About Face

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About Face Page 6

by Fern Michaels


  She huddled in the dark on the closet floor. Jackets touched her painfully thin shoulders as sobs racked her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. He promised he wouldn’t hurt her again. Momma saw them this time. She just looked at her in that way she always did, especially when she had that glass. She said it was water but she knew better, she was nine years old, not a kid anymore. Remembering the last time was enough. Rubbing her sore thighs, she hiccuped and wiped another tear from her face. He promised he would do worse next time. He said that the last time, too, she remembered. Still, she wasn’t about to take a chance. What he did was bad enough. What could be worse? He was gone. The back door slammed, and she heard Momma holler. That meant she could come out of her hiding place. Opening the door a narrow crack, she peered through the slit of light. From out of nowhere a hand reached for her, covering her mouth, trapping her scream.

  “No!” Casey ran from the window to the door, yanking at it, only to find it stuck. Her desire to escape was so strong, nothing mattered. Not the woman who stood staring at her as if she’d just seen a ghost, and she wasn’t sure she hadn’t. It didn’t matter, she had to leave. Flora’s bantering became a shout as she continued to pound on the jammed door. Flesh met with wood, her fists scraped and raw, she slowed her beat to a soft knock. Overpowered by defeat, she slumped to the floor, rivulets of tears streaming down her pallid face. Weak and confused, she focused her red-rimmed eyes on the scene around her.

  Flora stood in the middle of the room, apparently speechless, for once. She looked at Casey as if she had gone mad. Maybe she had, or was going to. Was this the beginning of a breakdown?

  The sun that had taken her hostage minutes before was now slinking behind a dark cloud, out of sight, however temporary. She remembered being drawn to the warmth of the rays. Then she felt as if she were being sucked through a straw. Then nothing. Like an epidemic, a black fear rooted itself, coursing through her veins, resting heavily in her heart. She began to shake as fear racked her body. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tried to control the tremors, but it was useless. Like an unwelcome visitor, terror took hold of her and implanted itself, daring her to defy it.

  “Casey! What’s the matter, girl, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Flora was back in action, her chatter welcome. Casey wouldn’t have to think. Reaching behind to massage the stiff muscles of her neck, all she wanted to do was lie down. Inching her way up, using the door for support, she stood and wiped her tear-stained face. Embarrassed at her display of craziness, Casey cleared her throat before speaking.

  “I’m sorry, Flora. I don’t know what happened. One minute I was admiring the gardens, the next, I’m beating on the door. You must think I need to go back where I came from. I feel like a fool.” She brushed away another tear and ran a hand through her short ebony curls.

  “Well, it’s no wonder, dear. You ain’t had a proper home in ten years. And then all of a sudden here you are”—she thrust her small arms out—“in this mausoleum. It’s enough to make me cry sometimes. Though I can’t understand why the door wouldn’t open. Must be stuck, the humidity does that sometimes. In all its splendor, Swan House is still just an old house. I’ll tell Mr. Worthington; he’ll see to it.”

  Casey thought Swan House could never be just an “old house” and told Flora so.

  “That’s true, but like all homes, it comes equipped with its share of problems. I think I hear Blake. Do you want to freshen up before you come downstairs?” Flora slapped her forehead before she continued. “Of course you do! Mrs. Worthington purchased some things for you. I hope the sizes are right. She does have a way with clothes, that much I’ll give her. Let me see.” Flora walked to the end of the room and opened mirrored doors, revealing rack after rack of clothes.

  Shelves piled high with sweaters, shoes, nightclothes, hats, and some things she wasn’t close enough to see. Casey walked over and stood by the door, waiting, as Flora surveyed the contents.

  “I guess she did you justice, after all. I wasn’t sure she would go all out.”

  Casey stood inside the closet and came back out, speechless. She pointed to the racks of clothes, then her slim finger tapped her chest. Eyes as wide as saucers, she viewed the contents again.

  “These are mine?” she whispered.

  “It appears that way, Missy. Tell you what, I’ll run a bath while you enjoy looking through the clothes. Pick something real nice out, you’ll want to look your best at dinner tonight. Mr. Worthington can’t wait to meet his daughter.”

  “Sure, uh . . . okay.”

  Casey entered the closet. Her room at the hospital would have fit in there. Twice. She smiled. Talk about going from one extreme to the other. She walked the length of the closet, running her hand along the tops of the dresses, blouses, jackets, and all the finery that was hers. Never having had such a wardrobe, or if she had, she had no memory of it, she felt like a kid at Christmas. She pulled a peach-colored silk blouse from the hanger and held it in front of her. Matching silk pants, along with satin slippers, completed the outfit. A note pinned to the blouse told her matching underthings were in a drawer at the end of the closet. Was this what it was like to be rich? She knew she had never lived this way before. Finding the drawer, she opened it. Expecting the undergarments to be on top of the pile, she searched through the soft, ruffled finery. For a moment, she felt like she was prying, then remembered, these were her things. In all the silk and lace she felt a sheet of something. Cardboard? She was sure it wasn’t supposed to be there; after all, someone had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange the feminine, delicate underclothes in just the perfect order. Probably left over from a packet of panty hose. Pulling it out from under the soft pile, Casey saw that it was a photo, with handwriting on the back. Not wanting to be nosy, but wanting to return it to the rightful owner, she read the childishly scrawled message on the back:

  To The Best Mom Ever,

  Set this on your bedside and

  think of me in your dreams!

  Happy faces were scribbled around the message. Who wrote this? she wondered, as she turned it over in her hand. It was a picture of a young boy, his age unclear. She turned the picture over again. In the bottom right corner, a signature was barely visible. Casey didn’t see how she’d missed it before. Walking over to the window, she held the photo up to the light, trying to read the name.

  Turning the picture around for another perspective, she stopped. Leaning closer to the window, she could barely make out the letters. R-N-I-E.

  She looked at the photo again, hoping to jar her memory. The face that stared back at her wasn’t familiar to her at all. Even though the picture looked innocent, somehow she knew it was evil. Whoever this person was, she sensed there was evil in his soul.

  A flash of red distracted her from the picture. Shaking her head, she went back inside the closet. As she laid the picture on the chest, a hot spear of pain rammed into the back of her head. She cradled her head in her hands, wincing. She dropped onto the floor, writhing in agony.

  “Casey?”

  As quick as the pain came, it was gone. Had someone called to her?

  Dear God, what was happening to her? She searched the room. She was alone. There were no voices. First she was swallowed up by light, then the pain that surged through her head, powerful, almost electric. Maybe she shouldn’t have come home so soon. If that was how her memory was going to come back, she wasn’t sure she wanted it.

  That smile. There was something familiar about the picture. She looked at it again. The smile was a smirk, almost hateful. Why was this familiar to her now? She looked at the letters again. R-N-I-E.

  Ronnie.

  The clerk at Haygood’s had mentioned the name Ronnie. Was it supposed to mean something to her?

  She threw the photo on the floor as if she had been burned. The name spewed from her lips like spit. Had someone placed this evil picture, knowing she would find it?

  And just who was Ronnie?

  Chapter 5<
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  Casey put the picture in the pocket of her dress, intending to give it to Flora later. Flora might know who the boy in the picture was. She decided there was nothing she could do about it right away anyway, so she gathered her underclothes from the drawer and went back to the bedroom.

  Flora was in the bathroom, preparing her bath and talking at the same time. Not wanting to yell, she stood in the doorway, watching as the little woman put out big, fluffy towels and fragrant soaps on a padded stool next to the tub.

  The opulence amazed her. A spa-sized tub that looked as if it would hold a dozen people filled one-half of the room. On the opposite wall, a vanity area covered the other half. Shades of pale pink, cream, and gold covered the remaining walls. Stacks of towels, thick terry robes, and bars of soap in the same matching shade as the wallpaper were stacked in a glass cabinet next to the pedestal sink. The commode was hidden behind a cream-colored wall, along with a glass-enclosed shower. Feathery plants occupied empty corners. Casey couldn’t wait to sink her stiff muscles in the warm, scented water.

  Casey took a bar of soap from the basket placed at the foot of the spalike tub and inhaled the scent of gardenia. Her favorite. How did I know that? Dr. Macklin said smell could be one of the triggers in gaining her memory back.

  “Flora, who picked out these soaps?” She continued to inhale the floral scent.

  “Mrs. Worthington, I believe. You don’t like it?” Flora placed a terry robe on the stool by the dressing table.

  “As a matter of fact, it’s my favorite. I just wondered who knew it.”

  “Eve loves to shop. She must have remembered it was your favorite. A mother knows those things.”

  Casey placed the soap on the edge of the tub when she remembered the photograph. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled the picture out and looked at it one last time before handing it over to Flora.

  “I found this. Do you know who it belongs to?”

  Flora took the picture from her and looked at it. With her clear blue eyes downcast, she muttered something unintelligible and hurried back to the bedroom, stuffing the picture in her apron pocket.

  Even having known Flora for less than two hours, Casey knew her behavior wasn’t normal. For two solid hours the little woman had done nothing but chat, offer friendly advice, and an opinion or two. Now her behavior was the complete opposite. And she hadn’t answered Casey’s question.

  She went to the bedroom and found Flora in the closet, searching the drawers.

  Not wanting to startle her, Casey said in a soft whisper, “Flora?”

  The spritelike woman spun around, knocking a shoe box off the shelf.

  Casey could see Flora’s pulse pounding in her neck. She was afraid! Had the picture frightened her?

  “Oh my . . . I’m sorry, dear, I . . . you surprised me.” Running her hands over her starched apron, Flora edged out of the closet and hurried back to the bathroom to turn off the water.

  Casey followed, her question still unanswered.

  “Who is that person in the picture, Flora? I seem to remember, yet I can’t actually place him, only that there is an air of . . . evil about him.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I have.”

  “Well you know what they say about feelings, get one, go with it. Ask your momma, she’ll tell you.”

  “Why do I feel like you’re avoiding my question? Is the identity of the boy in the photograph a big secret? I’ve barely been home three hours, and I feel like a zombie. I know nothing, I don’t even remember this”—she whirled around the bathroom, her hands gesturing out to her sides—“monster of a house. I’m being sucked up by light. I’m telling you, it’s straight out of a Stephen King novel!” Who was Stephen King? “Then to top it all off, my head feels like a split melon, and now, you won’t even tell me who’s in the picture. It’s too much.” Casey walked to the bed and plunked down, not caring what Flora thought of her at the moment. She was sick of being treated like an idiot. Just because she had no memory of her life beyond ten years ago didn’t mean she was crazy. They had thought that at first. All those fine doctors in that fine hospital. That much she did remember. But never once in all her years at the hospital did they ever tell her exactly why she was there, only that a tragedy had occurred causing her to lose her memory.

  “I’m not avoiding your question. I was instructed by Mrs. Worthington not to answer any questions regarding your past. She said she would tell you what you needed to know. I understand what a confusing time this is for you, dear. As much as I hate to, I do have orders to follow, and if I’m wantin’ to keep my job, I have to do as the missus instructs.”

  Casey was ashamed of her outburst. The last thing she wanted to do was cause trouble for the one person who’d actually treated her like a normal human in the past few hours. She eased off the edge of the bed and placed an arm around Flora.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I don’t usually vent my frustration that way. Or I don’t think I do. The past ten years are a blur sometimes. I should know better. I feel like I’m on a mental merry-go-round, and it’s spinning faster and faster.”

  Flora patted her on the back as if she were a child. Taking her by the hand, Flora led her into the steamy, gardenia-scented bathroom.

  “I think a hot soak will do you more good than anything. I’ll have a snack ready for you when you’re finished, and we’ll forget this conversation ever took place. Now enjoy your bath.”

  Flora swished out of the room, their conversation over. And still Casey had no idea why seeing the boy in the picture had upset her so. His identity remained a mystery.

  Casey removed the rough brown shift and looked for the hamper. Hidden underneath the vanity, she found a small wicker basket. Wadding the garment in a ball, she stuffed the ugly thing in the trash, glad she would never have to wear the disgusting rag again.

  Easing herself into the deep, warm, scented tub, Casey sighed and realized it was the first real bath she’d had in ten years. She smiled, thinking of the cool, short showers she was accustomed to. She could get used to this.

  She found several disposable razors, along with an aloe-based shaving cream. Shaving her legs was prohibited at the hospital, for fear that the patients would try to commit suicide—like she would kill herself with a Bic. This was an unexpected treat. Lathered with the thick cream, Casey delighted in the silken feel of her skin as the razor glided over her long legs. Uncommon as it was for her to be shaving her legs, she felt she had done it in the past and would continue to enjoy this small pleasure in the future.

  With her neck fitted in the bath pillow, Casey closed her eyes. For the first time in a long time, she was totally relaxed without the benefit of drugs or the supposed hypnosis sessions with Dr. Macklin. Not giving much thought to what she would do once she arrived home, Casey realized she couldn’t stay in limbo forever. What exactly had she done in the past? Finding out had to be her first priority. She had to, so she could move forward. Whatever had happened, was it so terrible that she could never live it down? She couldn’t live with Eve indefinitely. She needed a life of her own. And besides, what did she really know about her mother? The few times she had visited the hospital were a blur. A peck on the cheek, followed by a whiff of some exotic perfume, then she was gone. Though her mother never failed at each visit to ask her the same question Dr. Macklin, Mr. Bentley, the director at the hospital, and Sandra all asked her on a daily basis: “Remember anything today?” For ten long years. Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year.

  Wrinkled and baby pink, Casey stepped out of the deep tub and pulled her foot back before she stepped on the thick carpet. Placing a hand towel on the floor to prevent a wet mess, Casey remembered that she didn’t have to do that. Not sure that she would ever get used to the luxuries in her new home, she stood on the small towel and rubbed herself dry.

  Tempted by the array of bottles displayed on the vanity, Casey spotted a bottle of her favorite gardenia-scented lot
ion and proceeded to slather the pleasant-smelling cream all over her body.

  At first she felt a slight sting, then a prick, as if she were jabbed with a needle. Another sharp prick. Then another. Casey was careful when she’d shaved. She hadn’t felt any of the prickly sensations as the razor skimmed over her legs. She poured a generous amount of lotion into her palm and began rubbing the cool cream over the backs of her arms.

  “Ouch! Damn, what the . . .” Casey stood in front of the mirror, dropping her towel to the floor. She stared at her reflection in the steamy glass.

  Thin rivulets of blood snaked down her legs. Turning to the side she saw streaks of red surfacing on the backs of her arms, like tiny spider veins that had somehow surfaced to the top of her skin.

  With the washcloth she had just used, Casey dabbed at the blood on her legs and arms. Tiny cuts dotted her arms and legs. She’d been careful with the razor. And that still didn’t explain the cuts on her arms.

  Casey wiped the foggy mirror and reached for the switch to turn on the lights. On closer examination she saw that her arms were covered with tiny, diamondlike cuts. She ran her hand along the back of her arm. Several minuscule objects jutted out from under her tender skin.

  She pulled the drawers open, slamming them one after the other until she found what she was searching for. Tweezers. She leaned into the well-lit mirror and, with a steady hand, plucked the glistening objects from her arm. Tiny pools of blood channeled the length of her arms.

  Nude and covered with blood, Casey sat on the counter and continued plucking the tiny slivers from her body. Slim, red ribbons inched their way down her legs, splattering the carpets. Minutes ago her concern had been keeping the floors dry. Now, as she dripped blood on the cream-colored rug, that was the least of her concerns.

 

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