Forgotten (12 page)

But none came.

My hands began to quiver and my once tasty
breakfast was making a slow rise. I guess I should’ve stayed and
pressed Papa for answers but the need to get out of there was
greater. I grabbed my things and asked Nate to take me home.
Interestingly enough, there were no objections from anyone as I
left.

Nate spun his car out of the driveway. “What
was that all about?” He sounded annoyed.

“Nothing,” I answered, wishing it were the
case.

“
Why don’t I
believe you? And why would anyone in our family know Alice
Polinski?”

I shrugged.
Thankfully, Nate didn’t badger me about it any further. I focused
on the distant stream of the outside world and thought of
Milo.

There are things,
he had
said.

What things,
exactly? Things about Alice Polinski? Things about our
family
, their secreted knowledge of her?
Would he be able to clear up the on-going war in my battling head?
I looked at my watch and realized it was only a little after eight,
too early in the day to visit Milo who never rose before double
digits. Enough time to have another shower and change before seeing
him.

Nate parked
his car just outside the back section of the Zephyr complex. He
kept the engine running and said, “If there’s something going on,
Clauds, that I should know, you would tell me?”

I hugged him, assured him I would.

But not before seeing Milo
.

Shortly
after, I was back within the complex. As I neared my building, I
spotted a small crowd buzzing around one of the residential car
parks. I recognized a few of them; the round-shouldered figure of
old Mr. O’Flanaghan, my neighbor, the tall, lanky Adam Hogan, a
friend from the next block and the groundsman, Tony Braga, who wore
his standard, eccentrically bent Akubra hat. I stepped closer and
soon discovered the source of their fascination, a bright green Rav
4.

My car.

My first thought was someone had broken into
it, trashed it in some way. Grave, sorrowful faces stared at me;
concerned, whispery conversations played out between them.

And I
knew.
This was no trashing, not in the
conventional sense.

The sultry
morning air began to cool against my fast chilling skin. I dared
not breathe. I feared it, feared the ghastly odor that could
accompany it. I took a few small, hesitant steps nearer. The
spectators parted to the sides, allowed me passage.

Tony Braga stepped in front of me. “You
don’t want to see him, Claudia.”

But it was too late.

The arm
drooped from the open passenger side; motionless it was and
strangely angled. Blood dripped from it into a thickening pool of
dark, crimson brown, snaking along the concrete, until it
eventually thinned to a congealed standstill. Something withered
and colorless smeared the car’s side window.

And, of
course, there was
that
smell.

I froze. “Is
he… is he… dead?” I asked no one in particular.

No one in
particular answered. It was obvious. I stepped back.

This couldn’t be happening
.

Not again.

The
entire,
who, how
and
why
thing did its first round in
my head. And then I thought of Alice Polinski, her tragic face at
the point of death. I thought of my Nonno and his frightful
warnings. I thought of Milo and his surprising offers of help. I
thought of my family, their inexplicable reactions.

I
then thought of my poor, beloved
Simon.

Slowly, the
remnants of whatever discipline I had built up over the long months
were deserting me. And this time, I didn’t care. I closed my eyes
and willed it on, willed on the darkened shadows to swallow me all
of me, whole. My knees began to liquefy and I smiled, welcoming
it.

Out of nowhere, someone’s hand cupped my
elbow. And a voice, deep and velvety, murmured my name. Something
surprisingly warm took light in me.

“Claudia.”

There it was
again. It reminded me of melted chocolate, the type you sip on a
cold, winter’s day.

“I want you to turn around and come with me.
Can you do that?”

I wasn’t
sure and said so.

The voice
came closer, still so silky, still so ridiculously enticing. “Trust
me, Claudia.” Then closer still, a barely audible whisper. “I have
been there.”

Again, I thought of Simon, of poor Alice.
Sad-filled tears quickly stung my eyes. “So have I,” I answered
flatly.

“
I know,” he
answered back.

“
Not, again.
I can’t… not again.”

“Yes, you can.” The voice was firmer.

I turned towards him. What I saw, a rawness
of emotion, an honesty so pure, and something else, something I
couldn’t quite grasp.

The man smiled the most gregarious smile,
and asked again, “Can you walk with me? I’ll help you, but I need
to get you out of here.”

He seemed sincere but I was too shaky, too
unsure.

“
I know this
man, Claudia.” It was Tony Braga. He laid his hand gently on my
shoulder. His expression appeared kind, concerned. “I was the one
who rang him. Do what he says. You can trust him.”

A simple,
faint nod from me was all it took. The man threw his strong arm
around me and steered me towards the gate, out of the complex and
into his car. Once in, I covered my eyes with my hand, the gruesome
images of what I had just witnessed plagued me.

“
Claudia,
are you okay?” I removed my hand and looked at the man. He was
still outside, crouching on one knee, his arm resting on the other,
his troubled eyes staring at me. They were the most incredible
blue, like glaciers sparkling in the raw sunlight, intense and
quite mesmerizing.

“
I know this
may sound a little, well… forthright at the moment,” the blue-eyed
man said. “But whatever’s going on, I’ll find out. I promise
you.”

Strangely, I believed him.

He
straightened up and began to move around the front of the car. I
studied him as his long, lean body slid into the driver’s side, as
he gradually swung towards me. His handsome face had a rugged
quality about it, but in a way that didn’t conceal the natural
warmth and compassion that projected from him. That smile of his
was still present, revealing dimples on both cheeks. His hair was
short; the tips of its fair color, seemingly sun bleached and
mussed about in that gel-spiked fashion.

Who was this man?

As if
reading my mind, he answered my
question.
“I’m Saul Reardon,” he stated calmly.

The
Saul Reardon.

I recalled
the meeting I had failed to attend and worse still, failed to
apologize for. I could feel the embarrassing blush swarm my face.
“Oh,” was all I could say as I looked away.

Once again, he appeared to read my mind.
“Claudia, I think you have more important issues right now, don’t
you?”

He was
right, of course. I shivered as reality hit back.

“
Here,” Saul
Reardon said as he placed a black jacket around me. It smelled of
leather and woody scented cologne. “You’re probably still in shock.
This will keep you warm.”

Warm?
I very nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. It
was probably over thirty degrees outside! Nevertheless, he was
right; the jacket was soft and felt oddly soothing against my cold,
bristled skin. Before either of us said another word, police sirens
wailed in the distance.

Saul gripped onto the steering wheel. “We
need to leave,” he said. “Sadly and not surprisingly, the police
will take one look at your car, put one and one together, and get
three. So, is there somewhere safe I can take you until we sort
this out?”

I quickly
weighed up my options. There was my family, whose
over-protectiveness and recent strange behavior caused me much
discomfort. There was Mel, whose own family I’d already suffocated
with my perpetual messes. There was Milo, and although I still
needed to question him, any long-termed presence with him would be
about as comforting and as beneficial as a wet sponge in a deluge.
Attempting to select the lesser of three evils, my shoulders
finally slumped.

Saul
noticed, but didn’t seem troubled by it. Instead, he simply started
his car and sped down the street in the opposite direction of the
oncoming sirens. “Like that is it?” he replied with that salient
smile of his. “Well, as long as you don’t mind being up in the
mountains for a while, I know the safest location for
you.”

I was wary of his answer. “And that is?”

“My place.”

December 26, 2010

12:35 pm

THEY ARE
GENERALLY
the same, my dreams, the same
scenario, the same sequence of events and the same central focus, a
large, intimidating door
.

I am standing at the forefront of what seems a very long
hall, almost too long to be real. I often have a vague sense that
there is something in my hand but I don’t look at it; the hall is
of more importance.

The walls on either side seem oversized and
climb high into nowhere. The same fixtures and paintings decorate
them. I am unable to make these out with any clarity, but they
leave me with a feeling of being otherworldly.

It is dark. And yet it is not, which gives
me the impression of some lighting being present. Its existence
only increases the eeriness and the gloom, creating an incessant
stream of ghostlike shadows appearing and disappearing along the
walls.

I feel fear in stepping forward, but some unrecognizable
force pushes me to do just that. As I walk along the hall, the wall
on my left ends and gives way to a spiral staircase. It is made of
dark iron. Occasionally, I pause long enough to take in the
intricacy of its design, the swirls and curls that career
downward.

To my right there is another painting. This one, I do
recall, a portrait of a man, quite fierce in his expression and
quite conservative in his demeanor. Large bushy eyebrows rest over
cold, grey eyes that give me the impression of being followed. For
a moment, I remain paralyzed before it, fascinated by the detail
but at the same time frightened of it. Sometimes, I sense it speak
to me, instructing me to go back to where I came.

But I know I can’t.

An abrupt movement to the left of me catches
my eye. Slowly stepping up the shadowy staircase is a woman. She
stops; her hand grips the iron railing. The expression on her face
is changeable, sometimes impassive, sometimes jubilant but always
staring at me. She is saying something but I cannot make it out. My
mouth moves as if I’m answering, but the words are silent, lost in
the ethereal void between us.

She then turns and fades downwards into
nothingness.

I turn my attention back to the door.
Interestingly enough, the markings on the door continue to increase
in detail with each dream. It is almost as if it is a living thing,
maturing, developing its own characteristic designs.

In addition, there are voices. I’m certain of that. Barely
audible, but definitely present. Soft, colorless voices, humming.
In some of the dreams, I imagine that I can actually decipher
intermittent words, but their nonsensical disorder lacks any
meaning.

In spite of it, it never takes me long to
establish the origin of the voices. The door, ever dominant, ever
formidable, continually reigning in its hold over me, drawing me
closer and closer.

When I finally arrive in front of it, as I always do, I am
immediately taken aback, not just by the sheer magnitude of it and
all its curious markings but also by the swift shot of terror
overpowering me.

Ordering me not to open it.

The feeling
consumes
me, saps my energy.

In every dream, it is precisely at this
point that I wake up.

***

My body lurched with an enormous inhalation
of air.

My dress was
drenched, my body quivering. I sat upright, raised my arms behind
my head and concentrated on inhaling several deep breaths, a ritual
I often did to steady my reaction to the dreams. Gradually, my
heart stopped its thumping; my body its shaking and my senses
returned to some normality.

As they did,
I slowly began to take in my surroundings. I was on a queen-sized
bed, in a room of contemporary taupe and white furnishings. To my
left, soft, gossamer curtains fanned from partially opened sliders,
revealing a bushy stretch beyond. To my right, a glistening white
ensuite. In front, large paneled doors, most likely the
wardrobe.

I bit my lip
and tried to recapture the events that led to my being there, the
family Christmas and all it epitomized, and the gruesome incident
in my car. I dropped my head in my hands, wishing I had not
remembered. Soon, another image began to form. That of a
man.

Saul Reardon.

I remembered
him coaxing me from the nightmare and me freely driving off with
him, off to his house. I remembered arriving and an elderly woman
greeting me with worried words like shock and exhaustion. I
remembered her guiding me into this room and my sinking into the
folds of the soft, welcoming bed.