Hadrian's Wall (17 page)

Adrian laughed. “Charity is a power of
nature.” He scrutinized me. “If it’s your conscience that disturbs
you, relax. Charity has tons of clothes. Every year she donates
bags of them to the welfare and assistance centers of St. Paul and
Divine Town. The clothes she brought to you involve no cost or
extra work.”

Mmmm...
If that’s true, the situation is even more
humiliating for me.
I know his comment was
intended to make me feel less indebted to both he and Charity, but
to my ears it sounded like I was a charity case and the powerful
Cahill family was my benefactor.

Why did I get the impression that he was
lying? All of the clothes, even the shoes were my size! What were
the chances of two physically different people having exactly the
same body shape and size, right down to their feet? Some of the
tags were still inside the bags, as if someone had hastily removed
them.

Of course, I realized that
Charity could be compulsive—like those girls who are always buying
clothes they didn’t need, half of which they never wore. Every
foray into the closet probably required use of a map or GPS. With
great effort, I ignored the fact that Charity’s body shape
was noticeably different than mine and accept
that
coincidentally
the clothes given to me were my size, but what about the
make-up and hygiene products, the beauty creams? They were brand
new, the seals unbroken. Had she wanted to donate them
too?

It’s true that I had no
proof that they’d purchased all those things especially for me, nor
was there any reasonable motive for them to do so. Maybe I am
paranoid. In any case, despite the initial feeling of humiliation,
his explanation left me feeling relieved because it meant that I
hadn’t caused them any unnecessary hassle or financial loss!
Oh, girl...so you choose to close your eyes and
believe him.

“The clothes are very cool. Thank you both
for your kindness.”

“But...?”

I stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Something displeased you,” he said, using
that same sarcastic tone. “But I can imagine what happened. I
recommended that Charity bring you only her simplest clothes
because I suspected that you do not like to wear flashy things, but
I know my cousin very well and I’m guessing she didn’t follow my
recommendation and brought some fancy things too...”

It was disturbing that Adrian seemed to know
me very well too.

Mmmm...
It’s the shoes...” I began awkwardly. “They’re not
for walking around or for work. They all have high
heels...very,
very
high heels. I enjoy tennis, you know? I need something more
practical.”

Adrian laughed. “And you’re a practical
girl.”

“I try to be.”

He shifted in his chair and bowed his head.
His eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Can I look?”

I pointed to the closet. “Go ahead.”

He didn’t play dumb. He
didn’t hesitate for a second and opened the door. He glanced at the
rows of chic, exotic sandals—some with ruffles, buckles, and bows,
others with rhinestones, and one transparent-looking
pair...
suitable for a
Cinderella
.

He laughed again. “I’ll take care of
it.”

“No, please. I owe you too much
already!”

“You don’t owe me anything.” He became so
serious that it scared me.

“Are you sure?”

My eyes strayed to the window. The memory of
the winged monster came back to my mind. I wanted so much to talk
about it...mainly about the creature that had snatched Cridder off
of me and torn him to pieces. I didn’t have the courage to initiate
the conversation because Adrian—medical resident Adrian
Cahill—would recommend my immediate commitment in the psychiatric
ward, especially if he knew what was going through my mind.

“What do you mean?” he asked, suddenly
wary.

I didn’t respond right away. I kept looking
out the window, as if I could find the answer out there. Was
everything that was happening to me the product of my sick mind?
I’d researched online and read about brain tumors that caused
hallucinations. Was that why Dr. Talbott ordered a CT scan? Why
hadn’t I been told the results? Maybe they were so bad that nobody
wanted to tell me? No, I’d been experiencing these symptoms since
childhood. There could be a tumor, but if there is, I’d be
dead.

I also read another article about rejected
children. As I understand it, they tend to become adults who live
an emotional roller coaster life— one day an inferiority complex;
the next, delusions of grandeur. They become people with low
self-esteem, trapped by fantasy, and perceive themselves as
exceptionally neglected in comparison with others; but to escape
the psychic pain caused by rejection, they imagine themselves as
perfect and beloved—as if they were predestined to occupy high
positions or to play extremely important roles in the lives of
others.

But I wasn’t like that. I mean, all I wanted
from life was not to be unemployed. The only symptom that fit in my
current behavior was my constant paranoia. I still had the feeling
that people were hiding the facts of me and I couldn’t understand
why.

“You’re safe here,” Adrian said softly,
observing that I was upset. For a fleeting moment, I could see a
worried look on his face, but not for long because he quickly
resumed his inscrutable expression.

“Is it possible for the mind to manufacture
its own memories?” I asked.

“Yes.” He sighed and took my hand again. “It
is possible, especially after suffering a trauma. The mind can also
mix elements from past and present situations to re-read how the
events occurred.”

Damn!
If that’s true...if that had happened to me, then my
suspicions led me to a dead end. What I need most right now is an
explanation that proves I’m not crazy.

“Where exactly did you find me?”

Now it was Adrian’s turn to be confused. He
sat down in front of me, staring at me intensely, with his head
tilted—a trademark gesture.

“A rescue team found you on the Mountain of
Polish Man. The paramedics said you must have gotten lost on one of
the trails around the Poland Springs Resort.

It couldn’t be true. My
mind couldn’t play a trick like that.
Damn, tell me I’m not insane as well!

“I was in South Portland,” I objected in a
small voice.

“No, you were not,” he retorted calmly.

I could feel something was very wrong. I
stared at his face for a few seconds. He held my gaze with an
inscrutable expression. Unlike me, Adrian was a very difficult
person to read. Sometimes I swear he was like a river of lava
burning underground, ready to erupt into a volcano and other times
he was as cool as a glacier, not revealing even a shadow of
emotion. The volcano rapidly turns into a snow-capped peak.

The memory of my enigmatic conversation with
Asia “No Surname” caused my thoughts to detour off course.

“It’s not the first time I’ve heard about
The Mountain of Polish Man. What is this that? Where is that?”

He looked at the floor,
almost like he was bored, and then he raised his head and started
talking like a teacher who is annoyed about having to repeat an
explanation for an inattentive student.
Was he upset with me?
Suddenly, he
seemed so elusive...as if part of him was not fully involved in the
conversation.

Definitely, I bored him. My heart sank. I
felt mortified.

“In 1832, an adventurer from Poland was lost
in that area. He was never found, so the mountain was given that
name. Since then, there have been frequent reports from people who
swear they witnessed supernatural things going on there. Other
disappearances were reported, but they never found the bodies. Some
say they’ve seen the Polish man wandering through the trees, just
before people disappear. That’s why the older natives consider the
place to be haunted.” Adrian gave me one of his dazzling smiles,
like a boy who’s telling a whopper of a tale.

“But that’s precisely what attracts the
tourists—all of the amenities they have to offer visitors who are
eager to try their luck... and who knows, maybe they’ll see a
ghost! Parapsychologists, ufologists, witches, black magic
worshipers...” He giggled, making it clear that he considered all
of this to be nonsense. “Hundreds of people invade the place, which
has a lodge, cabins, campgrounds, a recreation center, outdoor
recreation activities—even a travel agency in charge of tours to
regions considered to be the most frightening.”

He frowned. “Morrison is still the majority
shareholder of the investment and I think he still works as tour
guide. The guy is a lucky bastard! He was able to become a legend
in what has become a highly profitable business venture.

Ah...a
mountain full of mysteries
. However
mysterious, it was the sudden memory of a mobile number that struck
me, leaving me stunned.
Carmen...
if I was not in South
Portland, then she and her brother, Bob, did not
exist
. I needed to call
her and add the missing pieces to my puzzle.

Even though I wanted Adrian to stay and help
me, my intuition told me that he wouldn’t collaborate for my
purpose. Of course, this feeling could only be a product of my
paranoia, but I could not react differently.

When he was around, I experienced torment
and delight simultaneously. It was scary how the notion of reality
had evaporated. I needed to get away from his power over me in
order to think objectively...at least for now.

I looked at him for a long moment, recording
his face in my memory and then I forced myself to say the words, “I
need to use the phone. Could you excuse me?”

Adrian narrowed his eyes and then got up
very slowly. At that moment, he seemed like a predator preparing to
pounce on its prey. There was a quick flash behind the lens of his
glasses, before he resumed his usual countenance.

“Sure. Take your time.” He
gave me a polite smile and left the room.
Was he wondering who I wanted to call?

In the silence that followed, I regained my
composure. My rapid heart rate continued unabated and I felt
slightly dizzy. I looked at the phone and saw the list of
extensions pasted to the top of the nightstand. I dialed the number
and an operator answered immediately.

“Yes?”

“Could you please help me complete a
call?”

She patiently listened as I gave her the
number, then asked, “What is the area code?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know. All I know is the
location—South Portland.”

“Please wait,” replied the woman in a
professional voice.

Professional voice,
professional smile...I had to learn that too
.

“Miss Baker?”

How did she know my
name?
Oh sure, the extension directory.
She’d have a list of people admitted to private wards.
Paranoia again
...

“Miss, you must switch off, so I can
complete the call. When it rings, the person you want to speak with
will be on the line.”

Oh
. “Sure, sorry. I’m shutting down.”

I put the phone down and waited. A few
seconds later the phone rang and I answered.

“Hello, Carmen?”

“Hello? There’s no Carmen here,” said a
deep, unsympathetic voice. “You must have dialed the wrong
number.”

“It cannot be. This is her cell phone
number. This is the number I’ve called before.”

“Ma’am...” the guy chuckled. “I’m sure I’m
not Carmen and I don’t know anyone by that name. Have a good
day.”

He hung up on me. I stared at the phone in
disbelief. I lifted the receiver and call the operator again.

“Hello, please, the number I gave
you...would you repeat it back to me?”

“Sure.” She correctly recited the same
number I’d given her.

“Thank you.” I hung up again.

I looked at the computer and dashed to the
desk, striking my leg on the edge of the bed. It’ll be purple by
tomorrow, I’m sure. While massaging the sore spot, I waited
impatiently for the Internet home page to appear on the
monitor.

I went to Google and typed “Department Store
Wood Village - South Portland.” Quickly, the search site provided
me with a huge list of citations to the store, but the only page
that interested me was one that had the address and phone.

I looked back at the telephone, drumming my
fingers on the top of the nightstand. Finally, I decided to try
something different. Rather than ask the hospital’s phone operator
to help, I dialed zero. It worked!

“Wood Village Department Store,” said a
woman’s voice. “How can I help you?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Good morning.
I’d like to speak with Carmen, please.”

“Yes, what department?”

“Personnel,” I said, hesitating. The
operator should know Carmen, right? Was there more than one Carmen
at the same store?

“Just a moment, please...”

I was listening to music and store
promotions for a long time until someone answered. The voice was
female.

“Personnel Department.”

“Carmen?”

“Yes? How can I help
you?”
Professional voice...here we go
again
.

“It’s me, Carmen...Melissa.”

Agonizing silence dominated the line from
South Portland to Hadrian’s Wall, lasting for what seemed like an
eternity...that is, until Carmen sighed.

“Melissa? Melissa who?”