by Meg Evans
I do as she says. Rita bends my elbow to ninety degrees and moves my arm out to my side, then rotates it. “Do you feel like your shoulder is about to pop out of joint?”
“No.”
As she’s examining me, I can feel Dorian’s gaze still fixed on me. He seems deep in thought, distant, trying to figure out or understand something.
“Well,” Rita continues, “it’s not swollen and doesn’t look deformed, but still, sometimes it’s difficult to tell whether or not a bone is broken without medical equipment. It’s up to you, but I’d go to a specialist anyway.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” I lift myself up. “In the beginning I was certain I’d broken it because of the agonizing pain, but now…” How to say this. “The pain has gone all by itself.”
“What do you mean? It doesn’t hurt at all?” Rita frowns.
“I know it sounds crazy, but yeah, I’m fine.”
A glimmer of incredulity shines through her eyes. They both stare at me, baffled.
“Zara, you didn’t stumble over a stuffed animal in your bedroom, you had a bicycle crash,” says Dorian. “Look at your elbow! It’s…” ‘His voice trails off as he grabs my elbow and looks at it. “Okay, it’s not that bad after Rita disinfected it, but your face…” He lifts his eyes up to my cheek and pauses again; not a single word comes out of his mouth.
Before I can say anything, he sits down next to me and runs his index finger down my cheek, touching the same spot Rita rubbed some smelly cream into no longer than five minutes ago. An intense astonishment touches his face.
I wince, and my heart jumps to my throat; I suspect the worst. After all, Rita said that the scratch might leave a scar. “Does it look that bad?”
Do I look hideous? Do I look like Freddie Krueger?
“Umm…”
“Dorian, say something!” I beg with desperation.
“Everything will definitely heal,” he says tersely.
“Will I have a scar?” I can hear my own pulse banging in my ears. I’m terrified at the thought that I could have a huge mark on my face.
Rita and Dorian exchange mystified glances. I’m not sure what’s going on, but a shiver of panic surges through me. Without waiting for them to finally enlighten me, I abruptly get to my feet and dash to the mirror in the hallway again. I pull my nose as close to the smooth surface as possible. I stare at my reflection, and see… nothing unusual.
There’s not a single scratch or any other damage to my skin.
Stunned, I sprint back to the living room. My eyes wandering from Dorian to Rita, I ask them, “Didn’t you two mention a huge wound that would leave a scar on my face?”
“I’m sorry; apparently it was just my imagination.” Rita doesn’t look me in the eye. She’s clearly lying.
“How about you?” I transfer my eyes to Dorian. “Do you also see things that don’t exist? Or maybe there’s something that you don’t want to tell me?”
I try not to sound rude, but it’s difficult; there’s something untold in the air, something they don’t want me to know about at any cost, and it frustrates me. I keep in mind that, after all, they did try to help me, and whatever strange occurrence has taken place along the way isn’t their fault.
The silence is like a void that should be filled with words, but neither Dorian nor Rita are eager to do so.
“Zara,” Dorian finally says, “since you’re clearly as good as new, you should probably go home.”
Giving me an evasive response is very cunning of him, but it doesn’t satisfy me at all.
“Exactly,” Rita puts in. “There’s nothing to worry about. You might still be in shock, but that’s it.” Her eyes are still anchored to the floor.
What a sudden change of heart for somebody who a few minutes ago tried to convince me to visit the hospital with a possible concussion.
I open my mouth to protest, but stall as I notice something that makes my voice stick in my throat: Rita’s neck. She’s wearing a thin chain with a silver square hanging in the center, exactly the same as Dorian’s. It generates a number of questions in my head.
They can’t just put me off like this. A pulsating knot within me demands to know what’s going on.
“I’m not going any…” I can’t finish what I have to say; out of the blue I feel light-headed and woozy. My mouth goes dry and my limbs go limp, like a marionette. I’m losing my balance. The world viciously whirls around.
What the hell is going on with me? Did they drug me? Impossible—I didn’t eat or drink anything.
“Zara?” Dorian’s voice is the last thing I register before darkness falls.
CHAPTER nine
My eyelids are unnaturally heavy, but I manage to finally open my eyes. Someone has covered me up with a woolen blanket. I sit up and survey my surroundings, disoriented. My vision is still blurry, but I recognize this modern room. A tumble of confusing feelings assails me.
I’m at my neighbors’.
But what am I doing here?
That’s right; I had an accident.
But hold on—where have they gone?
These and a couple of other thoughts roll through my mind when I eventually come around. I have no idea why I even passed out. Perhaps it was the adrenaline crash after the accident that knocked me out.
As the seconds go by, I recall more and more from before I lost consciousness. Dorian and Rita are hiding something from me.
I slowly pick myself up off the couch; for someone who’s just been through an accident, I do so quite deftly. I feel like new, as if the incident didn’t take place at all. I still can’t believe that I’ve healed that fast.
I look around, but there’s nobody here. The only sound that reaches my ears is the continuous whir of a pendulum swinging back and forth in precise intervals. I tiptoe to the kitchen. There’s no sign of a living soul either. I’m alone on the first floor.
I’m about to call Dorian and Rita, but then bite my tongue. I have a better idea. They must be upstairs; I doubt they would have left a stranger alone in the house—a fortress of their secrets. I bet they’re going over the matter that was bothering Rita so much that she was ready to reject me in my time of need. I can’t miss such a unique opportunity. If I don’t sniff something out myself, those two will never tell me what’s going on here. It’s either now or never.
I sneak up to the stairs, and quietly climb the steps. I stop halfway, listening intently to the sounds coming from the second floor. I can hear vague voices; it must be them. Driven by my curiosity and a pinch of adrenalin, I keep ascending the steps. The fourth step from the top creaks when I put my foot on it. I freeze, my stomach clenching, and hold my breath. Dorian and Rita carry on with their conversation, so they can’t have heard anything fishy. I breathe a sigh of relief and advance further, shifting my weight to the right to avoid making that sound again.
With my heart beating a hundred times per second, I traverse the few remaining stairs. I press my back against the wall and skulk along the corridor. Their conversation becomes increasingly clear as I move forward; I pause, listening carefully to establish where exactly their voices are coming from. They must be in the room on the left-hand side right by the table with a Chinese vase on it.
Their fuzzy carpet muffles my steps, as I make it to the slightly ajar ebony door. They’re not speaking loudly, but clearly enough that I can catch what is being said.
“I’m sure they suspect something,” Rita says, flustered.
“They can’t possibly. How could they?” Dorian says. His voice is calm, as though he’s trying to steady her.
“Because of that!” Silence falls; she must be showing him something to prove her words.
“It happens sometimes.”
“Not for three months in a row! We need to do something about it; that’s why we moved here, right? I hate to think of all our plans being ruined.”
I’m intrigued. My heart is pounding madly as I take one more step forward. I don’t want to
miss even one word.
“Yeah, I know,” Dorian says indifferently; he’s the stable one in this discussion.
“That girl, Zara—did you choose her?”
“No. I planned to at first, but it can’t be her.”
My eyes and mouth freeze wide open. I’m totally stunned. They are talking about me.
What plan did he choose me for?
“Why not her?” Rita demands.
“Because I can’t see her at all.”
“What?! That’s impossible!” This time pure fright is audible in her tone. “Do you think she is one of them?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. The girl knows nothing. She even asked me what the necklace symbolized.”
“I don’t know, Dorian.” She sounds puzzled. “You seem to be so unconcerned, and I think she might have only pretended that she was unaware to lull you into a false sense of security. Don’t you remember that they’re all first-rate liars?”
“I’m aware of that all too well,” Dorian says with an unusual coldness in his voice. “She has no clue who we are.”
Tense silence envelops the room. Rita is so stressed that none of Dorian’s words seem to be able to put her at ease. She speaks first. “There’s something odd about her. Did you notice those wounds?”
“Yeah…”
A longer silence falls between them.
“What are you thinking about?” Rita asks shakily.
“We should be going back downstairs.”
“You know something,” Rita insists.
“No, I don’t. I have a theory, but I’m not eager to share until I make sure.”
“Tell me!”
“As I said, not until I’m certain.” Dorian remains rigid. “Now, let’s get out of here. We have two weeks; we must be quick.”
I don’t wait to discover whether the two will decide to continue their talk for a little bit longer. With my stomach still churning, I retreat as noiselessly as possible. If I get caught eavesdropping, I’ll surely pay for it. Those two are hiding something, and both are masters at keeping their secret safe, but I won’t be able to rest until I learn the truth. The feeling of being deceived is eating me up from the inside. It’s no longer a matter of me wanting to discover the truth; now I simply need to know it.
I leave their house without saying goodbye. The next time we run into each other, I figure, I can say that I called for them, but nobody answered, so I left. It’s better this way.
When I take a look at my watch, I realize it’s almost eleven o’clock. On my way back, I list all the questions I’ve had since Dorian and Rita moved in next door. The more I interact with them, the longer the list becomes. Maybe I should start writing things down not to forget about anything along the way.
As I stroll up the pathway, the wind pushes me forward and makes my hair whip around my face. I quickly climb the porch steps and do my best to find the house key in my purse. When Dorian collected my things from the road, he simply threw them all inside, without caring about keeping a proper order. I could knock on the door, but I’m hoping I’ll be able to manage to slide inside unnoticed.
My fingers eventually grasp a wooden elephant keyring that Rach gave me as a souvenir after she came back from Africa. A violent gust of wind hits me with such force that I drop the bunch of keys before I even succeed in finding the right one. I squat to pick it up, and it’s now that I sense someone’s eyes on me. I feel a presence. A wave of apprehension sweeps through me.
I get up, whirl around and anxiously scan the area, but can’t see anybody. I swallow hard.
“Dorian?” I yell into space, but I don’t get any response.
I wheel again and, at the speed of light, try to find the house key. I finally single it out from the rest. The more I strive to put it in the keyhole, the harder it is for me to make it.
“Boo!” reaches me from behind. I jerk, scared to death; a scream escapes my lips. My heart races like it’s going to beat out of my chest. All I can hear from behind me now is hysterical laughter. I don’t have to look over my shoulder to realize which moron thinks this is hilarious.
“Are you fucking crazy?! Do you want me to drop dead?!” My eyes are probably blazing amber fire, but Maddie cracks up and couldn’t care less about my remark.
When I spin around, I register that she isn’t the only one who’s having fun. Beside Maddie stands a guy of medium height with a baseball hat on his head. He gives the impression of a cool high-school kid who’s fun to be around.
“Hilarious,” I say sarcastically, and roll my eyes.
The pattern is the same every time Maddie brings home a new love interest; it frustrates the hell out of me. Her aim is to demonstrate, as she’s doing right now, that she has a stunning sense of humor—hence why I truly detest when she invites boys home. It always means Maddie being fake and overly amusing. I have no clue why she does it; she’s such a great person the way she really is.
“This is Mike,” she says.
“Zara,” I respond, without, however, adding “nice to meet you” or “how are you doing” as he’s still giggling, which pisses me off. I even go one step further and put her in her place. “Maddie, don’t you think that it’s a bit late for bringing your friends home?”
“Mike only swung by for five minutes,” she says, her face immediately going from amused to serious, even downright insulted. Maddie hates it when somebody points something out to her. According to her, she knows it all, so nobody has the right to pick on her.
When they both disappear inside, I use my tactic of distracted attention—I wait outside a while for Cynthia to focus all her attention on them and make her overlook me slipping in. We still haven’t made up after our last conversation. Reopening the subject wouldn’t be the smartest decision, since I don’t have any better excuse for my bitchy behavior than I did during our last talk. I prefer to avoid her for a tad longer, until she doesn’t insist on discussing that anymore.
Several minutes go by; the kitchen lights switch on—they must have moved there. The foyer is empty. It’s time to go inside. I place my hand on the handle, but as I’m about to press it, I freeze. The feeling of being watched hasn’t gone. I’m still impaled by someone’s gaze, even though my cousin and her friend have vanished into the house. My heart lurches.
I turn around to sweep the area with my alert eyes again. Nothing is out of ordinary. I can only see a stray cat trotting on the sidewalk; I don’t detect any other movement. The silence of the night is somehow calming, yet a cold shiver travels along my spine. I crack open the front door and jump inside, then double lock the door. I’m safe, but I’m sure someone is still out there, fixing their eyes on my house.
CHAPTER ten
When I inspect myself the next morning, I don’t find a single bruise or a scratch on my body that would suggest I had an accident last night. I rotate my shoulder backward and forward. I don’t experience any discomfort or pain when I do so.
I can’t be that lucky.
I walk swiftly to the window and peep through the chink in the curtains. The Bentley is gone. It dawns on me that I’ve never even asked Dorian what his profession is. Rita is a nurse, so it makes sense that she leaves early and comes back late, but what about him?
I shrug and trail away from the window, collecting my things, and getting ready to leave for school.
* * *
In my morning class I can barely keep my eyes open. The lulling tone of my Statistics professor doesn’t help to keep me awake. Everything feels heavy, and if I don’t start doing something requiring active participation soon, I’ll drop off.
I stop listening to the old man, who has no talent for keeping his students attentive. My thoughts drift around Dorian and his conversation with Rita. I keep pondering everything I’ve heard. What did she mean when she asked Dorian if I was one of them? What was he going to choose me for? And last but not least, what does Dorian suspect me of?
I knew that there was something peculiar about them from the very
beginning, but after yesterday, their mysteriousness has reached a completely new level. The more I think about them, the less I seem to comprehend.
I can’t even talk to anyone about them, because who’d believe me?
Maybe Rach…
I feel a stab of guilt at the thought of my best friend. I miss her presence, our girly chit-chats, and even her crazy driving. Even though I feel neglected, I realize that I’m the one who pushed her away with my nasty behavior. The fact that she’s been hanging out with her other friends is entirely my fault. I’m aware of that, but somehow, I still expected her to come to me first. She always used to. Has she spoilt me too much?
Since Rach isn’t one of those people who holds grudges, all it takes to make her forgive me is inviting her to her favorite Mexican restaurant. Pollo a la crema plus a glass of white wine buries the hatchet. Rach is on cloud nine and eager to talk to me again.
After a mouth-watering meal, we decide to head over to my place to watch our favorite movie Titanic for the hundredth time together. Admittedly, a damn cute Leo DiCaprio contributes to our crush on the movie.
While I’m rummaging through the old and worn out DVDs in one of the messy drawers, Rach leans against the windowsill.
“I can’t believe that Matt didn’t even ask you for your number,” she says randomly.
“Really? I’m not shocked at all.” I pull out a stack of DVDs and spread them on the floor. It would be so much easier if Titanic was on Netflix, I sigh.
“What a jerk.”
“There’s only one jerk, and his name is Charlie.” I shove Forrest Gump, Green Mile, and Dirty Dancing to the side.
“Don’t even mention that name.” Rach shivers, disgust written all over her face. “Did Charlie even apologize?”
“I haven’t heard from him ever since the birthday party,” I say, and push several more titles aside.
“I feel such an urge to walk to his house and shout what I think of him in his face. What a stupid prick!” Her nostrils flare with fury, and her knuckles are white from clenching the edge of the windowsill. Rach has never gotten along with Charlie, but now her aversion has intensified at least three times.