The Disappearance of Marybeth Lynn

A man loses his life-long partner, but senses otherworldly forces are at play.

Original art by Brian Reindel

Mark and Sara walked methodically behind their father, Joe, tracing his steps, arms at the ready to catch him in case he lost his footing on the wet gravel, or tripped over a twisted root. The excursion had been his idea, another demand in a slew of questionable demands over the last three years. All of them were met with disapproving looks from the counselor at the retirement home, but if the bills were paid and Joe wasn’t in too much danger, then nothing could be said.

Their father held a bright flashlight, which he used to comb the surroundings, illuminating the forest trees instead of using it to spot obstacles on the trail. Even though his mind wandered, and he forgot the day-to-day details of life, he had not officially been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He remembered with sharp detail old co-workers, vacations to tropical destinations and holidays long since past, but if you asked him what he ate for breakfast, he would reply, “Well, it must have been something. I’m still alive and I ain’t hungry!”

Still, to be traipsing around a state park in the middle of the night encouraged a level of recklessness that made his children anxious. Joe lost his wife under mysterious circumstances, and the mental and emotional recovery often meant rehashing the details. This is where it all happened. This is where their mother went missing. Joe stopped and turned his good ear toward the kids, speaking over his shoulder.

“Her middle name. What is your mother’s middle name?” Joe asked.

“It was Lynn, Dad,” Mark said.

“Lynn. Lynn. Marybeth Lynn,” Joe said to reassure himself. After another minute he stopped again and turned around completely, shining the light into his kids’ faces. 

“Dad, the light is too bright,” Sara said, using her hand to shield her eyes.

“You said was Lynn. It is Lynn,” Joe said.

“Dad, we’ve been through —,” Mark said.

“Yes, Dad, we know her middle name is Lynn,” Sara said.

Joe huffed, turned around and wandered further into the forest, a ship without a rudder. Marybeth had been his rudder, quiet and reserved, an elegant woman who trusted her husband to lead their voyage while she steered gently. A few days after their 50th anniversary, he snuck her into the park late at night, full of childlike glee. They were going to affirm their love in the most wholesome way imaginable, reciting their vows under a clear sky, full moon and all the stars. When Joe walked out two hours later, a park ranger caught him, disheveled and wide-eyed, babbling nonsense about being chosen.

The sheriff’s department called Sara first and said they weren’t ruling out foul play. Not from the seventy-three-year-old man, but from a group of human traffickers operating in the area. Joe described a wave of confusion, bright lights and a warm sensation the authorities associated with being drugged. An opening in the trail and the face of the park ranger were the last things he remembered seeing. The state psychiatrist called it dissociative amnesia, a wall built up to hide the awful truth of whatever happened. Their dad managed to evade the captors, but Marybeth Lynn had not been so lucky.

“Dad, I think it’s time we got you back to the retirement center,” Sara said.

“Yeah, come on, Pops, I’ll drop you off and then stop by in the morning with breakfast from Davison’s Diner, your favorite,” Mark said.

Joe ignored their pleas and stumbled over a small stump, going down to one knee. Mark grabbed hold of his father’s arm to help him up, but instead of letting him continue, held tight, trying to guide him back in the opposite direction.

“Let’s go, Dad! Mom’s dead, she’s not coming back, and it’s time you accepted that,” Mark said.

Sara tried to guide Joe by the small of his back and his opposite arm, but he yanked away from their grip and turned, not angry, but disappointed, a father prepared to scold his children for their lack of faith.

“I’m just a senile old man to you now, to be pitied, is that it? Is it so hard to believe I could know something is true without being able to prove it? It’s not logical and there are no facts to back it up other than a connection between two people I can’t explain. Every time we come back here, I can sense her presence — every part of her,” Joe said.

“Dad, you loved Mom, and that’s all it is, a love that will never die. But mom’s body, her spirit, it’s gone,” Sara said.

“No. You’re wrong,” Joe said.

Mark and Sara watched as their dad searched with renewed vigor, the beam from the flashlight scanning frantically through the woods.

“I don’t want to do this anymore. If you want to bring him out here again, you’re going to have to do it alone,” Mark said.

Sara took a deep breath as she watched her father, convinced he couldn’t process the loss, and unwilling to force his hand. She understood one reality could be more powerful than another, unable to exist simultaneously. The circumstances of Marybeth’s disappearance were impossible for Joe to accept while he clung so tightly to the memories of their relationship.

“Mom told me something before she disappeared. She said, ‘After all of these years, I still get nervous before our anniversary, just like the day before our wedding. It’s like your dad and I are getting married all over again, butterflies and all. It’s the most fantastic sensation.’ I’m afraid to take that away from him.”

Mark found comfort in his sister’s words, at the same time trapped by his own inability to grieve, tethered to his father’s eternal hope that his mother lived. Overwhelmed by the events, he wavered on his feet, a warmth covering his entire body, which he first attributed to unchecked emotions. Sara slurred her words and she, too, felt unsteady, trying to blink away the onset of dizziness. The siblings held one another’s hands for balance while an immensely bright light flooded the forest, the source coming from Joe’s direction. Then they lost consciousness.

Mark lay on his back, next to Sara, both of them calmed by a slight breeze and the dancing of the branches in the wind. When he realized what happened, he stood up, panicked and shouted for Joe several times, but the only reply came from a symphony of crickets and toads. The siblings feared the excursion would bring about another heavy loss, punctuated by nature’s response. Sara and Mark shouted repeatedly, making their way up the trail, surprised to finally see two figures backlit from atop an incline.

“Goodness son, there’s no need to yell, we’re right here,” said a soft voice.

There stood Marybeth Lynn and Joe, her arm through his, a stalwart picture of marital bliss, perfectly content to exist in one another’s presence again. Joe had a bright wide smile, the message clear that he had been right all along, and that the mystery needed no further explanation.

“Is this real?” Sara asked.

“Real? Why, of course it’s real, sweetie. What a strange question,” Marybeth said.

Mark broke down and sobbed into his hands.

“I’m dead. This is my hell, the reminder that she’s gone forever, and I can never have her back — an eternal torture,” Mark said.

Marybeth walked over to her son and embraced him.

“No, it’s nothing of that sort. We’ve been chosen. All of us,” Marybeth said.

“For what?” Sara asked.

“To see everything wonderful. To live among the stars.”