I wanted to keep my wits about me. I needed to remain sharp, and I didn't dare dull my senses. That's why I avoided caffeine. But I was happy that Wendy had thought of me.

“I'll have a hot chocolate.”

“A hot chocolate?”

“Yes, that's all.”

Within a few minutes, the women were knocking at my door, Wendy toting a large cup of hot chocolate. I invited them in and they accepted.

Something about Wendy intrigued me. And Mary was an inquisitive dynamo, so I knew there would be no problem maintaining a conversation with them. More than anything, I was glad not to be alone. Mary had dozens of questions about Sean and the abduction. I could tell that she was trying to figure out:
Who is this guy who seems nice and polite? And why did his wife really run off with their son?
I showed her and Wendy my photos of Sean, and we sat around the living room talking for another hour or more. As they began to understand the ramifications of the story, they were shocked. I showed them various court documents and the orders for Sean's return so they could see that I was telling the truth. As usual, I felt the need to prove that I had done nothing wrong, and the women seemed sympathetic.

I didn't mean to sound overly dramatic, but at one point I said, “Getting Sean home is my mission. This is my life right now.”

The women nodded in understanding.

I looked first at Mary, then at Wendy, and said, “You don't know what you are getting into by becoming involved with me.”

We became friends, good friends, in fact. Living as close as we did in the neighborhood, it was easy for Mary and me to stay in touch. Occasionally, she'd invite me over for a meal with her family, or would sometimes drop off food at my house. Usually Wendy was with her during those times, so it was always an opportunity to reconnect. Later, as I made trip after trip to Brazil in my attempts to get Sean back, Mary watched my house and was kind enough to feed Tuey.

As Wendy's and my friendship blossomed, so did Wendy's involvement in the quest to bring Sean home. She didn't completely understand the complexities of the Hague Convention or why the rulings in our case did not result in Sean's immediate return, but she believed me when I told her that I had not done anything to cause Bruna to abscond with our child. That meant a lot to me.

 

 

I WASN'T ALWAYS the easiest guy to get along with during those dark days. Commercials on television featuring children just broke my heart. I even had difficulty being around my sister and brother-in-law's children, who lived in South Orange, New Jersey. I dearly love those two kids, one a mere eight months older than Sean and one a year younger. But it was too hard to be around them. They would always ask me about Sean and Aunt Bruna. There was no getting around reminders of my son.

I tried my best to come out of my shell, but it wasn't easy. Often when I was out with Wendy and we were having a nice time, I'd suddenly notice some young children somewhere, and just the sight of those kids would tear me up inside. “I have to go,” I'd say abruptly. Seeing other children sent pangs of grief searing through my heart and reminded me afresh that I should be with my son and my son should be with me.

Similarly, in the early stages of getting to know Wendy, I avoided being around her children. They were good kids, but one was nine years old, and the other was five, only a year older than Sean. At first, Wendy expressed sympathy for me, realizing perhaps how difficult it was for me to see kids because it would immediately make my mind turn to Sean. After a while, though, I'm sure that dealing with my fragile emotions got tiresome for her.

 

 

WENDY AND I tried to have a normal relationship, but it wasn't easy. For instance, the summer after we met, she invited me to go to Boston with her to visit her family, but I didn't feel that I could do it. I just wasn't ready yet. Although I enjoyed her company, and we got along great—she was attractive, caring, a hard worker, and, like me, a Yankees fan—I felt that I could not make a serious commitment as long as Sean was still being held in Brazil. And then there was the delicate matter that I was not yet legally divorced from Bruna, even though she had blatantly compromised our marriage. Moreover, my attorneys continued to caution me against filing for divorce until Sean was safely back in America. Wendy understood all this, but it was no less difficult for her. By default, I was asking her to put her life on hold until mine came together.

“It's your life and you have to move on,” Wendy gently nudged me. “You have the best lawyers, and you're constantly pursuing every open door in your efforts to bring Sean home. If you're doing everything you can, that's all you can do,” she said. “While you're doing all you can, you still need to live. It's okay for you to try to find some happiness yourself.”

After about a year, I knew that I was falling hard for Wendy, but because of my internal struggle I couldn't bring myself to tell her that I loved her—and especially not with any sense of a permanent commitment backing up those words. Wendy noticed my reluctance to put my feelings into words and sometimes playfully challenged me about it. “David, why don't you ever tell me you love me?” she teased. “I know you do,” she said as she poked me in the arm.

Without thinking, I replied flatly, “The last time I told a woman I loved her she ran off with my son.”

Wendy flinched and then recoiled. “Hold on. That's not me. That's not who I am.” She wasn't going to let me get away with that.

 

 

EVENTUALLY I GOT to the point where I could enjoy playing and interacting with Wendy's children without it creating enormous emotional turmoil for me, but I was still holding back: For the longest time, I avoided introducing Wendy to my family members. We reached a pivotal point when my grandmother, whom I loved dearly, passed away in 2007 without ever meeting Wendy. I knew that my grandmother and Wendy would have been good friends, had I been willing to bring Wendy around the family more. After that, I didn't want to make that mistake again. I introduced Wendy to my sister and her children and to my parents. They soon became close allies and advocates in the fight to get Sean home.

My grandmother's death really hit my dad hard, especially with Sean not being there. “I'm seventy-five years old,” he'd say. “Who knows how long I'll be around?” Although unspoken, the implication of Dad's question was not lost on our family. He was wondering,
Will Sean get back home before I die?