by Alice Bell
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I have no clue,” her eyes glistened. “I promise.”
I thought of Heather, how she always showed up, how her supernatural beauty broke through my defenses time and again, seducing me with what I couldn’t resist.
Pain struck at my back, like a sword between my shoulder blades. I gasped and Scarlett reached for my hand but I reeled away. Too many disjointed memories, like black wings, beat against my mind.
Was Heather the one who had kissed me under the starlight, breathing life into my dead body? Had she done it to Zadie too, the night Zadie disappeared?
Maybe Zadie was like me, walking the earth with no memory of what had happened to her. But Scarlett said Zadie had my obituary. At least, she remembered me. Just as I remembered her.
We would find each other again. We had to.
Maybe there is such a thing as fate, I thought.
ELEVEN
Scarlett
“Don’t go,” I said, but it was too late.
I sprang from the bed and ran to the attic window, dragging the sheet with me. I searched for Devon in the dim glow of the street lamp. Cold came through the thin pane of glass. I just needed to see his shape, the way he walked with his hands in his pockets, but he’d already disappeared.
I flipped the light switch and found drops of blood on the sheets. Proof he was real. And I was no longer a virgin. My grandmother and I had loved Gothic romances, where the heroines wore gloves and hats and had fainting sofas. If I was a Gothic heroine, I would be ‘a woman’ now and my story would end with a kiss and the promise of undying love.
Undying. Undead.
Anything supernatural in those stories—a haunted attic, a ghost floating around the woods—was explained in the end. Ghosts were escaped lunatics and haunted attics contained illegitimate children or mad wives.
I went downstairs, wrapped in the sheet.
I put on a black satin gown and Lou Reed on the record player. I poured a shot of Seagram’s. The time was 1:07 a.m. and I rolled eleven on my lucky dice. It was my favorite number, so I said a prayer… for myself, like the self-absorbed person described in my case file. “Patient is overly emotional and yet emotionally shallow.” I prayed I would see Devon again.
Where did he go?
I tried to imagine him going home but he always seemed to disappear into thin air. And I couldn’t imagine where home might be for someone like Devon.
I pressed my fingers to my eyes. Sparks danced, like shooting stars. When the needle bumped the end of the record, the hum of the kitchen appliances got louder.
I had another shot of whisky. The world spun too fast and I spun with it.
“Patient lives in a romantic fantasy world and becomes hostile when confronted with reality.” I wasn’t even sure if it was my file or my mother’s and I couldn’t remember how I’d come to read something so confidential.
You don’t want to end up like your mother.
I raced upstairs and jerked open the drawer where I’d hidden the Lexapro. My hands shook. The childproof cap defied me. With a cry, I threw the plastic bottle across the room. It bounced off the wall and rolled across the floor.
I sat on the edge of the bed and closed my eyes and thought of Devon’s eyes. The first time I saw his picture on that torn piece of paper, I thought he looked like a dark angel, the person who would carry you to heaven.
Devon
I went to the twenty-four hour coffee shop near my building. It was obviously a scene for the adolescent crowd too young to get into the clubs. A couple of girls with dyed red hair occupied a booth. They looked like twins, dressed in matching Ramones T-shirts and plaid skirts, pink knee-high socks. They reminded me of Scarlett.
I ignored their stares and strode past them to one of the computers in the back.
Occasionally they giggled. Their energy was intense, aimed at me like laser beams. It raised the hair on the back of my neck. I realized I could get a charge without having to interact with them at all. It was an interesting discovery, though, at the moment, I was too preoccupied to consider just how interesting.
I started my search with Heather Gosling. After several variations on her name, with no results, my suspicions were confirmed. She didn’t exist in the ordinary realm. If she did, she would be the queen of selfies.
A more detailed search, combined with Devon Slaughter, brought up the incident in Nicaragua. I read the article quickly, skimming over certain details I didn’t want carved into my immortal memory.
Heather had slipped off the grid but she hadn’t been reported missing and she didn’t have an obituary. Where was she?
After last night’s grueling trip down memory lane, I couldn’t bring myself to look up my parents. I wanted to stay in shape, at the height of my supernatural ability. I couldn’t risk getting sick again.
I typed in Zadie’s name and found she had a fan page on Facebook, along with a hotline set up for information on her disappearance. Tips came in the first few months but the line had gone defunct. People still posted to her page, commemorating her memory on the anniversary of her disappearance. They sent virtual flowers.
I clicked on a link to an article posing a kidnapping theory. It was the end of the road. I couldn’t pull up any more information. There was nothing to be found concerning any visits to mental hospitals. And yet the fact that Scarlett had seen Zadie at whatever psychiatric hospital she’d gone to was one of the few things that made sense. If Zadie had amnesia, like me, she might have gone there for help.
I looked up psychiatric hospitals in the area and found only one—Coffeen Sanitarium. I stared at the pictures on their website and tried to imagine Zadie walking through the big double doors.
Did she have bits and pieces of who she had been before, like I did? She had at least known her name.
As I dredged up memories of Zadie in Nicaragua, a thick confusion came over me. I shook it off, and googled Scarlett’s full name as it had appeared on her driver’s license. It came up right away that she taught at a private academy. I gazed at her bio photo that was more like a mugshot. She stood in front of a chalkboard holding a copy of Wuthering Heights and grimacing. She was so awkward. The picture did nothing to capture her fragile beauty.
I looked for documents on Scarlett that linked her to the sanitarium. No results, which didn’t surprise me. But there had to be something useful I could get to. I started typing, delving into Scarlett’s college records, which led me to her birthplace. She’d been born in a small town in northern California.
The red-haired girls behind me tittered. I glanced over my shoulder and found them leaning across the table, whispering to each other. I turned back to the computer.
After a few more minutes, my search for Scarlett Rain ended in a three year old weather report. Even the search engine seemed frustrated. It asked me, “Did you mean India Scarlett Glaw?” I thought it was a leap but I clicked ‘yes’ anyway.
Page 1, Article 1: On Wednesday, India Scarlett Glaw was found not guilty of the murder of Javier Belmonte by reason of insanity. On the afternoon of July 11, deputies rushed to 104 Park Place, the residence of Javier Belmonte, after getting reports of yelling inside and possible gun shots. When they arrived, they discovered Belmonte shot three times in the chest.
Belmonte, a local artist, was severely wounded and later died of his injuries.
India Glaw, spotted entering the residence earlier in the day, was arrested twenty minutes later on Delta Avenue in the Café Armonde, where she was ordering an espresso. The 31-year old admitted to shooting Belmonte but has not said why. She has been in and out of mental institutions for much of her life and after Wednesday's ruling will once again be institutionalized.
The decision outraged Belmonte's family. “I don’t think she's mentally ill, I think she’s evil,” said Marie Logsdon, Belmonte's wife, who was separated from him at the time of the murder. Logsdon claimed Glaw was the reaso
n for their separation.
Prosecutors say it was a tough decision, but the experts who examined Glaw determined she was insane. She will be committed for up to life and they do not anticipate she will be released.
I skimmed down the rest of the page but the other articles weren’t related.
On page two I found the headline: Victim’s Family Avenged—Murderess Dies of Pneumonia in Mental Hospital. I recognized the face in the black and white photo. India Scarlett Glaw was the same woman in the paintings in Scarlett’s hallway. She must be Scarlett’s mother, I thought. So Scarlett had changed her last name. Who could blame her?
“Excuse me,” one of the red-haired girls sidled up. When I met her gaze, she blushed. “Are you an actor?” she said.
I raised an eyebrow. Her blush went from cute to puce but she wasn’t deterred. “You look like McGregor James,” she said.
I enjoyed her elevated heart rate, the feel of her young pulse racing in my veins. “He’s the sexiest man alive,” she said. “For real. Like in People magazine.”
And I’m the sexiest man not alive.
She seemed mystified when I showed no recognition. I gave her a slow seductive smile, just for kicks.
Outside on the street, I cast a glance through the window and caught the two of them hurrying to the door. I let them follow me for a few blocks. They were noisy—tripping and laughing. It was hard to believe they didn’t think I’d notice.
At the bridge I sped up, moving faster than the human eye could see.
TWELVE
Devon
I borrowed a Ferrari from the blonde who took me for a midnight swim in her pool. I lifted the keys from her counter on my way out the door. The car was silver, as sleek and deadly as a bullet. There was a chance she’d never notice it missing and there was a chance I wouldn’t make it past the city limits before the cops were on me.
But the drive across the desert was uneventful. I passed only a few towns once I got outside the city limits. I felt the temperature drop when I climbed into the mountains. The waning moon slid in and out of the pine forest.
For miles, after descending, I drove alongside the wide dark Columbia at 160 mph. On a stretch with no other car in sight, I hit 200. The Ferrari didn’t break a sweat.
Dawn broke just as I reached the Bridge of the Gods. I scrounged up a dollar to pay the toll and went across slowly, glancing down into the river below. I was on the familiar side of the Cascades, nearing home.
I was driving beside the Columbia again, only this time I was on the other side, in Washington. I turned onto a narrow road. The old lodge, from my summer camp days, rose up in front of me. Trees towered and swayed in the breeze. Back in here, it was still dark. During camp, every morning, we used to swim to the dock in the middle of the lake to get to the sun.
My hands clenched on the steering wheel.
I knew the regular staff lived in town during the off season but I figured a maintenance crew must come regularly. I’d have to hide the car. I shifted down and bumped off the road. I felt the tires grinding into soft dirt. If I got stuck, I’d just pull the car out with my supernatural strength.
An image of Scarlett chewing her nails and watching me, as I changed her flat, reared in my mind. I felt a twist of longing for her. She struck me as even more innocent in the light of what I was learning about myself.
I headed down the trail. The early morning air was cool. There was a hunter’s shack a few miles past where the trail ended. I’d sleep there until nightfall.
* * *
The shack had been recently swept and a fresh supply of canned food was stacked on the rickety table pushed into the corner. Wood was in the fireplace for the next visitor. I lay down on the cot.
Daylight brightened the sky through the windows and the world was utterly quiet. I slept.
When I woke, it was the dark of night. I made sure the door was shut and went down to meet the trail, passing by the log cabins that were once so familiar.
I crossed the tennis courts, half looking for a ball to lob. I gazed up at the night sky, closed in by trees. It was strange to stare into the vast universe with my telescopic vision. Sometimes I got the feeling I was spinning through space and infinity.
I tried to remember Heather at thirteen. I remembered how she had sparked my teenaged lust but I couldn’t recall much else about her. Had I ever known her on any deeper level? What had happened to all of us?
The car was still in its hiding place. No flats.
I drove back across the Bridge of the Gods and headed for the city. The gorge was dark and mysterious and wet. When I neared Portland, lights glittered and multiplied, smearing across the windshield. The wipers made a steady rhythm.
The next bridge I crossed was Burnside. It spit me out downtown. I passed by Powell’s City of Books and got another stab of nostalgia. I hoped these flashes of emotion meant I’d claw my way out of what I’d become.
Sooner or later, something has to give.
I went the long way around to avoid driving past my old neighborhood. I imagined walking through the front door of my childhood home, waving, “Hey, Mom, hey Dad,” like a scene straight out of Stephen King’s mind.
I went to Heather’s house first, or the house where Heather had lived when we were kids. It was at the end of a quiet street where trees shielded the sedate lawns.
The house was a mid-century modern and I did a drive-by to scope out the scene. In the circular drive there was a mini-van parked behind a Suburban. A pink child’s jacket lay on the lawn under a bicycle whose rider had obviously dropped it in the yard before hurrying inside.
I frowned. When Heather had lived here with her mother the house and lawn were immaculate. Now the gray house needed a new paint job and the big vista windows were murky. Surely, another family had moved in. And yet, I felt a prickle along my spine.
I parked down the street, got out, and glanced around. The rain had turned into a light mist. The streetlamps were tall and cast a yellow light. A sign said, ‘Neighborhood Watch,’ but the houses were far back, sheltered by trees, and it was late. I doubted anyone watched.
I climbed up the hill, becoming invisible as I went.
From the distance of the next yard, I could look into the kitchen. A woman sat at the counter. She was reading Vogue, turning the pages slowly, no wedding ring, and smoking a cigarette. I smelled vanilla in the tobacco.
I looked closely at the woman. She had nice even features but her lovely chin disappeared into flesh. Her long hair, falling around her shoulders, was dark and shiny, the same color Heather’s had been. I was pretty sure I was looking at Heather’s mother. Despite her weight gain, she had aged well.
Many things went through my mind. I had the terrible urge to talk to the woman I remembered as Mrs. Gosling. I wanted to sit next to her and smoke one of her vanilla cigarettes. I knew I could learn something about myself by listening to what she believed had happened to her daughter.
But I held back, afraid of being recognized. I decided to wait for the right moment to slip inside and scanned what I could see of the room, looking for a security system. There it was, the tell-tale pad with its glowing keyboard.
While I waited, I watched Heather’s mother. She ground out her cigarette in a glass ashtray, then stood up and shook out her hair. She wore tight jeans. Like Heather, she had an hourglass shape. When she turned, her large breasts jiggled, braless inside a silk shirt.
She cracked the window, the one I was looking through, and waved her hands, obviously trying to fan away the smoke. I thought of the child’s jacket on the lawn. She couldn’t have grandkids. Heather had been an only child, like me. I supposed she could be a great aunt or the coat belonged to a neighbor kid. Maybe she babysat.
She moved out of view, into the next room, leaving the window open. People were so careless.
I went to the sliding glass door and gave a quick jerk on the handle, breaking the plastic lock. Another more forceful jerk split the stopper.
The door slid open and I paused to listen before stealing inside. The living room had a square stone fireplace and the same bohemian style I remembered.
Cocking my head, I heard movement down the hall. I recognized the soft brushing of cloth, the sound of a zipper opening.
In the wide hallway, there was a skylight overhead and I glanced up at the black sky. You hardly ever saw the stars here.
She was in her bedroom, undressing and I leaned against the doorframe to watch her. She pulled her shirt over her head. Her back was to me and my eyes moved down as she wriggled out of her jeans. A black butterfly emerged, faded.
Heather and her mother have matching tattoos?
Devon, you fucking idiot. That’s not Heather’s mother… it’s Heather.
She whirled around and stared right at me. It took all my strength to stay invisible. Her breath caught, and then her gaze moved past me.
She snatched her robe off the bed and hurriedly wrapped it around her. Her poor heart hammered like a racehorse. Her intuition had kicked in, warning her of something she couldn’t see, something she could never comprehend.
When she rushed into the hall, I stepped out of her way. She would find the broken lock and she’d damn well better call the police.
I slipped out the front. Heather had nothing to do with what had happened in Nicaragua. She was just a woman approaching forty. It was probably her kid’s coat on the lawn. How could I have been so stupid? If there was one thing I should have figured out by now—I knew nothing.
The tires of the Ferrari squealed. I hit the freeway headed east. The car ate up the miles and the hole inside me opened wider.
Scarlett
At nine to four, I had my diary open, the one I promised to write in, along with the workshop girls. I stared at the blank pages. There was a rushing in my ears, like hearing the ocean inside a seashell. I couldn’t shape the thoughts drifting through my mind like dust motes. Why wouldn’t the words come? Panic rose in my throat. When I stood up, I got dizzy and grabbed the corner of the desk.