The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  Eventually, I must drift off again in the chair, because when I startle awake, my room is brightly illuminated with the morning sunshine. There is movement in the corridor, nurses jostling carts and waking residents with harsh voices. I stretch, glancing at the clock to see what time it is.

  But before I can deem what the hour and minute hands mean, my gaze stops on the noticeboard. The menus are tacked up in their usual spot, and the day-to-day calendar that needs ripping off is where it’s supposed to be. However, I squint to see what else is pinned up on the board. What could it be? I don’t remember anything being there, not in that spot. No, I’m certain that part of the corkboard was always empty.

  I drag myself up from my chair, crossing the room as fast as my feet will take me – which arguably isn’t very fast. And that’s when I get there and verify that I’m not crazy. My eyes see the scrunched up, ripped piece of paper conspicuously pinned on the board. I stare at the paper, the edges gnarled as if it were ripped from something. The letters are in red ink, a scrawling text that looks shaky and hurried.

  Matthew 10:28

  I look back to the table, remembering the Bible where my notes are. The Bible has sat, crisp and unmoved, for several days. I’ve been forgetting to write my notes in there. I will need to do a better job. Ignoring the detail in order to deal with the problem at hand, I make my way to the stand, leaning on the bed to steady my shaking legs. I open the drawer, pulling out the book. It takes my trembling fingers a while to find the page, the verse, but when I do, I sink onto the bed.

  ‘Breakfast?’ a voice murmurs from the threshold. I don’t look up at the nurse, my eyes glued to the page.

  I shake my head. ‘Just a minute. I’ll be right out,’ I answer distractedly as I peruse the verse, squinting to read the tiny text. Even with my glasses, it’s too small.

  ‘Wait,’ I say, changing my mind and hoping to catch the nurse before she leaves. I turn to see her stop in the doorway. ‘Can you read me this verse? Matthew 10:28.’

  She groans as if I’m an imposition. Still, she crosses the room and stoops down to snatch the book from me. I wait patiently as she finds the correct verse, but her face melts into a deep frown.

  ‘Why this one?’ she asks.

  ‘Just tell me what it says, please,’ I plead, my heart sinking.

  She reads. ‘Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.’

  I bite my lip, shaking my head. I will myself not to cry. What does it mean? Why is it here?

  ‘Come on. Let’s go,’ she orders, handing the Bible back without any further discussion.

  I don’t respond, the words turning over and over as I clutch the book to my chest. The ominous words rattle in my brain, the terror of the past few days all swirling around with them.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I whisper, forgetting she’s there.

  ‘Let’s go, old lady. Breakfast time, and I’ve got other people to bring down to eat,’ she says. Her words should upset me, but I’m too focused on the verse.

  I think about telling her. I think about telling her that – what? What is there to tell? A few mysterious notes in a place like this? An ex-lover whom I haven’t seen in decades? A woman who died – who was very sick and old? What is there to tell? I shake my head. I’m paranoid. That’s it. I’m just paranoid. Charles often said I was apt to fall prey to melancholic thoughts. Of course, he understood why after all I’d been through, especially in those days in West Green. Still, my mind would often take to flights of whimsical, dark fears, often of superstitious variety. Dark rooms, mirrors in shadows, and late-night sounds often incited my mind to create fantastical, winding stories of terror. After we left West Green, there were so many things that scared me. I was always scared.

  That’s what’s happening now, I realise. Surely that’s it. My mind is warping and creating sinister tales that aren’t grounded in reality. What would Charles think? He’d tell me I’m being ridiculous and that I shouldn’t worry myself with such frightfully fictional stories. Yes, he is right. That must be it. I’m making way too much of a single Bible verse. I need to rein in my overactive imagination.

  But as I follow the nurse to the dining area to eat breakfast, I shiver as I walk past 313. Oliver sits on his bed, peering out into the hallway as if he is waiting for me. Why? What was he hoping to see? I think about that Bible verse tacked on my noticeboard. I think about last night’s encounter and all the ones before that, decades and decades ago. Could it be him? He’s so close to my room. If he’s still livid about everything – there’s no telling what he could do. Maybe the Bible verse is just the beginning of a long string of terrors he’ll unleash. It’s hard to tell.

  I should tell someone, I think, as I pass room 312, the door closed. Always closed. Another mystery in this cryptic enigma of a home with an unassuming name. I should tell one of the nurses so that I can protect myself. But who will believe me? Who is going to believe a woman like me? And what purpose will that serve? And am I really, truly in danger? Here? Now? It makes no sense. It just doesn’t make sense. Or at least that’s what I tell myself at breakfast as I sip on my orange juice, trying not to think about the ominous message.

  And trying not to think about the word kill from the Bible verse as I go about my day, one eye always watching the corners, trying to ascertain who can really be trusted.

  Chapter 15

  ‘Newest activity timetable,’ a scratchy voice hails from the doorway later that afternoon as I sit on the edge of my bed, peering into the courtyard at the drizzly day. It was so sunny this morning. I’d thought maybe I could wander outside to the gazebo that I spend so many hours staring at. It would do me some good to get a bit of warm sunshine. But of course, the clouds rolled in before I got a chance. Now, the day is a murky, oozing display of rain and biting air. The gloominess seems befitting of the day, the vacancy in the room still silently highlighting my aloofness in this place. I don’t even have Rose to commiserate with anymore, the hollowness of the room, stark and ghastly.

  I twist my neck to see who the voice from the doorway belongs to. It’s the same man who brought the menu by when I was on the phone with Claire. It seems like a lifetime ago, even though it’s only been a week at most. So much has happened. Could everything really have changed so much in such a short amount of time?

  The man shuffles, his left leg dragging slightly at an odd angle. Still, his movements are confident, his gait strong and mostly quick despite his disability. He crinkles the timetable on the board, tacking it up underneath the menu. I notice with a chill that he stops and stares, looking at the Bible verse pinned up. I’d considered taking it down, but something about it made me want to leave it. Maybe I was just afraid that if I took it down, my mind would forget that it happened.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, rubbing his chin as he studies the verse. I gawk at him, waiting for the man to say something, to ask about the note. Instead, he turns in his spot, staring back at me. His dark eyes dance over me, studying me as he did the note.

  When he turns, I again notice the scar on his head, parallel with the floor. It’s a long, pale scar that sinks into his face, bubbling from his skin in an inconspicuous yet daunting way. My gaze traces the scar, over and over, as he stands, almost wheezing, still staring.

  ‘Drizzly day, huh?’ I say, trying to make conversation, perhaps because I feel guilty for staring at his scar. Who am I to judge? Still, it’s like my mind won’t let the detail go. I can’t stop looking at it, wondering what caused it. I almost ask, the question flirting with my tongue. I choke it back with a soft cough.

  ‘Drizzly day,’ he parrots, his voice still scratchy. It’s a simple comment mimicking mine, but something in the way he looks at me, something in the cool collectedness of the words makes me think it was a calculated statement. As the minutes tick by and he doesn’t move, I shift in my seat. I take in the sight of his mouth that hangs slightly ajar, his
teeth not quite lining up in the correct way. His eyes are bulgy, too big for his face, and his nose has a crooked little tilt to it. He looks worse for the wear, and I feel bad for him. There’s something just – isolating there. He’s lonely. But aren’t we all?

  I think about asking him what room he’s in, but I don’t. Perhaps after all that’s happened, I’m just afraid to get close to others. Perhaps it’s safer to keep to myself. Or perhaps, if I’m being honest, it’s the unsettling features, the way he fiddles in his pockets or the way he drags his foot on the floor. There’s something eerie in his movements, in his expressions, and most of all, in his smirk. Finally, he turns to leave, his leg dragging behind him. As he goes, he does something pretty commonplace around here, a sign of age or station or something else entirely, I don’t know.

  He begins to whistle. The tune is familiar, but his whistle is just slightly off-key, the minor notes he hits sinking into my soul. The whistle is faint in a breathy way that just isn’t quite right, that makes me want to put my hand over his mouth and snuff out the tune.

  Nonetheless, despite the breathiness and the tone-deafness of the man, it’s familiar. I recognise it, a song from my youth perhaps. I can’t place it, but I know it’s from a time that was so much simpler in many ways – but equally as frightening.

  Just before I sigh in relief because of his absence, he pauses in the doorway, turning to look at me with a toothy grin. For a moment, I think I must’ve misunderstood him because his words just don’t make sense.

  ‘You’re the one,’ he murmurs, a small chuckle escaping before he recommences whistling and continues on his way to deliver activity timetables to other rooms.

  Chapter 16

  I’m in the community living room, sitting on a derelict tan sofa while the Philip Woman rocks in the corner when it happens.

  I almost miss it, intent on earwigging on Vivienne’s whingeing about how I clearly rigged the morning game of bingo – she sits on the other sofa with her cronies. I’m mentally preparing my arguments and snide retorts when a hand touches my shoulder. I jump as my heart races wildly.

  ‘Mum, it’s me. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’

  I turn to see Claire, her dark hair pulled back in a way that emphasises her eyes. Her silky lips are stained a fabulous, subtle mauve colour that complements her complexion. I may be biased, but she is absolutely stunning in a way that is remarkable for her age. She would give women twenty years younger a run for their money. What was that ex-husband of hers thinking when he left? She’s striking.

  I stand, a grin painted on my face. ‘Oh, how lovely. I wasn’t expecting you,’ I say, noticing she’s carrying a bag with her. I knew Claire was busy with her travels, and to be honest, I hadn’t felt like talking to her the past day or so anyway. I was worried that my wavering voice would give it all away, and I didn’t want her worrying. No, it wouldn’t do for her to be worried.

  ‘I hadn’t heard from you, so when my business trip was wrapped up, I thought I’d pop in to see how you were doing. I even managed to stop and get your favourites from Sainsbury’s on the way,’ she beams, holding up the bag. My smile widens. How I do miss shopping there.

  ‘I just wanted to see if you are all right. You look wonderful, Mum. Really wonderful,’ she continues as I walk around the sofa to join her. I can feel Vivienne’s eyes lasering into my back. Vivienne coughs at Claire’s comment, and I turn and roll my eyes. That woman is a nuisance.

  ‘I see you’ve made some – acquaintances?’ Claire whispers as I lead her away from the community room, towards my room.

  ‘There are some characters here,’ I murmur, my eyes darting about, scanning for Oliver.

  ‘You know, Mum, the weather’s delightfully mild today. What do you say we wander out to the courtyard? There’s a lovely little sitting area.’

  ‘Perfect, dear,’ I reply, glad that I won’t have to show my daughter the half-empty room or divulge details of Rose’s death. Wouldn’t do for Claire to worry, after all.

  We take the shaky lift down after I assure Claire I don’t need a pullover. I practically hold my breath as the lift clunks to a grating stop, the screeching of the doors scratching my nerves once more. Claire chatters on and on about marketing projects and new clients. I beam with pride, chuffed to see my daughter so fulfilled, so successful. It’s all I ever wanted for her. It’s all I want now. As she talks, I realise without a doubt she’ll be okay, even after the divorce and everything she’s endured. She’s pieced together a new life, a new vision. She’s so young in the scheme of things. She has so much time.

  Thus, when we make it to the bench, the sun beaming down, I prod her with questions about herself, about the new restaurant near her house, about the latest BBC drama she’s been watching. So many times, I bite back the words I ache to get off my chest – about the odd notes, about Oliver, about how something about Rose’s death just doesn’t sit right. I want to tell her about the hints I’ve seen that the staff aren’t all professional. I want to tell her about Dorothy’s suspicions and about how Jones seems like a truly beastly bloke. I look at Claire’s beaming face, though, at her relief that she seems to believe I’m getting along just fine here – and I can’t ruin it. I can’t destroy the perfectly constructed painting she’s made that life here at Smith Creek Manor is pleasant and calm. I can’t obliterate her contented beliefs just to placate my whimsy to drop my terrors on her. I’m still her mother, after all. I need to protect her, always.

  Before we part ways by the statue at the draughty entrance on the ground floor – I assure her I can make it to my room just fine – she hugs me for a long time, her vibrant, edgy perfume bold and free, just like her, wrapping around me.

  ‘I’m chuffed you’re doing so well here. You have no idea what a relief it is to see you so content,’ she declares, flashing the wide, toothy grin that’s reminiscent of the earlier, more childish versions of Claire seared into my memories. Feeling nostalgic, I realise how many beautiful moments I’ve witnessed and what a true joy it’s been to see her grow up. I’m not afraid of ageing. I’m not afraid of this disease they say is eating away at my mind. But I am afraid that one day, I’ll forget how lucky I am to have her as a daughter. I’m terrified that at some point, those memories of her will fade into oblivion and there will be no one left to recall what a wonderful daughter she is. I shove the thought aside, its moroseness threatening my otherwise stable mood.

  I smile back at Claire, willing myself not to cry.

  ‘I love you,’ I say, glad that if nothing else, I’ve been able to deceive my daughter into thinking I’m fine, just fine, in this twisted place.

  If she only knew what really happens here. If she only knew who was here and how our tangled pasts could mean trouble in the future, I think, as I find my way to the lift and push the button to Floor Three. Then again, if only I knew what is really happening here and if Oliver’s presence is going to spell disaster for my final days.

  ***

  Charles Dickens. That’s it. That’s the book I’ve been looking for, I realise as my fingers trace the spines of some weathered books on the shelves of the reading room. A sad, forgotten lamp sits on the single desk in the corner, and I squint to read the names and titles. Despite the somewhat dusty quality to the room, it’s quiet and peaceful here in this forgotten locale of the floor. It’s like my hideout from the harsh truths and mysteries of Floor Three.

  I pull out A Christmas Carol, thinking about all those years that Charles would read it, chapter by chapter, to Claire every December. I can picture them tucked away on the sofa, Claire nestled into the strong frame of her father, his tired, stained hands holding the book after a long day at work. He would read to her the words she would eventually come to memorise.

  Good times. Lovely memories. Now, those moments are long gone, the stale stench of loneliness taking over instead. I wander to the chair that faces the brightly lit corridor, staring out into it as I hold the book, feeling the cover. I don’t want to r
ead. Just touching the cover is enough.

  I lean back, trying not to worry about what I’ll find in my room when I return. I try to just remember, to go back to those moments of joy while I still can. Visions of Charles and myself from our early years, from our years raising Claire, and from our years alone together in our older age all flood back. Tears cascade down. Why did you do this to me, Charles? Why did you leave me to face this all alone? I can’t do it anymore. I’m not strong enough or smart enough to figure out what’s happening. And, maybe in truth, a big piece of me doesn’t want to solve the mystery because the results could be too insidious.

  My fingers trace mindless patterns on the cover of the dusty book until I drift off, away, away, into a land of sleep and harmony, where the diabolical smell of urine and age doesn’t overpower all my senses. I drift off, my mind mercifully blank at last, the book still in the grip of my hands as if I’ll never quite let it go.

  ***

  When my eyes open, I try to take in my surroundings but I am confused. What time is it? Where am I? My eyes dart around, and I ascertain that I’m in the reading room. I thought the lamp was on, but it’s now turned off. Someone must have pulled the string on it while I was asleep. Or did I turn it off? I can’t remember. Goodness, I hate when I can’t remember. Does it matter? I try to think, think, think, willing my mind back. Did I turn that lamp off before deciding to take a nap? I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

  I give my eyes a moment to adjust before glancing around once more, calming the rising fears that I’m forgetting everything again. I look to see that there’s a book on the floor near my feet. Groaning, I lean over to retrieve it from the ground. Was I reading? I can’t remember. My mind is groggy. Maybe it’s late. I don’t know. I think I was reading.