The Surviving Trace

by Calia Read

  A handsome man wearing a black waistcoat walks around the car. He offers his arm to the woman, and the two of them walk toward the house. I watch as they walk up the flight of steps and disappear from view.

  My hand drops to the side, and the curtain falls back into place. Turning in a circle, I drag my hands through my hair. What is happening? And how do I stop it?

  The simple explanation is I’m dreaming. Yes, that’s it. This is only a dream. But never have I experienced a dream so… real. So visceral. I brush my fingers across the surface of the desk and shiver.

  I keep moving because if I stop, I’ll crumble. And if I crumble, I don’t know what will happen. I walk toward the door and stop short once I see the silver ornamental doorknob with a lock that probably requires a skeleton key to open.

  Briefly, I shut my eyes and whisper, “This is only a dream. This is only a dream.”

  Carefully, I open the door and peek out into the hall.

  At first, it appears to be a regular hallway. The same hardwood floors run the length of the hall. Wall sconces emanate a soft glow. The walls are covered in Fresco damask wallpaper. Although the hallway is empty, I’m still hesitant as I step out of the room. The sounds of faint laughter, the same sound I heard in my living room, echo around me.

  I step forward, using the laughter as my guide. The hallway makes a sharp right, opening to what appears to be a foyer. The damask wallpaper is gone, replaced by cream-colored walls and marble floors so clean, I can see my reflection. From here, I have a bird’s-eye view of the front door. I freeze as another couple walks through the front door. This pair is in the same fashion as the couple I saw outside.

  The woman’s jewels sparkle as she smiles at whatever the man escorting her has said. They haven’t noticed me, and that gives me the courage to creep forward. If this is a dream—which it has to be—then what’s stopping me from following them? I grow bolder and am almost to the staircase when one of the men standing by the front door sees me. I freeze. He freezes. We stare at each other. I wait for him to say something. His eyes widen imperceptibly. Then he acknowledges me with a slight dip of his chin before he directs his attention to the front door. It’s almost as if I don’t exist.

  See? my mind whispers. All a dream.

  Should I go forward or walk straight back to the room I came from? I battle with myself for a moment, but ultimately, my curiosity gets the better of me. I step out of the shadows and walk into the massive foyer as though I own the place.

  What I see is extraordinary. It’s nothing but opulence. From the ornate ceilings that soar past the second floor and have such beautiful detail, they look as though they belong in a palace, to the Baccarat chandelier hanging directly above me. Wainscoting lines the walls. Corinthian columns six feet high flank the closed doorways around me.

  For me, what steals the show is the double curved staircase behind me. I turn and gape at it. The steps are marble. The iron railings are topped with a wooden banister that gleams in the light.

  Lingering on the second floor are a handful of men and women quietly conversing.

  “Ah, there’s our hostess!”

  The source of the voice is a blond male with slicked-back hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He leans against the mahogany banister. He has a cocky grin, revealing he’s used to female attention.

  I twist around to make sure he isn’t talking to someone else, but no, he’s coming straight toward me.

  “Are you gonna join everyone or hide all night?” he asks.

  “Ah… uh…”

  He stops in front of me and takes a sip of his drink while he waits for me to answer. Frantically, I try to think of how I know this man, but I’m drawing blanks. After a few seconds pass and I still don’t reply, the man gestures for me to go before him up the stairs.

  Giving the men behind me one last glance, I follow this stranger. Might as well. I planned on going up here anyway. My hand curves around the railing. For a second, I feel a trickle of excitement rush through me. It’s almost as though I’m touching something, experiencing something I shouldn’t be. That’s the beautiful thing about dreams. They create a scene you would typically never have a chance of encountering and make it come to life.

  “Everyone has been searchin’ for you. Especially me,” he says in an intimate voice. Once we reach the top of the stairs, he stops me and leans in. “We aren’t supposed to meet until later, but if you’re ready, so am I.” A wolfish smile spreads across his face.

  What the hell is this guy talking about? My feelings must’ve been written across my face because he steps back with a small laugh, completely unruffled.

  “You need a drink,” he announces soundly before he stalks across the room.

  Hesitantly, I step forward. A dense cloud of smoke swirls in the air, mixing with the scent of women’s perfume. Light from the chandeliers reflects off champagne glasses.

  Everyone around stops and stares at me. I glance down at myself and realize I’m still wearing the dress and black tights I wore to dinner. The only thing missing is my sky-high heels. Compared to everyone’s gowns and jewels and tuxes, I seem practically naked.

  I smile nervously and try to find a familiar face, but there’s no one I recognize. A few people step back from me. I can’t tell if it’s because they’re so repulsed by me or are curious about my dress. Some women lean toward the person next to them and whisper frantically, their eyes rooted on me. Some call out my name. I’m so overwhelmed, I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to.

  I walk deeper into the room, eager to get away, but stop short. This is the ballroom I saw in my living room. It’s utterly breathtaking. The multiple arch-shaped entrances are surrounded by marble columns like the ones downstairs. At first glance, the room appears all white, but on closer inspection, the walls are painted ivory. Another Baccarat chandelier hangs from the ceiling. In the middle of the left wall is a hand-carved marble fireplace. Heavy ivory curtains are tied back from the windows.

  “Serene!” a girlish voice says behind me.

  I glance over my shoulder as a small woman walks up to me. Her brown hair’s cut in a bob. She has a face bordering on angelic, with hazel eyes fringed with thick black lashes, and a small nose. But she has a mouth too full for her face. Somehow, it offsets the perfection.

  Like the rest of the ladies, she’s wearing a long gown. It’s a deep teal with elaborate lacework around the sleeves. Unlike most women, she doesn’t wear gloves. Pearls are strung around her neck. She appears to be around my age, maybe younger.

  She grabs my hands and gapes at me. “What are you wearin’?”

  I smooth my hands down the little material of my dress.

  “Is this some new fashion from abroad you didn’t tell me about?” she asks.

  “Yes?” My reply sounds more like a question.

  “Your dress is risqué.” She leans in and lowers her voice to a conspiring whisper. “If Étienne asks, I told you I’m stingily opposed to this entire outfit. But in truth, I’m dyin’ to know where you got it.” She winks at me as though we’re best friends with hundreds of inside jokes and years of history between us. She looks down at my feet, her face inches from mine. “Where are your shoes?”

  I can’t help it. I veer back. She’s way too close for my liking.

  She frowns at me. “You seem a bit dazed. Have you been drinkin’?”

  Words are being thrown my way like bullets, each one ricocheting off of me. “I—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she continues. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  I’m speechless, but it doesn’t seem to matter because this stranger is doing the talking for the both of us. She raises herself on her tiptoes and gently picks up a strand of my hair. “Is this a new hairstyle you’re trying out? It’s pin straight. How did you get it that way?”

  “Straightener?”

  My answer makes her frown. “What’s a straightener?”

  I want to laugh, but warning bells are going off in my he
ad.

  When I don’t reply, the woman finally stops talking long enough to notice my silence. “Serene? Are you okay?”

  She pats my arm in concern. It’s obvious she thinks we know each other. Besides the fact she knows my name, I see our familiarity in the openness with which she speaks to me. But I have no idea who she is. That’s okay because this is a dream. Right? In dreams, anything goes.

  I paste on a bright smile. “I’m fine. Never better.”

  She hesitates for a second but finally drops her hand.

  “Nathalie! Nat, over here!” a person shouts behind her.

  The girl, who thanks to some nameless person I now know is named Nathalie, glances over her shoulder. I close my eyes in relief that the attention is off of me for a moment before I turn around and scan the room; I need to find the quickest escape route. This dream started out fun, and it still is, but it’s slightly unnerving having everyone speak to me as though they know me. It feels like they’re all privy to a part of my life I don’t know yet.

  There are multiple exits, but the door to my left might be my most straightforward chance at a quick departure. But before I move toward the door, I feel someone staring at me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I scan the faces around me, but the feeling of being watched never lets up.

  When I pivot back around, I come face to face with Nathalie and another man. I gasp and step back. “Holy shit. You can’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “Somethin’s wrong with Serene,” she announces. “She’s usin’ such crass language.”

  The man beside her slings a friendly arm over Nathalie’s shoulder and tilts his head as he gazes at me. “Really? How so, Nat?”

  Nat? If that’s what everyone calls her, then Nat it is.

  “Well, besides the darin’ dress, which, by the way, I am scandalized she would even think of wearin’”—she gives me a small wink—“it’s somethin’ else. She seems… different.”

  “And that’s strange?” the man asks.

  She elbows him. “Livingston, I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” He smiles at me, revealing a row of straight white teeth. Unlike the man from earlier, his smile is nothing but playful and friendly.

  Something about his smile is familiar. Ignoring boundaries, I step closer, my eyes scrunching as I stare at him. “Have we met before?”

  “Oh, only a few times,” he remarks drolly.

  I tilt my head. “I mean it. You seem extremely familiar.”

  The jovial smile he wore seconds before slips away. He glances at Nat. “Perhaps you’re right. Something’s wrong with her.”

  All of a sudden, it comes to me. He’s one of the men from the picture. Not the mystery man. But the one standing to the left of him.

  Impossible. Seeing this man in person is even more proof this is a dream. A slow smile spreads across my lips. This is amazing. So vivid and real.

  In person, his hair is coal-black. Beneath the candlelight, his skin looks like the color of honey. His eyes are hazel, but still hold the mischievous gleam captured in the photo. Every time he smiles, a dimple appears on his left cheek. With him standing next to Nat, it’s easy to see these two are related.

  “What’s your name again?” I ask.

  He glances between Nat and me. Quickly I realize it’s the wrong thing to ask; he thinks we know each other too.

  “I’m Livingston,” he says deliberately slowly, as though he’s talking to an infant. “And you are Serene.”

  It takes me a minute to reply because all I can think is that I finally have a name for one of the faces from the photo. “Oh, I am,” I rush out.

  He shakes his head and stares at me in an odd way. “Truly. Are you all right?”

  Again, I nod. I’m starting to feel like a bobblehead doll.

  “There you are.” A heavy arm curves around my shoulder. The man I bumped into earlier is back. “I was beginnin’ to think you’d run away.”

  “Uhh…” I stare at him in confusion.

  I’ve stared at the photo so many times that Livingston is familiar to me. Seeing him makes sense. This man doesn’t. I glance between Livingston and Nat for some confirmation they know this man.

  Livingston nods, but there’s a strain to his smile. “Johnathan.”

  “Do you want to dance?” the man called Johnathan asks me.

  “I—”

  Before I can respond, he sweeps me up in his arms and guides us toward the middle of the ballroom, even though I’m still barefoot. He’s so drunk that I don’t think he notices. He turns me in a circle, and I see Nat and Livingston in the same spot where I left them. Livingston’s attention is on a blonde standing next to him, but Nat stares at Johnathan and me with something close to disappointment.

  I want to know why, yet I don’t. When I wake up, the trivial details won’t matter.

  With my attention elsewhere, I end up tripping. Everybody around me is doing a dance I’ve only seen in old movies. Really, really old movies. All the ladies dancing have their left hand resting on their partner’s shoulder. I follow suit. Part of me feels ridiculous, and the other is downright giddy. How many times will ever I experience something like this?

  The answer is simple—never.

  My partner laughs off my awkwardness and holds me closer. I try to make room between our bodies without drawing attention to myself.

  Johnathan pivots on one foot, changing directions and moving in time with everyone else. I scramble to keep up with him even though the dance mainly involves easy walking steps.

  “I have to say, you’re dressed… darin’ tonight.” He looks me up and down. And it’s right around then that the feeling of someone staring at me slams into me. Goose bumps prickle my skin, making me feel as though I’m on fire. I whip my head around, expecting to find a pair of eyes staring at me, yet no one is looking this way. I turn back to Johnathan. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Your outfit,” he repeats. “It’s darin’.”

  This dress is formfitting but daring? Hardly. Not compared to some of the dresses in the stores or online. And what is with everyone’s slow drawl? I know it’s a Southern accent, but that doesn’t make sense. Nobody speaks like that in Pennsylvania. Where did my dream take me?

  “Oh, well, I like it,” I reply, slightly defensively.

  “Oh, well, so do I,” he retorts with a devilish smirk.

  There’s no question this man thinks we have some relationship. Although I have no idea why. The cocky, arrogant guys are not my type. Never have been. Never will be.

  We move toward the opposite side of the room, and my steps continue to be awkward. My brain and legs can’t seem to work together.

  “I have to ask, are you wearin’ this for my benefit or to spite him?” Johnathan asks.

  I cock a brow. “Spite him? Why would I spite Will?”

  He frowns. “Who is Will?”

  I assumed he was referring to Will. Because who else would there be? Apparently someone.

  “Wait,” I say as we continue to move. I trip slightly and he instantly rights me. “Who are you talking about?”

  Right then, someone places a hand on my arm. I turn and see Nat. Her eyes are wide with panic. “Étienne is here.” I stare at her blankly, and she frowns. “Did you hear me? I said Étienne’s here. He’s livid.”

  Judging by Nat’s frantic expression and tone of voice, I know this Étienne is someone important. But I don’t know who the hell he is or why I should be the slightest bit nervous.

  I’m getting ready to say that when she plants her hands on my shoulders. It’s impossible to tell if the gesture is more for her benefit or mine. “You’re in no shape to see him. I’ll distract him. That should afford you some time to hurry to your room.”

  Before I can reply or ask who in the hell this Étienne is, the whispers start. Word spreads like wildfire until conversations practically cease.

  “Go,” Nat pleads.

  No sooner has the word escaped her mouth
before the doors at the far end of the room slam open. People stop what they’re doing. Even the musicians appear unsure and stare at each other in confusion.

  Nat and Livingston move in front of me like a pair of bodyguards. I stand on my tiptoes and try to peer between their shoulders, but all I can make out is a stark white shirt. I’m confident it’s the Étienne man Nat was talking about.

  In the hushed silence, I can distinctly hear his powerful steps. People inch toward the walls or the double doors.

  “What are you still doin’ here? Go!” Nat whispers to me.

  Why would I go? It’s just getting interesting. A thrill courses down my spine and spreads throughout my body. Minutes ago, I wanted to leave, but the dramatic reaction elicited from everyone and the giant question mark stamped over this mysterious Étienne makes me stay put.

  Plus, this is a dream. Right now, I’m merely a cat with nine lives. If danger comes my way, I’ll survive. By the ninth, I’ll wake up.

  For now, I’m safe.

  The closer he gets, the louder his footsteps become. My heart pounds in sync with his footsteps. When he stops walking, Nat and Livingston’s shoulders are practically fused together. All I can see is the man crossing his tan arms.

  There’s a beat of silence before Nat speaks. “Étienne. This is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “I live here. This is my home.” His voice is laced with the same slow, Southern drawl as everyone else I’ve heard speak tonight. But I think it’s the deep timbre that makes my pulse jump. Yes, that has to be it. “Who’s behind you?”

  “No one,” Livingston and Nat say in unison.

  “Are you sure? Because I swear I see the top of Serene’s head behind your shoulder.”

  He knows my name. How does he know my name? Once again, I remind myself that anything goes in dreams. But something about this isn’t sitting well in my gut.