by Shayne Ford
“I have this friend who experiences something like that. At least, I think she does.”
I pause and take a deep breath before I speak again.
“She feels torn though. And deals with a lot of guilt.”
He observes me in silence while I begin to crumble.
I tip my gaze down for a moment.
“She loves her husband. At least she thinks she does, but there’s something else that makes her doubt that.”
I stop.
His hand comes to my shoulder.
“What makes her doubt herself?” he asks.
I lift my gaze, my eyes stalling briefly on the wrinkles at the corner of his eye.
“There’s a man...” I start, but I struggle to continue.
“Yes?”
His voice is warm, encouraging.
“She became a little obsessed with him,” I mutter.
I see questions in his eyes.
“She feels terrible because of it, but she can’t fight that feeling either,” I say.
Blood rushes to my face, a blush warming up my cheeks.
“Is she seeing this other man?”
“As in... dating?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head.
“No, no. It’s nothing like that.”
His eyebrows slowly arch.
“Is she talking to him?”
“No... Not really.”
“What does she do then?”
“She thinks he follows her.”
His smile freezes like a delicate flower in the brunt of winter. Worry flashes in his eyes.
“Is he?”
“Mmm-hmm. Yes, he does. She sees him all the time when she goes out. She also receives gifts from him.”
“What gifts?”
“Flowers. Sometimes messages.”
“What kind of messages?”
I pull my mouth shut, and shrug, evading his gaze.
“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”
He gives me a questioning look.
“Hmm... And she thinks she loves her husband?”
“She does,” I say as convincingly as I can.
He shots a blank stare at the water and ponders for a moment before he brings his eyes back to me again.
“She probably does,” he finally mutters. “But she also misses something important to her.”
He searches my eyes.
I barely hold his gaze.
“And the chances are that man can give her what she needs,” he adds.
“She doesn’t need a man,” I comment hastily. “She has a husband.”
A smile flashes across his lips.
“No, no. She needs something she can only find in the man she is obsessed with. We all look for something, Tess. But we’re not always aware that we do. That’s why we often miss the exact thing that we need by looking the other way.”
I tilt my head down again, my gaze sliding to my gloves.
“So what should I tell her?” I ask with a quiet voice.
“Tell her to look deep into her heart and be honest with herself, and whatever she finds, good or bad, to accept it, and to try to understand it. People are different. We like different things and we believe in different things. She shouldn’t be scared or afraid if she feels that she is not like other people. She’ll find the answer that she needs if she’s bold enough to look for it.”
I raise my eyes.
A smile creeps up his lips.
“Sounds like good advice.”
He grins.
“Good or bad, that’s all I can give you.”
His dog flips his eyes open and starts to fidget.
George looks at him, softly stroking his fur.
“Is time to go home, isn’t it?”
His pooch waggles his tail.
George sets him down and rises to his feet. I do the same. My eyes shift to my house as he starts playing with his dog.
And then, my heart stops dead in my chest.
It’s him.
I recognize his hair and his shoulders, his long, dark coat, and gloved hands. He stands in front of my house, at the bottom of the stairs, his back turned to the park.
A Bentley is parked not far from him.
What is he doing there?
Breathless, I stare, my eyes zooming in on the entrance. The door is slightly open.
Rebecca? Is she upstairs? Where is she?
I jolt out of my stupor and pivot to George.
“I gotta go,” I say hurriedly.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no. I just remembered that the cleaning lady is coming to my house. I need to talk to her,” I toss at him while stepping away. “I’ll see you later,” I say and then I start to run.
Trees block my view for a moment.
Fuck. Fuck.
I make it to the street, just as his car smoothly glides away. By the time I reach the stairs, his ride takes a turn and vanishes around the corner.
Panting, I leap up the stairs.
I push the door to the side and enter the hallway. The noise of the vacuum cleaner drifts through the air, coming from upstairs.
I freeze in the middle of the foyer, my gaze sweeping the place. The spare key I gave to Rebecca sits on the wall table, a few steps away from the open door.
Why was the door open?
Has she left it that way?
I look down. Small puddles of melted snow form on the floor from my boots. There are no other footprints.
Swiftly, I shrug out of my coat and kick off my boots. I take a right turn and enter my office. A fresh bouquet of camellias sits in the vase.
Red and white.
“Rebecca??”
My voice is so loud the vacuum cleaner quiets instantly.
“Miss Sandoval??”
I spin around and dash out of the room. She rushes down the stairs, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Something happened?”
I suck in a strained breath and run my fingers through my hair, trying to regain my calm. Her eyes dip to my neck. Smoothly, I pull the muffler up to hide my bruises.
“I, um...”
She flicks her gaze up.
“Yes?”
“I want to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
The woman takes the last few steps and stops in front of me.
I shift my eyes to the wall table and motion to the door.
“Do you always leave the key on that table?”
“Yes, ma’am. This way I know I can’t misplace it. Is that a problem?”
“No, no. It isn’t,” I say before I pause for a second, weighing my next words. “I found the door open. Do you usually leave it that way?”
Her eyebrows lift slowly.
“Yes... Occasionally, I do. It’s when I clean the doormat and the hallway. I leave it open along with the front windows, so the fresh air comes in. Was I not supposed to?”
I flick my hand a couple of times.
“No, no. There’s nothing wrong with that,” I say, quivering inside.
“It’s a safe neighborhood,” she continues. “People leave their doors unlocked and even open when they are home. I see them all the time when I walk this way,” she says defensively.
“Yes, I know,” I mutter as I rub my temples.
“I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”
I lift my gaze and push a smile to my lips.
“No, you didn’t. You can go back and finish the cleaning upstairs.”
She turns around.
“There is something else,” I say just as she pulls away.
She shoots me a glance over her shoulder, her hand already on the railing.
“Yes?”
“The flowers in my office... Did you put them there?”
She slowly nods.
“Yes.”
Her gaze roves over my face and lingers on my trembling lips.
“Where did you find them?”
She shifts her eyes to the doo
r.
“On the steps. They were beautifully wrapped...” she says.
“Any cards?”
“No.”
“Hmm...”
“Did you want them in a different room? I put them on your desk because you spend most of your time there, and I know how much you like flowers.”
“No, no. It’s good. My office is perfect.”
My eyes meet hers.
A questioning look slides onto her face.
“Have you noticed anyone nearby when you walked in?”
She looks at me, intrigued.
“You mean neighbors?”
“Neighbors. Strangers. Anyone?”
She shrugs.
“You said you walked down here.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Have you seen any cars or men as you were nearing my place?”
She muses for a moment.
“The street was fairly quiet,” she says while trying to remember. “Oh... There was a car.”
“What kind of car?”
“One of those expensive ones. It was dark and shiny. It also had a driver.”
“How do you know?”
“The front window was half down, and the car was parked next to the sidewalk. The driver glanced at me as I was passing by. I spotted it a couple of blocks down the street, and it looked as if it was waiting for someone.”
“Have you seen anyone in the back?”
“No. The windows were tinted. I couldn’t tell if there was someone inside or not.
“I see. Was there anyone else? Anything else that you might have noticed?”
“No. I haven’t crossed paths with other people, and I don’t remember seeing other cars either.”
She pauses.
“Would that be all?”
“Yes. You can go back,” I say.
Moments later, I’m still standing in the middle of the foyer, my eyes swinging between the main door and my office.
17
TESS
“Allan said that it had to do with a man.”
“What man?” I ask, petrified.
My mom shoots me a quick glance and cocks an eyebrow.
“And why would he need to talk with you, anyway?” I toss at her again.
Her lips crease into a small smile.
“Because he’s worried about you, Tess.”
My palm hits the table.
“Why would he be worried? I don’t understand.”
She searches my eyes for a moment. I tear my gaze away from her and look at my sister who witnesses the exchange of words in perfect silence.
Maggie slides a plate of food onto the table.
“Here. Your favorite,” she says.
I glance at the pile of roasted broccoli and grab a fork.
“Why am I the only one who’s eating?”
“We’ve already had dinner.”
She brings her cup of tea to the table and takes a seat. Viola remains standing.
The crunchy florets fill my mouth with a smoky aroma.
“He is worried because you’re acting strangely,” my mom says, continuing our previous conversation.
I stop chewing.
“Strangely?” I ask with my mouth full.
She takes a sip of orange tea.
“Yes. He said that you changed the lock in his absence and never mentioned it to him.”
“It wasn’t intentional, and I told him that. Why would he complain to you?”
“Because he’s desperate.”
“Desperate??”
Her hand lands on mine.
“Listen to me,” she says, a stern expression on her face. “He’s not stupid. He wouldn’t make these assumptions if he didn’t have some clues.”
“Oh, okay. So he assumes that I’m having an affair with a man I don’t even know.”
I puff and almost roll my eyes, but the dire expression on her face stops me in my tracks.
“That’s what the problem is...” she says quietly. “He’s not even sure that the story about this man showing up in places where you are is real and not something that your mind has fabricated. The fact that he was at that art exhibition was merely a coincidence in his opinion.”
My mouth falls open.
“He really thinks that I imagine things? Are you serious?”
She doesn’t blink.
I put the fork down.
“What did he actually say?” I ask, washed with disbelief.
“He thinks that you have developed an unhealthy obsession for that man, whoever he is.”
“And he gathered all of that from that one night when he saw me trying to talk with him.”
She nods.
“He thinks that the man is part of the reason why you act erratically. He also hinted that your judgment might be slightly impaired. He used kinder words to express this.”
“What made him draw that conclusion?”
“The fact that you have distanced yourself from him, you have an unusual sleep pattern and a permanent inability to focus. He still can’t explain why you had to change the lock, and he suspects that it had to do with that man somehow.”
I bring the glass of water to my lips.
“That’s stupid.”
My gaze clashes with hers. I shift my eyes to Viola, quietly begging for her support.
She looks at me, baffled.
“I’m sorry, but it’s utterly ridiculous,” I say, my voice trembling.
“He said he’d seen flowers on your desk.”
“So?”
“They weren’t any kind of flowers.”
“So what? Was he implying that I got them from that man?” I sneer.
She slowly shakes her head.
“No. It’s actually worse than that. He thinks you bought them for yourself in a poor attempt to mystify reality.”
I set the glass down.
“He’s crazy.”
“Without using this exact word, he said the same thing about you.”
Anger, panic and surprise tumble over me.
“Oh, my God. I can’t believe this...” I mutter, my eyes darting back and forth between my mom and my sister.
I read compassion in Viola’s eyes. My mother’s gaze drips with worry.
“It’s not only that,” my mom says.
She pauses for a moment.
I look at her, breathless.
“Where were you last Thursday?”
“Thursday?”
I stare vacantly at her, trying to remember.
The pain in her eyes makes me shift my gaze away.
“What happened on Thursday?” I ask with a shattered voice.
“Did you go out that night?”
“Did I...?
She tips her chin down, tears sparkling in her eyes.
“It’s okay, sweetie... ” she says with a softer voice, her hand sliding over mine.
I yank my hand away.
“No, it’s not okay. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Mrs. Danes saw you that night.”
“Where did she see me?”
“You bumped into her on your way back home. You were running, and acting strangely. She tried to stop you. You pulled away from her without a word. She said you looked at her as if you were in a trance. She didn’t think you recognized her.”
I sift through my memories trying to bring back that specific moment. I can’t for the life of me remember if I saw my neighbor or not.
It’s all locked behind that wall, the one I can’t tear down.
“Perhaps I didn’t want to talk to her.”
“Why were you out there anyway?”
“I wanted some fresh air, so I took a walk. Since when is that a problem?”
She looks down and sighs.
“I’m really worried for you, Tess. I know Dr. Jimenez said that everything was fine, but I’m not so sure that it is. Perhaps you should go to see her again. Your marriage is really on the line here.”
Her eyes connect with mine.
&n
bsp; “Okay,” I say after a moment.
“Is there another man?” she quietly asks.
“No.”
“What about the one he saw you with that evening?”
“I wasn’t ‘with’ him. I simply wanted to talk with him. That’s all. Why would Allan be so suspicious of something so minor? And when it comes to Mrs. Danes, I might have appeared frantic that night, but if I remember correctly it was snowing heavily, and I was trying to get home.”
A shred of relief lights up her eyes.
“What about the flowers?”
“I bought them,” I say without blinking. “I read about them online, and I decided to buy them for my office. It had nothing to do with a man. Or that man, for a fact. That was solely Allan's imagination. I really don’t understand. Why would men always assume that flowers have to come from another man? And by the way, I changed the lock because I read somewhere that the locks that show wear and tear can get stuck easily, especially in cold weather. I forgot to tell Allan, yes. But what he forgot to mention to you was the fact that he came back a day earlier. I would’ve had plenty of time to tell him had he not changed his schedule. So that’s that.”
By the time I finish talking, a light comes back to her eyes.
“And I’m going to make an appointment with Dr. Jimenez next week, just to put everyone at ease,” I say in conclusion.
“That’s wonderful to hear,” she says, rising from her chair, and spinning toward the oven. “Is there anything I can get you dear?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.
“I’m good,” I say.
“Viola?”
My sister finally tears away from the kitchen counter.
“I can have a bowl of soup.”
They start talking in the background while I shift my eyes to the window, pushing my tears back.
“Dissociative amnesia?” I ask, leaning back against the couch.
Dr. Lara Jimenez nods.
“Also known as psychogenic amnesia, it’s an episodic memory loss. Like a gap in memory. The person blocks out a certain event. In your case, it looks like you can’t recall a few hours of that Thursday evening.”
She pauses.
I look at her, in silence.
“Hence your confusion, and your inability to fill that timeframe,” she continues.
I suddenly feel anxious.
“What can cause something like that? Is there something wrong with my brain?”
She shakes her head.
“There’s no damage to your brain. The episode might have been caused by stress.”