by Amy Cross
Muttering a few curses under my breath, I turn and -
Suddenly I spot it.
About twenty meters away, at the very end of this aisle, there's a white wall. On either side, various cheap plastic products are lined up on the shelves, but as I take a few limping steps forward I can't shake the feeling that I've seen this exact scene before.
This exact aisle.
Last night.
When I hallucinated the girl in the orange t-shirt, sobbing with a rifle in her lap, she wasn't just in some random part of a random store. The hallucination was unusually specific, and as I get closer to the end of the aisle I realize that she was in this exact spot. Looking down at the ground, I realize that this is where I was standing during that brief flash of vision in the hospital parking lot, and the girl was sobbing right here in this very store. I tell myself I must be mistaken, that somehow my brain is getting confused, but deep down I know that I'm correct. Somehow, my hallucination showed me this place, even though I'm certain I've never been to this store before in my life.
Feeling a cold chill pass through my chest, I take a faltering step backward. Surely no hospital drug in the world could make me -
“Can I help you, Sir?”
Spinning around, I find that one of the orange-shirted idiots has finally appeared. Stunned, I look down at the logo on her chest.
“Sir?”
I pause, before looking her in the eye. She's clearly stupid beyond all belief, but she might yet be useful.
“Do you sell guns?” I ask cautiously.
“Guns?”
“Weapons. Firearms. Do you sell them?”
“Um. Yes, Sir, Yes, we do, but there are certain documents you'll need if you want to purchase one. Would you like me to assist you?
“Of course not,” I snap, limping past her. “I was just wondering, that's all. What I do need, however, is bleach, do you think you could help me find that, or is this store such a maze that even its staff don't know where the products are located?”
“We have bleach,” she says with a smile. “I'll show you.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, although I don't know why I bother. She's paid to help, after all, so she deserves no gratitude, and her politeness is just a corporate-ordained mask. As I limp after her, however, I can't help glancing over my shoulder at the spot where I hallucinated the girl last night. I keep telling myself that this is just a coincidence, but something deep in my gut tells me that my subconscious mind might have been trying to remind myself of something.
If the store in my hallucination was real, what about the girl? Is she real too and, if she is, who the hell is she?
Part Three
RITA
I
It's the same dream I have every night. Not even a dream, really, more a memory that keeps playing itself over and over in my head, almost as if my subconscious mind is trying to drive me crazy.
I'm a little kid again, five years old. Mom is out and Shannon's God-knows-where, and I'm trudging back into the trailer all alone. When I get inside, I take a moment to get some crackers from the cupboard, and then I head through to the back room and find Dad on the floor. I instantly see that something's wrong, that his face is pale and that he's sweating, but at first I don't know what to do. And then, finally, he opens his eyes and stares at me.
I wait, but he doesn't say anything.
“Daddy?” I ask cautiously. “Are you okay?”
“My arm,” he whispers. “Rita...”
Trying not to panic, I make my way over and kneel next to him. He looks past me, as if he sees something else in the distance, but when I turn and follow his gaze I only see the wall. Hearing a faint whisper coming from his lips, I turn back to him and see that sweat is pouring down his face.
“Daddy?” I ask, with tears in my eyes. “Are you okay?”
I turn to go and get help, but suddenly he grabs me arm, holding me here.
“Run,” he whispers. “Rita, run!”
And those are the last words he ever says. He holds me tight, but after a few minutes I realize that he's dead. In real life, I ran away screaming much sooner, but in the dream I always linger a little longer so I can stare into his glassy eyes. What did he see in those final seconds? Why was he telling me to run? Maybe the heart-attack gave him visions in his final moments, I have no idea, but I've always wondered whether I could have done more to help him, and what his last words meant.
As usual, when I wake up in my cramped little bed at the back of the trailer, in the same room where Dad died all those years ago, I'm shivering.
***
As usual, Scottie wolf-whistles as soon as I step out of the trailer.
“Hey pretty lady,” he calls over from the top of his steps. “Going somewhere?”
I turn and shut the door, making sure to keep from making too much noise in case I wake Mom. It's crazy how she can sleep through a literal hurricane (seriously, that happened a few years ago), but she wakes in a hungover rage if I so much as breathe a little too loud. Once the door is shut, I turn and stuff my hands in my pocket as I head toward the trailer park's main exit.
“Where you going?” Scottie asks.
“Nowhere,” I mutter, trying not to make eye contact. Damn it, I should just ignore him completely.
“Off to work?”
“Not right now.”
“Liking your new job?”
“Sure.”
“I can make some coffee if you want,” he continues. “Got time for a chat?”
“Sorry.”
“Another time, maybe.”
“Maybe,” I mutter, quickening my pace as I pick my way through the garbage. In my right pocket, I'm holding tight to the paperwork that I picked up at the store last night.
***
The rundown old trailer is still there, which is a relief. Given that its owner was refused permission to stay in the park like the rest of us, I was half expecting her to suddenly head off one night, but she seems to be parked here semi-permanently now, at least until some nosy cop shows up and tells her she can't just stay by the side of the road. Stopping for a moment to take a look at the handwritten sign above her door, I can't help but feel my heart pounding in my chest.
Miss Enola – Psychic and Fortune Teller.
“This is stupid,” I whisper, but I still don't turn back. I can't turn back, I mean... After everything I've put in to get this far, I have to explore every possible avenue, even the ones that feel desperate. Hell, I don't even believe in psychics, not really, but then again...
I'll believe in anything so long as it helps.
Suddenly the trailer's door swings open and a thin, older woman steps out, dressed in what appears to be a homemade outfit stitched together from pieces of dungarees, sweatpants and maybe even a wedding dress. Whatever she's up to, she stops as soon as she sees me and she freezes, as if – despite being a 'fortune teller' – she wasn't expecting company.
“What do you want?” she asks cautiously, shrinking back slightly into her doorway.
I swallow hard.
“What do you want?” she shrieks, already a little breathless. “I'm allowed to be here, no-one's got the right to move me on!”
“I saw your sign,” I stammer, already feeling as if this was a huge, huge mistake. “I saw your...” I take another deep breath. “I saw your sign,” I continue, “and I was hoping I could get you to... take a look at something for me.”
She frowns, before taking a step back, as if to welcome me inside. “You got money?”
I nod.
“Come on, then,” she continues, glancing along the road as if she expects to see trouble approaching at any moment. “I'm terribly sorry for the nature of my welcome just now, but a lady in my position has reason to be suspicious whenever someone turns up on her doorstep. Please, come inside and I'm sure I can help you. We're both ladies of the world, struggling against an oppressive regime.”
I frown. “We are?”
“Just get i
nside.”
Still feeling that this is probably a waste of time, I nevertheless make my way over to her trailer and step through the beaded curtain that fills the doorway. I'm immediately struck by a fusty smell of incense inside, and the sight of tie-dyed fabric hanging from every available surface is enough to make me want to turn and run. I've never exactly been a fan of the hippie aesthetic and all that running naked through the forest stuff, but I figure I'm getting desperate and I'll never be able to rest if I don't at least give this a shot. As the trailer's door is slammed shut behind me, the walls shudder a little and a framed photo falls over on top of the fridge.
“Sit down, sit down,” the woman says, hurrying past me and tipping magazines off a folding chair before heading around to the other side of a camping table. “Excuse the mess, but a creative mind can't be constrained by order. You understand?”
“Um... Sure.”
Forcing a smile, I take a seat, even though I'm not certain this chair is too sturdy. I still have my hands in my pockets, and part of me worries that by coming to a place like this I'm actually cheapening my efforts, as if I'm somehow disrespecting Shannon's... I was about to say memory, but that wouldn't be the right word, not at all, not if she's still alive. And she is alive, I know it. I just have to find her.
“You fear for the future,” the woman says with a smile as she sits opposite me. “I can see it in your eyes.” She reaches a thin, arthritic-looking hand toward me. “You've come to the right place. My name is Miss Enola Sinclair and yes, I was named after the business with the bomb. My parents wanted to reclaim the iconography of war and murder, so they named me after an aircraft. One wonders...” Her voice trails off for a moment, before a smile returns to her face. “But you're not here to hear about me, are you? You're here because you're in need of help. Tell me, how did you find my humble home?”
“I live in the trailer park just along the way,” I tell her, kind of relieved not to be diving straight into talking about Shannon. “I've walked past a few times, on my way into town.”
“The trailer park, huh? The bastards who run that place are like a bunch of Nazis.”
“They can be pretty harsh,” I admit.
“They said there was nowhere for me to park on their precious land. I could see spare spots, you know, but oh no... Just because I didn't have any cash on me at that exact moment, they turned me away.” She frowns. “Their time'll come. All the little Hitlers of the world will pay.”
Staring at her, I can't help feeling that she's a little bitter.
“But you're not here for some general chat about the future, are you?” she asks suddenly, with her beady eyes fixed on me. “I can tell, you're here to ask about something specific.” She glances at my right hand, which is still in my jacket pocket. “What have you got in there?”
“It's nothing,” I stammer, although I know I have to just be honest. Cautiously, I slip out the small bundle of papers and photos. “It's to do with my sister.”
“I see.” She pauses for a moment. “And to be clear, you do have money, don't you?”
“Of course.” I set the papers on the table before pulling a few scrunched notes from my jeans pocket. “I only have four dollars right now, but -” Taking one of the papers and unfolding it, I slide my work contract toward her. “I started at BarraBuy last night, so I'm gonna get a proper pay packet in about four weeks' time. I brought this as proof, 'cause I know four dollars isn't gonna be enough today, but I was hoping you'd let me owe you the rest, however much it is.”
I wait, watching as she frowns at the contract.
“I know I shouldn't ask,” I continue, “and I swear my plan was to hold off until I actually got paid so I could give you your fee upfront, but I got scared that you might leave before I had a chance.”
I wait a moment longer, hoping that she'll tell me it's okay.
“You do realize,” she says finally, “that my usual fee for an initial consultation is fifty dollars?”
“Fifty?” Shocked, I try to stay calm. “Okay, so -”
“And for a proper session, I charge ninety-nine dollars per hour?”
“Oh.” Taking a deep breath, I realize that this is going to take me more than a month to save. “Well... I mean, what would four dollars get me? What about four dollars and a promise, hand on heart, that I'll come back and give you the rest when I get paid?”
She pauses for a moment, before sighing. “I shouldn't entertain this. I'm a professional with a real gift.”
“I know, but -”
“It's disrespectful,” she continues. “Just because I'm living in a place like this, doesn't mean I work for free. My talents are rare and they're worth paying for.”
“I know that,” I reply, “I just... I really need your help.” I take another deep breath, feeling that this is already going hideously wrong. “I need to find my sister.”
“You do, huh?” She picks up my work contract and studies it for a moment, before sliding it back toward me and looking at the pile of papers. “Four dollars,” she says finally, “will get you a bargain introductory session. What that means is that I'll do my best to help you, within the short period of time I can spare, and then we'll be able to decide whether there's any need for you to come back when you can afford my fuller service. Is that understood?”
I nod gratefully. “Please, anything would be appreciated.”
“What've you got there?”
Fumbling with the papers, I pull out an old, tattered photo that shows Shannon on the steps of Mom's trailer, with a baby on her knee. My hands are trembling slightly as I hold the photo out.
“That's her,” I explain. “The baby is me. We all lived together in my mother's trailer , Shannon used to babysit me most of the time while my mother was... out.”
“Out working or out drinking?”
I open my mouth to reply, before realizing that there's no point lying. “Out drinking,” I murmur. “Or sometimes just drinking in bed.”
“Don't worry,” she continues, “that wasn't me being psychic. There are empty whiskey bottles in the back of the picture.” She takes a pair of cracked glasses and holds them in front of her eyes, which I guess is necessary since they seem to be falling apart too much to wear normally. “She looks happy,” she mutters after a moment. “I mean, she has too much wear and tear in her eyes, she looks like a kid who had to grow up fast, but she looks like a fundamentally happy and decent human being. A little rebellious maybe, but kind-hearted”
“She was,” I say firmly. “I mean, she is.”
“Why do you keep doing that?” she asks. “Mentioning her in the past tense, and then correcting yourself.”
“I just... She's been gone for a while now.”
“How long has it been since you last saw her?”
“Five years.”
She frowns. “You haven't heard a squeak from her in all that time?”
“I know she's okay,” I continue, “she has to be, it's just...” I pause, not really wanting to continue. “I know I'm probably overreacting,” I say finally, “it's just that there have been other girls who've gone missing in this county over the past few years, and I know the cops are sort of trying to link them, like maybe there's a -”
“Serial killer in the area?”
I flinch at that word. “Like I said, I'm probably overreacting, but -”
“Not at all,” she replies, interrupting me again. “I've read about a few of the cases. If anything, I'd say it's the police who are under-reacting.” Turning, she reaches over to one of the piles of newspapers and starts rifling through them, quickly pulling out a recent edition with a girl's smiling face on the front. “Glenda Rabindale,” she mutters, reading from the page, “looks to be another local girl who's disappeared. Last seen about five years ago, roughly the same time your sister vanished.” She pauses, scanning the page, before setting the paper aside again and turning to me. “You have every right to be concerned. If one girl goes missing, that can be bad luck,
if two go missing, maybe it's still bad luck, but we're up to, what, eight or nine now?”
I nod cautiously.
She pauses, and I can see that she's concerned. “Did your sister have any reason to leave and break contact? You said your mother's an alcoholic.”
“Did I say that?”
“More or less. She is, isn't she?”
I nod. Damn it, why do I feel so ashamed?
“I can see why a smart young woman like your sister might have packed up and left.”
“Not without me,” I say firmly.
“You sure about that?”
“She always said...” I take a deep breath, determined to hold back tears. “She always said we'd get away one day, but that we'd go together. She wouldn't have left me here, and anyway she'd just gotten a new job at this big store outside of town.” I pause, wondering how much to tell her. “I just started at the same store last night. I figured I could maybe snoop around a little and see if I can find any information about Shannon. I thought they might have a forwarding address, and anyway I need the money, I'm saving to move out. Maybe even get my own trailer some time, you know?”
“Gotta dream big, kid,” she mutters.
“She wouldn't just leave me,” I tell her, holding back tears. “She wouldn't not contact me for five whole years!”
She stares at the photo for a moment longer, before sliding it back over to me. “No,” she says with a hint of concern in her eyes, “I don't believe she would. She has too much kindness in her eyes.”