The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  I shudder at the thought, reaching up to touch the locket around my neck. Charles gave it to me. I always find myself clutching it when I’m anxious, and today, I’m certainly a bundle of nerves. The streetlights illuminating our walk, the hordes of West Green residents making their way to their seemingly vulnerable homes, I stop in my tracks.

  ‘What is it?’ Mum asks. I frantically feel around my chest, my pockets with no luck. It’s gone.

  ‘My locket. I think I lost it in the church. We need to go back. It’s my favourite,’ I announce, panicked.

  Dad grabs my arm as I’m turning. ‘We’ll get it tomorrow. We don’t want to be wandering about with all that’s going on. We can find it tomorrow, okay?’

  I open my mouth to argue, but Dad yanks me forward. I know there’s no use arguing with him. He isn’t Mum. He can’t be won over. I silently trudge forward, feeling naked and empty without my locket. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.

  But that’s more than we can say for Doreen. More than we can promise for anyone, I realise as I climb the stairs and trudge to my bedroom once we’re home, ready to sleep away the depressing day and fall prey to the glorious blackness of night.

  ***

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to thank you,’ I murmur to Phyllis a couple of days later when we’re at Doreen’s official funeral, the wails of her family sending jolts of melancholy through my body.

  ‘Thank me for what?’ she whispers back, our heads bowed as we stand in the pouring rain at the back of the service.

  My fingers automatically travel to the smooth silver. I do wish Charles was here. But he had to work again, and I understand that if we are to be together someday, he needs to keep his job secure.

  ‘For returning my locket,’ I reply. I turn to eye Phyllis, whose face is quizzical.

  ‘I didn’t, though,’ she says. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Peculiar,’ I reply, shrugging. ‘I lost it on the night of the youth gathering, when we had the prayer service. It came through the letterbox yesterday with a note. I thought it was from you.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad whoever found it returned it,’ she says. We bow our heads, the service continuing, the bleakness of death enshrouding us and the entire community.

  We hear the pastor talk about youth and the fragility of life. I touch the locket again, thinking about the note, the scrawling handwriting that looked hurried and sloppy.

  Saw you drop this. I’ll be seeing you soon. – P

  If the P wasn’t for Phyllis, then who? Who else would have seen the locket, would’ve known it was mine? Goosebumps on my arms spread, the thoughts racing in my mind.

  Stop it, Addy. It’s nothing. There are so many people in this town with the initial ‘P’. It could’ve been anyone, for goodness sake. The florist, the tavern owner. Who knew? And what does it matter? They returned the locket. Clearly there was no foul play there. And clearly there are bigger problems to worry about.

  But as the service continues and my fingers rub the smooth silver over and over, I can’t help but wonder who was watching so closely that they saw me drop the necklace – and who would go to those lengths to return it without showing their face. I can’t help but shake a little at the thought that the ‘P’ could stand for Parsons, and that the locket could just be a small symbol in Oliver’s much larger, angrier game.

  Chapter 12

  Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

  2019

  ‘I need to go,’ I sputter, suddenly needing to get away from him. Those steel grey eyes tucked carefully behind those thick plastic frames. How hadn’t I seen this before? Am I really that forgetful after all? Maybe I am losing it like everyone seems to think.

  True, it’s been so many years, and time has dulled the terror, the knowledge, the understanding. Nevertheless, as I stare into the eyes of Oliver Parsons, the wrinkles don’t fool me any longer. It’s him. I see it as clearly as if it’s 1959. How long it has been, the interminable years rolling by – yet somehow it feels like no time has gone by at all.

  ‘Addy, wait,’ he demands, reaching out to grab my arm. I shudder, yanking out of his clutches.

  ‘Oliver, I need to go.’ I ball my hands into fists, trying not to let him see how they quake.

  ‘I said wait,’ he replies, his eyes glinting. Dread grows in my chest, in my heart, in my head. He leans in, his sneer unnerving me. After all these years, he still has a power over me I can’t untangle myself from. Time has changed us, it’s true. But despite his age and mine, there’s a frightening electricity that seems to radiate from him, one that threatens to impair me with its surging voltage.

  He’s still dangerous, I understand as I look at him. And I’ve let this monster of a man near me without even realising it.

  ‘I see you’ve finally come home,’ he whispers, his words edgy and uneven.

  Tears well in my eyes. I stare at him, wordless, as I watch his eyes dance on my face.

  ‘Guessing this means Charles is dead? Gone? It’s just you now, isn’t it? What a shame.’ He sneers, telling me with just a few words what I already suspected. He hasn’t changed. Time hasn’t improved him. In fact, perhaps it’s just let the old, harsh habits boil and toughen. My lip trembles, and I bite it to keep my fear from showing. Palms sweating, I back up.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw you here. Adeline Walker, back at last. The myth, the legend, the slag. Back again.’

  ‘Oliver, please. It was a long time ago. Leave me be,’ I implore, a tear falling now as I reach a hand out to the wall to steady myself.

  ‘Leave you be? Leave you be? After all you’ve done?’ He articulates each word like it’s a dart being launched at a target. They pierce into me one by one.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ I whisper again, chanting the words like a demented mantra.

  ‘Some things, you just don’t forget. Some things taint the rest of your life,’ he says, his sneer melting into something much different. For an uncomfortably long, silent moment, I stare into the eyes of the man who made my life a living hell. How can he just dismiss who he was and what he did like the passage of time forgives him? How can he turn all of this on me, like he didn’t play a part in the twisted drama from long ago? Does the passing of decades change who a person is at the core? And does old age equate to automatic atonement for the sins of one’s youth, no matter how awful?

  I want to think the answer is no, but I stop for a moment, considering what the answer could mean for me. After all, we’ve both done things that we shouldn’t be proud of. When I look into Oliver’s eyes, I know we’re both guilty – but our transgressions are of different varieties. And, in truth, I don’t know what other things he’s done or who he’s become in the years since I left.

  What did his life look like after I left West Green? Did he settle into a new routine, a calm life? Did he marry, have children, and live out a life of purpose after I was gone? Clearly, he didn’t stray far, his presence here verifying that. But who is Oliver Parsons now? And is he truly someone to fear in the darkness of Smith Creek Manor?

  I don’t know. I can’t know for sure. But my hands are jittery, and as I study his face looking for the true answers to my questions, I quake. There’s something about his eyes, about his face, that underlines who he used to be and the fact that he hasn’t changed at all. And even more than that, he hasn’t forgiven me for what I did all those years ago.

  Truthfully, in ways, I haven’t forgiven myself.

  ‘Stay away from me,’ I order, my words shaky and unsure. Nonetheless, I shove past him, frantic to escape from the scene. I can’t handle this. My heart thuds, and I need to soothe myself. I don’t want to sort through this now, all the murkiness of the past melting into the present. What’s happening here? What’s happening to me? I hate that I feel so lost.

  I consider going to see Dorothy, but I’m not ready to talk. She’s practically still a stranger. I can’t divulge all of my past to her. Besides, there’s too much to process, so I
do the next best thing. I duck into the reading room in the nook beside the nursing desk, immersing myself in the gloominess, staring at the bookshelves, and drowning in tears for a past I don’t truly understand – and a cryptic future that petrifies me.

  Oliver Parsons is here, but does he still thirst for vengeance from all those years ago? I wrecked so many things back then. Now here he is, back in my life, and strange things are occurring. Notes and outbursts. A woman is dead. Is it all just coincidence, or something more horrifying at play?

  Has time and age allowed Oliver’s hatred to marinate, his need for revenge to warm to a point of bubbling over? I think back to all those moments when I saw his true colours, when I realised he was a beast of the vilest variety. That type of thing doesn’t fade with time, does it? Can a person truly transform over the decades and lose those violent, vindictive tendencies? My shoulders sag as I squeeze my eyes shut.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charles. Forgive me. Forgive me,’ I whisper, but of course he doesn’t answer. The dead can’t save you from the living.

  ***

  Time passes, but I barely notice as I lean back in the leather chair in the reading room. Mercifully, only one quiet lady from the other side of the floor joins me, but she doesn’t say a word, mindlessly leafing through a novel on the sofa nearby. I don’t choose a book, relishing in the quietude of the room, of the little area where I can disappear.

  I try not to even think too much, my thoughts taking me down desolate roads I’m not equipped to travel. Rose, Oliver, the note – it’s beyond overwhelming, and it’s brought too many memories, too many terrors to the forefront of my mind. All those years that have gone by, all those fears. And yet, here I am, back in West Green, as if I’m haunting the place instead of it haunting me.

  Eventually, the other woman leaves, muttering a single word about dinner. As if on cue, my stomach grumbles, and I realise I haven’t eaten today. I don’t really care to go to the dining room, to gather, to see faces with quizzical looks. I don’t want to answer questions about Rose. And I most definitely don’t want to see Oliver.

  Still, the pull for sustenance wins, and I decide to drag myself to the dining room. I can’t avoid reality forever. I traipse towards the clanking of dishes and soft murmur of the residents of Floor Three as they prepare to eat. On my way, I pass the communal living space, the telly blaring. The Philip Woman is chanting in her wheelchair, rocking back and forth, repeating Philip over and over just like the last time I saw her. A nurse comes to retrieve her and take her to the dining room. She makes eye contact with me and offers a nod.

  ‘Sorry about your roommate, Mrs Evans. Come on, now, why don’t you follow Mrs Blake and me to the dining area?’ the nurse says.

  I wordlessly shuffle after them, pulling my pink pullover tighter around my shoulders. I walk into the room, perusing the residents until I spot Dorothy. She waves me over.

  ‘There you are. I’ve been wondering where you were. I was going to come and check on you, but then they pulled me for some blasted appointment. Come, sit,’ she commands, motioning to the seat beside her. I oblige, comforted by her presence.

  ‘I heard about Rose. I’m sorry,’ she says. I nod, my eyes studying the room.

  Dorothy yammers on and on about Rose, telling me some story from long ago, when my gaze stops on the table a couple feet away from us.

  From the table, Oliver observes me, taking me in like he’s magnetised by me. I tremble at the prospect. Is it just my imagination, or is he sneering a bit? Does he relish in the fact he’s making me uncomfortable? I avert my eyes, staring down at the plate in front of me, my head aching from the thought of it all.

  ‘You all right?’ Dorothy asks, touching my hand. I jump, my hand smacking against the table.

  ‘Sorry. Yes. Just … shaken.’ I consider telling her about Oliver, but I decide against it. I’m not ready to talk about it all. Besides, how could she possibly understand? I don’t even know if I understand. The staff bring in our food, and I pick at my plate, the mystery meat jiggling in the middle. It fails to incite my appetite. Dorothy changes the subject, and dinner continues without incident. I manage to choke down a few morsels of food, but I barely taste them. It’s like I’m shovelling sawdust into my mouth, my lips and throat so dry. Still, I focus on the movement of my hand, on the chewing, on Dorothy’s stories. I try not to look at Oliver, try to avoid making eye contact.

  Halfway through the meal, Father Patrick leaps from his seat, shouts an expletive, and leaves, carrying a piece of turkey – or what is being passed as turkey – in his bare hand, squeezing it as if it’s some prize. One of the staff members follows him, walking a few paces behind so as not to agitate him. Everyone here is on edge, I now understand. It’s just a matter of time until someone breaks.

  As I’m leaving the dinner and heading to my room, I pass Vivienne. She smirks.

  ‘Never a good omen when your roommate dies, you know. Usually it means you’re next,’ she whispers, playing with the butter knife on her table with her one hand. Her forefinger runs along the edge of the knife, as if she’s caressing it. She looks up at me, her sparkly blue eyes shimmering with something I can’t detect. I hurriedly say goodbye to Dorothy, walk out of the dining area, and head to my room.

  When I get there, I’m taken aback by the fact it doesn’t seem different. Rose’s side of the room has been sanitised and cleared. It looks like no one was there at all. The drawing, still tacked on the noticeboard, a child’s handwriting spelling out her name above the picture, reminds me she was real. The only other remnant of her is the derelict religious statue. It’s been moved in the mayhem, the distorted eyes staring at Rose’s empty bed, keeping vigil for a woman who is long gone. I shudder at the thought, praying that someone comes to claim it soon. The chipped face makes it look like it’s weeping. I shake my head, turning away from it.

  Other than that, the room is spotless, bleached and barren. It doesn’t smell of death like I’d imagined. It smells of nothing but sanitation and melancholy. I hate the smell.

  I walk over to my bed, not sure if it’s too early to sleep but also not caring. I’m done with this day. I climb under the covers in my clothes, too tired to change. I lie on my side, the murmur from the telly in the community room detectable from here, the corridor lights still too bright for sleep to come. A tear drips down my cheek as I look intently at the photograph on my bedside table, wishing Charles was here to wrap me in his arms like he did so many times when we were younger. I wish he could murmur in my ear that all will be fine, that this hard day wasn’t an omen. But he can’t. Even if he were alive, I don’t think he could make those promises.

  What must be hours pass, and slowly the roar of the telly and the clattering of feet in the corridor dwindles to a dull buzz. Finally, the noise dissipates into bone-chilling quiet. A few coughs and a couple of outbursts down the hallway are the only reminders that there is some semblance of life in here, but I am so accustomed to it all now that it’s hardly noticeable.

  Sleep is unexpectedly hard to come by. It’s just too eerily silent in my room. On the first night, Rose’s disturbing noises stirred me from sleep, making it difficult to drift off. Even in the short amount of time I’ve been here, though, Rose’s gurgles had become the white noise that helped me sleep. Without the presence of another person in the other side of the room, I feel numb. I’m alone here, the only soul in the room. I imagine the peeling statue staring at me, keeping vigil. The thought doesn’t comfort me.

  Despite the morose thoughts, I eventually manage to drift off to sleep. As my mind travels away to the blackness, I think about Rose, and dreams of her mouth moving and her finger pointing at me come quickly. No matter how hard I try, I can’t decide what she was trying to say. What were you saying, Rose? And why did you leave before I could figure it all out?

  All is dark, the dreams taking me where they will, the day’s hardships drowned by the exhaustion in my soul.

  Chapter 14

  Sleep fades
away as I open my eyes, surprised to find that my room is dark. What time is it? Is it morning or night? I don’t know. And how did I get to my bed? I don’t remember coming to bed. My head is foggy, and my hip cries from the position I was in. I sit up, ignoring my creaking bones as I attempt to orientate myself. My gaze lands across the room at Rose’s former, perfectly made-up bed, and my heart thuds as I stare at the emptiness. That’s not the only thing, however, that stirs me. Groggily, I try to interpret the sight of it – the statue. It’s been moved.

  The peeling eyes are now keeping vigil over a new client – me. It’s been turned to face my side of the room, I realise with a fright. Who moved it, and when? Someone must have been here. Oliver must have been here. Who else would do something like that? I try to calm myself, counting to three in reassurance that it’s all okay.

  I shuffle to the chair beside the window, staring out into the courtyard. Across the way, in the room directly across from me, I see a person also sitting in their chair. We’re mirror images of each other, the fading darkness between us the only distinction. It must be early morning, a hint of brightness spreading slowly in the courtyard. The person is in the first room on the other side of the ‘U’. It must be Room 300, with the evens being on the inside. Like me, their room is next to a locked staircase, I suppose, even though I’ve never ventured that way. Who is in 300? I wonder what they’re doing up right now. Are they tortured by the same things I am? Are they wrestling with truths they also can’t understand? I wish I could talk to them and share my troubles in confidence, but it’s a long walk. Instead, I put a hand on the window, eyeing the figure, wondering if they’re looking at me and thinking the same.

  I sit and stare, my mind a blank canvas tainted over and over by the occurrences from the past few days. How could things be so complicated? What has happened, and will there be an end? I don’t know what to make of this place. Sometimes, I think it’s just all too much, that I’ve lost all semblance of reality in just the few days I’ve been here. It’s like a warped rabbit hole and down, down, down I keep falling. My stomach knots at the mere thought.