Today People

by Barbara G. Tarn

He quickly recovered from his surprise, and invited his guests to sit down. He was completely in control again when he heard the never-forgotten name of the photographer – Pamela Lynch. Not exactly as he remembered her.

  She grinned at him, flattered by his interest, but with no hint of remembering who he was. Good. The Ghost of Christmas Past wouldn't reveal his secrets.

  "Tell me, how did you make it into the Forbes and Fortune millionaires list?" the journalist asked.

  Carl snapped out of memory lane and looked at him. "By working very hard and finding what's missing in today's world," he answered. "By taking risks, like all entrepreneurs."

  "Can you elaborate on that?"

  Carl smiled confidently. He was a winner today. He'd climbed the social ladder and was now his own boss, with a mansion and a thriving business. And he knew how to make more money.

  "What people need, want or look for, we create," he said. "I have researchers, programmers, in-coming call centers – everything you need, you can find through us, be it a pin or a Ferrari."

  "Could you tell me more about your origins – where you grew up, what studies..."

  Carl averted his eyes as his smile vanished. "Berkley University," he said a little bluntly. "The rest, I had in my blood. Started as assistant, ended up having my own company, then it started growing bigger."

  He hated talking about the past. His present was so bright – why linger on things that weren't important anymore?

  Pamela snapped a picture of him.

  "Is it true that you have a big mansion and are engaged to the heiress Vanessa Gold?" she asked.

  He looked at her before replying. She might have dyed her hair, but she hadn't changed much after all. Except for that hole in her memory regarding him, which wasn't too bad.

  "That's correct," he answered.

  "May I take pictures of you also at home?" She batted her eyelashes. "I bet you have a designer house..."

  Carl scoffed. "I called the best interior designer in town. I guess it's time to show it off a little."

  She giggled nervously before taking another picture of him. The dumb blonde routine didn't suit her – although her short memory span made her dumber than he remembered.

  He felt a tight ache at the center of his chest, but decided to ignore it. Not a good time to be emotional. Not with his past.

  "So, Mr. Martin, what are your best assets today?" the journalist asked, continuing his interview.

  "My company. My mansion. My fiancée. My yacht." He counted his blessings slowly on his fingers, savoring each of them. He turned a picture of him and Vanessa towards them, and they acknowledged the jackpot with a nod.

  "Any other hobbies?" the journalist asked.

  "I play golf and spend my vacations at sea."

  And I'm a good pretender. You'll never know what my true passion is – it doesn't suit my rich persona.

  "I'd love to picture you on your yatch!" Pamela gushed.

  "Sorry, that's off-limits." His little oasis away from life. Wouldn't even share it with Vanessa if he had to.

  "What is it called?" the journalist inquired.

  Carl stared at Pamela. "Thomas Scott Fiske."

  "Who's that?" she asked, puzzled. Gee, she'd really turned into a dumb blonde!

  "The founder of the American Mathematical Society."

  "Sounds strange for a yacht," the journalist commented.

  "I'm eccentric," he retorted. Because I'm rich. Once upon a time they called me "crazy" instead.

  People behaved differently around the wealthy. Carl wondered if the old Pamela would come out in a less-luxurious setting. After the interview, he gave her an appointment at the mansion with a half-formed idea of pursuing the past.

  She showed up more glamorous than ever and gushed about everything, snapping pictures of him in the various rooms, in the garden, by the pool.

  Then Pamela put away her camera and approached him with a flirtatious attitude – something he'd have died for so long ago.

  "How about dinner, Mr. Martin?" she suggested. "Or is Miss Gold jealous?"

  "She doesn't care," he answered, sinking his hands in his pockets and studying her. "And neither do you."

  "What?" Her eyes widened in surprise.

  "Why would you date me?" he asked bluntly.

  "Oh, Mr. Martin, I must admit I'm very attracted by gorgeous, rich men..." Batted eyelashes again. Dumb blonde was a real bitch. What happened to the pretty cheerleader? She seemed to have lost her brain during the years. Okay, he hadn't really fancied her because she was intelligent, but still... she wasn't this dumb either.

  He smiled and shook his head. "I appreciate the honesty. But I'm engaged."

  "It's only a dinner..." she pleaded.

  He gave her the once-over. "Well... why not."

  Dinner with a ghost. Considering how it had started way back when, it felt strange to be in reversed positions now. The restaurant was quiet, and her laughter sounded too loud as she tried very hard to impress him.

  The squeezing at the center of his chest came back, a discomfort that came and went more and more often lately. But again he decided to ignore it. He wouldn't let his past take him down. He'd live happily ever after, no matter what. He wasn't in love with Pam anymore.

  "To your beautiful fiancée." Pamela raised her glass of champagne for a toast. "When is the great day?"

  "Next month," he answered.

  "Come on, Mr. Martin, don't be so mysterious," she chided.

  "You used to call me Carl," he replied, tired of her forgetfulness.

  She stared at him in disbelief. "Do I know you?"

  He scoffed. "I asked you to the prom," he reminded her. "But you refused because I wasn't enough for you."

  "What... Oh my God!" Her eyes widened in recognition. "It is you! Wow!"

  "You never expected me to get this far, huh?" he said, a little sarcastic. "I guess you're too late to hit on me now."

  "Oh, Carl, we were in high school..." she protested.

  "Yeah, and I'd have died for you," he said sourly, averting his eyes. Back then she was less blonde, less glamorous and had the most beautiful smile in the world. That was the only thing that hadn't changed, but it wasn't enough anymore.

  "What can I say... we were both ugly ducklings!" She shrugged. "Can we make it up now that we're both swans?" Again the flirtatious look.

  "I don't think so," he answered, unimpressed.

  "Why not? It's good to change your mind about people, don't you think?"

  He shook his head. "It's been too long. Forget it, Pam, we're not meant to be."

  2.

  Mr. Gold flipped through the magazine until he reached the interview with Carl Martin. He looked closer at the pictures – at Carl's winning smile – and his heart swelled with pride. He knew the kid had it in him to make it.

  His face frowned, though. He wasn't going to show his real feelings.

  "I can't believe it!" he exclaimed in an outraged tone. He showed the magazine to his bored daughter, Vanessa, who sat on the couch next to his armchair, painting her nails. "He was my damn assistant! Who on earth does he think he is?"

  Vanessa didn't even look at the magazine. "The man I'm marrying next month," she said flatly. "He's a millionaire, Dad, he's not after my money."

  "He's after your youth!" Mr. Gold scoffed. "I sure hope you'll learn something from him!"

  "Like what?" Vanessa snapped, glaring at him.

  "Like standing on your own two feet! I sure hope he won't be over-protective like I've been with you."

  "Well, he's certainly not my dad," she said, scornful, blowing on her now perfectly red nails.

  "No, a husband should be something else." Mr. Gold put down the magazine to stare at her.

  She fanned herself with her hands, not looking him in the eyes with the same pout she had as a child.

  "Do you love him?" he asked bluntly.

  "We have plans," she answered with a shrug. "We want to have fun together and live happily ever after.
"

  "What about children?"

  "Not yet, Dad, I'm only twenty-four!" She snorted. "I want to live, you know?"

  "So you're marrying him because he will let you do what you want while I'm holding you back," he said, disappointed.

  She looked at him and changed her expression – now she was daddy's girl again. She got off the couch and climbed onto his lap to hug him.

  "You know I love you, Daddy, but I'm a grownup now," she chided, squeezing him tight.

  "You're a spoiled, very young grownup," he replied. "And I don't want you to get hurt."

  "I can defend myself, Dad." She pulled back to look him in the eyes with a frown. "Don't worry, I'm not Carl Martin's pawn – he is actually mine."

  "Really? And what game are you playing?" he asked, skeptical. He knew Carl Martin wouldn't be fooled by Vanessa. She was obviously not aware of who was in control. If he didn't think so highly of Carl, he'd forbid her to marry him.

  "The game of life," she replied, rising. She checked her nails. "Gotta go, Dad." She leaned to kiss his forehead. "See you later."

  She rushed out of the posh living room, followed by her father's stare.

  Mr. Gold shook his head and picked up the magazine again to read Carl's interview.

  ***

  Carl got out of his luxury car and walked to the observation point. The city literally lay at his feet – houses and skyscrapers, and in the background the sun shone on the ocean.

  Carl put his hand in the pockets of his Armani suit and inhaled the cool morning air. He was almost there. Twenty years spent climbing the goddamn ladder, but now he was a the top – and the whole city metaphorically belonged to him.

  "You're just a social climber, Carl!" his mother used to tell him. "They'll throw you back into the mud! Because mud is mud and won't turn into gold!"

  He was about to prove her wrong. He was the number one, his company thrived, and he was about to marry Gold – Vanessa wouldn't give him her family name, but he felt as if he'd turned into pure gold.

  His humble origins would soon vanish in his new glory. His triumph would annihilate the white trash he'd been – a rebel most people avoided back in high school.

  His interview was on the newsstands, he'd made the cover with one of Pamela's pictures. He doubted anyone would recognize him from his past – he kept his hair short and wore expensive suits, who would connect him to the long-haired teen with ripped jeans and T-shirts?

  "Excuse me, can you take a picture of us?"

  The female voice startled him and he focused on the woman about his age – a brunette with sky-blue eyes and very casual looks – who was offering him a camera.

  He noticed other tourists taking pictures and that the brunette was with a younger, pretty blonde who smiled, hopeful.

  Haughtily, Carl took the camera and snapped a picture of the two friends, then he handed back the camera.

  "May I?" the brunette asked. "You look great, may I take a picture of you?"

  He smiled against his will. "Sure."

  He posed in his suit, his winner look on.

  "Thanks. If you give me your card, I'll send you a copy," she said.

  "No need, thank you." He checked his Rolex. "Have to go."

  He went back to his car and left without looking back.

  He was almost late at the book signing he wanted to attend. He was the only suit standing in line, but he didn't care.

  Old Carl had been a sci-fi geek, and that was something he couldn't get rid of. He still loved reading and that author was one of his favorites – he couldn't pass up the opportunity to get a signed book.

  He left the bookshop holding the signed book like a trophy. Passing by a newsagent, he saw a copy of the magazine with Pamela's photo and stopped to stare at it.

  I've always hated being told what to do. Except you can't tell a ghost to shut up – it won't. It will keep screaming in your head until you listen.

  He sighed and resumed walking. I shouldn't have reminded Pamela of who I am. She hasn't talked to the tabloids yet, but still...

  He went back to the office. Vanessa had called, so he called her back. Nothing important as usual – some silly request. Vanessa was a spoiled young woman. But she liked older men enough to agree to play his game.

  He wanted to start reading the autographed book immediately, but put it away for the night, glad Vanessa had canceled their dinner.

  The phone rang, and his lawyer informed him of a paternity suit.

  "There's this woman, she wants you to have a DNA test to prove you're the father of her daughter who is now fifteen or something."

  "What?"

  "Do you know an Angela Byrne by any chance?"

  Why do ghosts show up all at the same time?

  "Andy, you're the lawyer, get rid of her," he snapped before slamming down the phone. "Damn!" he muttered.

  Suddenly, there was a pain in his chest. The pressure was much worse than it had been so far, and it occurred to him it might actually be a symptom of something else – again, something from his relentless past.

  "Hell, no!" he whispered, breathless.

  He panted in panic.

  Paul knocked and came in with some files as Carl winced in pain. His hand massaged his chest towards the left shoulder, where discomfort had spread. He tried to stand, but fell back on his chair, hyperventilating.

  "Carl, are you all right?" Paul's voice was slurred in his ears. He lost consciousness.

  3.

  Carl opened his eyes, still dazed and confused. Last thing he remembered was going back to the office with his trophy – the signed book – and here he was in a hospital room. What the hell happened?

  Then he heard voices coming from the corridor, through the open door.

  "A mild heart attack, he's young, he'll recover quickly." The man sounded like a doctor and he must be talking about him. Heart attack? Damn.

  "Thank you, Doctor." That was Paul's voice – so they were definitely talking about him. His assistant must have called the ambulance. "I told you it was nothing, Mr. Gold!"

  Damn, his ex-boss and future father-in-law was also out there? What about Vanessa?

  "Yeah, yeah, he better settle that paternity suit before he dies," Mr. Gold replied.

  Carl vaguely remembered Andy's call. But how did Mr. Gold find out about it? He obviously was still more powerful than him. Was he concerned for his daughter or what?

  "He needs rest now." The doctor again. "You might want to come back tomorrow."

  He heard them shuffle away.

  He sighed, touching his chest and left arm, scolding his body for failing him. We will survive. Hear me, heart? Don't give up on me now!

  The doctor came in – a middle-aged cardiologist with a gentle smile.

  "I see you're already awake. We keep you here for a check-up, just out of precaution."

  "Doctor, my father died of heart failure at forty-five," Carl admitted, eyes low. He might not want to talk about his past – burying it under his bright present – but if he wanted a future, he better say the important things.

  "Well, you're not that old yet, are you?" the doctor said, trying to reassure him.

  Carl gulped down his fear and shook his head. He was close, though. Turned forty already.

  The doctor smiled again. "You'll be all right. I hear you get married soon."

  "Yeah, but it's not easy when you have a lot of money. Everybody wants a piece of it."

  "Under some extra stress, huh? We'll keep you here for a few days, so you can be ready for your wedding."

  Carl smiled ruefully. His chest and arm still gave him some discomfort. "I have work to do," he said gloomily.

  "Well, take it easy," the doctor insisted. "You need to rest. That's why I'm keeping you here. We need to check what kind of scar your heart has."

  "Fine, I'll stay for a couple of days."

  "Five days."

  "Three, and that's final."

  The doctor shrugged. "It's your heart."


  Carl followed him with his eyes as he left, then looked outside of the window, frowning and massaging his chest.

  I thought I controlled my destiny. And what if I have done the wrong choices?

  A nurse came in.

  "Hello. Nice to see you again," she greeted with a smile. "Although, I'd rather have met you somewhere else."

  He stared at her, puzzled. Then he remembered – the brunette who had asked him to take a picture of her and her friend.

  "You work here?" he asked.

  She raised her eyebrows while she took his blood pressure. "What do you think?"

  "What's your name?"

  She looked him in the eyes as if to say "Don't you remember?" and then checked his blood pressure results.

  "Bonnie," she said flatly. "Apparently you worked too hard. Why don't you take a break?"

  Carl frowned. "I can't. I'm almost there."

  "Where?"

  "In ten days I'll marry a beautiful rich girl whose name I won't disclose..."

  She chuckled. "No need – it's in the tabloids, considering she's much younger than you!"

  "If you know, why do you ask?" he snapped.

  "I know who you are, Carl, but it doesn't mean I know what motivates you," she replied, serious now.

  "It's none of your business," he said, jarred by her lowered eyes and her use of his first name.

  "Of course. But you should try to take a break, if only for a month."

  "Who are you to tell me what I should do?"

  She picked up her stuff and stared at him, again with that "You really don't remember?" look.

  He averted his eyes, furious but too weak to move.

  "You've changed, Carl," she said. "Guess it's a perk of becoming a millionaire."

  He looked at her again, but she left without turning back. Her melancholy gave him a sense of déjà vu.

  And then he remembered. "Damn! Bonnie Doyle! Shit!"

  Another ghost. And he'd blamed Pamela for not remembering. He'd done the same with a former classmate.

  This is a nightmare! I don't want my past back!

  He touched his chest again, uncomfortable. He didn't want to die early like his father. And certainly not now that his past was trying to bring him down.

  ***