Forgotten (3 page)

In the entire commotion, I had completely
forgotten about the object behind the door. I hurried back to the
foyer. Once there, I skidded to a standstill. Hoisted upright
against the wall was a medium-sized, piece of luggage. A silver
handle stuck out from its top, a white, plastic nametag angled just
enough to catch the foyer light.

I didn’t
need to read the name. The luggage tag was enough. Vividly blue
with the inscription
Not just
another black bag
stared back at me. A
birthday present from me to him. My fingers began knotting
fiercely. Why was he here? A surprise? And if so, where was
he?

I shot a glance in the direction of the
bedroom. It was noiseless, no scurrying footsteps, no excited
voices shouting as one would expect with a surprise.

No nothing.

Just that damn, bloody smell.

But then, that would mean….

Blood rushed to my head; its pounding rhythm
hammered against my eardrums.

Oh my god, Papa... no.

Carino….

Something
strong and fast clenched my chest and squeezed. I doubled over,
searched frantically for air. A sharp, blistering pain speared me
when that air didn
’t come. I gasped,
breathed out, gasped, breathed out. But all I felt was a dulling
faintness and the rising bile burn my chest. I automatically leaned
into the side of the foyer wall.

It’s just my imagination. Papa, please… let it just be my
imagination. Sister…
Sister…
whatever her name, would tell you so.

You know it’s not.

Burning, hot
tears scorched the corners of my eyes, as did the mounting
bitterness in my
throat.

No
, Papa, no… don’t
do this to me.

I didn’t do this, Carino.

And then his message hit me.

I had done this to myself.

Oh my god,
no
, please no. My world began rapidly
evaporating into hazy white dots and rising light-headedness. It
tempted me with promises of somewhere more illusionary, somewhere
where guilt didn’t devour my soul. I only had to take the next
step. So easy.

But I couldn
’t.

Searching deep for a strength well buried, I
placed my shaky hands on the solid foyer wall.

Carino, don
’t do this
to yourself; don’t do it to me.

I have to, Papa. I have to be sure.

As if in a predestined trance, I slowly but
carefully mapped my sweaty palms across the wall until I reached a
corner. I took a huge breath and swerved around it.

I first spotted Clinton scrabbling along the
floor. He stopped, gripped his bulging midriff and vomited. Still
bent, he lifted his head and glanced at me. His eyes were glassy,
filled with obvious dread: his body seemed withered and small. He
sluggishly straightened himself just enough to scuttle past me and
leave.

I felt my own stomach fluids not far
away.

Oh my god, Papa, this is really
happening.

Yes, Carino, it is.

An extra round of chills rippled my
skin.

I saw Shamus
next, crouched on the floor only feet away from the bedroom; the
golf club lay at his feet. I staggered towards him and unsteadily
dropped to my haunches. My right hand remained glued to the wall.
“Shamus,” I murmured.

No answer.

I grabbed
his shoulder with my free hand, gave him a partial shake. He looked
up, but I barely recognized him. His normally readable face was
blank, his skin a ghastly grey, his lips bloodless and
still.

I placed a
shaky palm on his cheek; he barely responded. “I’m so sorry,” I
whispered, sensing a genuine urge to hug him. It was pointless,
though; he was too lost. I uncurled to a semi-stance and set my
sights for the bedroom.

My feet were
like lead, slow, heavy, painful to land… slow… heavy… painful. My
heart felt the same. Dragging one beat at a time. Until I arrived
at the bedroom entrance.

The smell was pungent.

Papa.

Carino,
I love
you.

I love you too.

I
then swung around and entered.

That’s
when I saw him. Stretched
out along the bed. Motionless, yet so peaceful. Any prior thoughts
of the ‘petal-less’ stems in the living area quickly
vanished.

Here they were.

Scores of
crimson red petals carpeted him like a protective
blanket. Agony ripped my insides, guilt riddled
my blood and a driving urge to scream this injustice to the world
rose in me. How could this happen to someone so beautiful, so
gentle, so loving? I crumbled to the floor, let out a wail and
yelled at all those unforgivable wrongs.

Cold had no
meaning now. Neither did fear. Strange, I thought. There’s an
unequivocal solace in finally knowing the answers. No more
guessing… no more what ifs, no more buts
and ‘perhapses’. And all I sensed was this incredible
necessity to be with him.

I gripped
onto the doorjamb, used it to lift my body. Once semi-balanced, I
stumbled to the bed and dumped both of my hands onto the white,
thick quilt.

Tears
were now torrents, falling wildly. Tears for
him. Every last drop. Love filled my heart; the overflowed memories
of his unconditional protection swarmed the marrow of my
bones.

And it hurt
so badly.

I slipped to
his side, tenderly brushed several of the offending petals off his
forehead. Something viscous glued them to my fingers. I wiped my
hand onto the quilt. White quickly became red.

Blood.

One look at
him, at the purpled-red hole that dirtied the
center of his forehead, at the congealed stream of fluid
down one side of his head, hardening parts of his soft, dark hair,
confirmed it.

Subconsciously, I knew what had caused the
wound.

Consciously,
I didn’t want to believe it.

“I’m here,” I said. I lifted his unusually
flaccid arm and wrapped it around me. “It’s now my turn to look
after you.”

Death has a flavor of its own.

I know; I had smelt it before.

I smelt it now.

But this
time
was different.

This
time was from someone I cherished.

My Simon.

Fourteen months later

December 3, 2010

3
:04 pm

I FELT
LIKE
the vacant bag racks.

Abandoned and alone.

And for the
next seven weeks of the school holidays, probably just as useless.
As I slouched against the racks, I swallowed back the rising lump
in my throat and sadly watched the last of my students
leave.

How I would miss them.

It’s been fourteen months, Carino.

So what, Papa.

Don’t you think it is time to get back your
life?

Teaching is my life.

No, a life of your own.

I knew what
Papa
meant. I swung a sharp glance to the
ring on my left hand. Its diamond was small but the love it
signified was indisputably massive.

I already told you, Papa
,
not yet.
And I concluded our mental chitchat.

With a heart as heavy as the oppressive air
encircling me, I returned to my classroom. As soon as I entered,
its painful emptiness and silence encased me. Stripped of the
student’s life force, the room was now nothing more than brick and
mortar, barren and soulless.

It was time to go.

I neared my desk, took in the chaotic
mish-mash overcrowding its top, everything from precariously
stacked Christmas gifts, strewn stationery to a now redundant
planning book. Control, I noted, was already slipping from me, and
the holidays barely begun.

I groaned as
a fresh mental weariness took over. Surrendering to it, I landed in
my chair with an emphatic thump, so glad the damn thing didn’t
collapse on me. I slumped forward, rested my elbow somewhere
between a tube of Avon moisturizer and an exquisitely boxed red and
green Christmas bauble, and plunged my chin into my palm. With my
other hand, I picked up my favorite pen and began clicking
it.

Its rhythmic sound prompted my wretched mind
to wander.

Time to get back your life.

This time, Papa’s words belonged to a recent
memory.

Papa and I are slouched in a couple of green
chaises on the patio of my fifth story unit indulging in a bottle
of Italian Chianti and the enchanting views of Nankari Bay.

The clear, blue ocean mirrors the sky and is unnaturally
still except for the slow, muted ripples of a lonely yachtsman
sailing too close to shore. A soft warmish breeze toys with my
hair, gently caressing my cheeks. I lean back, smile and greedily
breathe in the fresh, briny air.

“
Nankari is special,” Papa says.

It certainly is. It is my hometown. It had also been
Simon’s.

Situated on Queensland’s majestic Sunshine Coast, it rests
beneath two rocky headlands that stand like a pair of giant
soldiers loyally guarding their most precious jewel. A jewel,
deserving of its Aboriginal translation, ‘a beautiful
place.’

“
You are ignoring me,” Papa says in his
normally gruff voice.

I take another sip of Chianti. It leaves an odd taste in my
mouth as if suddenly tainted. “Time to get back my life. I heard
you.”

And I know he is speaking of Simon. Even after all this
time, an abrupt sadness fills me. I close my eyes and silently
weep.

“
I know you hate talking about him.”

I nod and keep my eyes closed.

“
And I know you are going to hate what I
am about to say next.”

I look at him; my muscles immediately
tighten and I wait.

Papa sighs and fiercely rubs the back of his neck. “I
think, well… no, I really believe it is time for you to take off
Simon’s ring, to move on.”

I shrink into the lounge like one stung. Is Papa serious? A
further study of his worried face tells me he is. I cover my ring
defensively and sense a renewed disquiet take over. Take off
Simon’s ring? Like for good? The idea has never entered my head.
Not once.

Hot anger instantly burns me. “
I’ll remove the ring when I am ready,” I snap, “when I
decide it’s time.”

Papa’s broad shoulders wilt. I know I am
hurting him. But I am hurting too.

“
I understand,” he mumbles, and he casts his troubled eyes
to the waters.

But does he understand? I don’t think so. How can
he?

He doesn’t know the full story.

No one does.

I change the subject.

“What a fricking mess.”

I jumped,
causing the perfectly packaged bauble to fly off the table. It
smacked against the stained carpet miraculously resettling in one
piece.

There
was no mistaking that inimitable
tone.

It was my friend, Melanie Lloyd.

Her
‘teacher’ voice could have shredded steel but
then that was Mel’s talent, if one could consider her voice a
talent. Balancing a bright, red tub on her hip, she stopped a few
inches shy of the desk. She studied it, studied me then began
shaking her mop of flamed hair. It was wild and unruly, much like
her fashion sense, much like her.

“
Honestly,
Claudia, if your face was any longer it’d soon come with its own
carry bag.”

I feigned a half-twisted smile. “Cute.”

“
I
thought so. So, are you leaving
all this crap for tomorrow?”

I glanced at
the clock. I had been pen clicking for almost thirty minutes. “As I
usually do.”

I tossed the
pen. It landed amongst the rest of the
tabletop jumble. Returning the following day was an
obsessive habit of mine. In some strange way, it helped me adjust
better to the longer breaks.

I stood and
hunted for my car keys, finally finding them on the whiteboard
ledge balancing between a blue marker and some worn out erasers. I
collected them. They jangled noisily, felt heavy in my hand. I
looked down, only to see an overabundance of attached worn out
souvenirs. A faded ‘Tigger’ figurine bounced just like his ‘A. A.
Milne’ character.

I grabbed my
basket, slipped on my sunglasses, then headed towards the door.
Mel’s clogs clip-clopped behind me. I waited for her to leave, took
hold of the sun-hot handle and slammed another year
closed.

“
Coming for
a drink?
” Mel asked. “You know, to
celebrate.”

“Celebrate?” I winced, hopefully to
myself.

“
Come on,
you don’t want me partying by myself!”

The image of
a jubilant Mel doing the Macarena came to mind, and I grinned. She
and herself would party just fine.

We
headed towards our cars. The sight of the almost
vacant parking area brought to mind vivid pictures of a ghost town.
All it needed were some rolling tumbleweeds.

I unlocked
the door of my green Rav 4 and nestled the basket onto its floor.
Mel, as always, was within a breath away. When I finally had enough
courage to look at her, I recognized her world-class death stare. I
grabbed my drawstring bag, stretched it across my face and
playfully cowered behind it.