Hadrian's Wall

by Felicia Jensen

  Before I could get inside and shut the door, he put his hand on the door jamb. “Don’t lock it.” I looked at him, offended.

  He responded with a smirk. “If you get sick in there, I’ll have to break down the door.

  I mumbled unintelligibly, but left the door slightly ajar. On the other side, I heard him say, “Don’t dawdle.”

  What a tyrant!

  I was afraid to look at my reflection in the mirror, so I leaned over the sink and proceeded to wash my face.

  “Did you have another crisis, Melissa?” he asked. I heard his muffled voice behind the door.

  “Yes, I did.” Why deny it? He probably saw my suitcase open on the table.

  “I warned you to expect that to happen.” His comment was a censure of me, but his tone of voice was mild.

  I sighed. “I had to.”

  “And...did you remember something?”

  “Something, yes,” I answered.

  He was silent. Certainly, he was waiting for more explanation, but I was silent. Something was curbing my tongue. I felt I needed to be cautious. I don’t know why, but I needed to be face-to-face with him when we talked about this because I wanted to watch his reaction. My intuition told me that Adrian Cahill was involved in my mysterious arrival in this town, but my rational side didn’t know how to edit the information so that he wouldn’t classify me as a super crazy girl. Men with yellow and scarlet eyes, giant panthers, and winged monsters are not exactly logical things to try to explain to a doctor—that is, if the resident doctor concerned was not directly involved in the plot.

  Furthermore, the images lingering in my memory were too fantastic, too confusing. I couldn’t evoke them clearly now, no matter how hard I tried. Most of them had broken down...become blurry, almost unintelligible...like specters from forgotten dreams during wakefulness. However, everything that happened in the woods after Simon Cridder attacked me—that I remember very well. Every detail...even my reasons for considering the events too unrealistic, even for a screenplay!

  So many unsolved mysteries were spinning wildly in my head...so many questions. Were the events in South Portland real or hallucinations? Simon Cridder...what would have happened to him?

  I splashed more water on my face, trying to clear my mind. No use thinking about it now. The solution was to save my questions, carefully categorize and store them in my mind for further consideration. I had more practical things to take care of now, like calling Carmen and telling her that I’m fine.

  Am I really fine? Finally, I dared to stare at the figure in the mirror...me—the one with the horrible appearance. I let out an hysterical laugh when I heard Adrian ask the same question I’d just asked myself.

  “Are you fine?” he asked. His voice was low and husky.

  “I think so,” I replied, opening the door.

  He had not moved. He stared at me for a long time, standing there with his shoulder leaning against the doorframe. What an idiot I am! A smarter girl would have flirted with him or grabbed him and kissed him, but I couldn’t play the femme fatale, not in a zillion years.

  The contrast between us is striking. He’s very tall and strong, with nearly twelve inches height advantage over me. My forehead barely reached his broad chest. We were standing so close to each other that if I had leaned just a little to confirm my estimate, my cheek would have touched the curve of his well-defined muscles beneath his scrubs. Mmmm... We were so close that I could inhale the natural aroma of his skin. What temptation! Adrian’s eyes sparkled, as if he was reading my thoughts. Even though I felt embarrassed, I could not divert my eyes. I am shy by nature and staring at a man was not part of my repertoire of innate behaviors; even so, I couldn’t move. It was as if we were connected by invisible wires. Suddenly, he looked down at my left hand and touched my birthmark with his fingertips and then wrapped his big hand around mine. I no longer wondered about the electricity coming from him, nor the cold temperature of his body. Perhaps these electro-thermal sensations are part of my hallucinations? Real or not, it didn’t matter now. His touch was...exciting. He attracted me like a magnet.

  Adrian guided me gently into the room, making me sit down on the rumpled bed. I don’t know why, but I had the impression that he was feeling as disturbed as I was. I could not be sure because the lenses of his glasses darken in bright light; thus, his eyes remained safe from my speculations.

  Tilting his head slightly, he collected my drawings scattered on the table. A frisson swept over me as I observed the concentration with which he evaluated each of the illustrations. There was something disturbing about watching him peer into my inner world. I felt exposed.

  He showed me the figure of the winged monster.

  “You drew this?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t ready to hear either criticism or praise. My drawings weren’t meant to be seen by anyone or subjected to public opinion.

  “Very good! You have talent. Have you taken any courses?”

  I shook my head. Adrian scowled at me.

  “Why not?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. It was probably difficult for a rich person to understand why someone who is not rich fails to move on.

  “I have no money,” I responded calmly. “My school grades weren’t very good, so my chances of going to college are slim to none.”

  “Would you like to go to college...to study art, perhaps?”

  “No, I never had that ambition.” I pointed to the picture he was holding. “You might think this is good, but I lack the talent to compete in college level courses.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

  How irritating he is! Why is he talking about this when I have so many other things that need to be discussed with him?

  “Because...” I began with the same patience as before... “Despite not having the necessary talent, I’m pretty realistic. I see other people’s work that really stands out, but mine doesn’t.”

  Laughing in my face wasn’t a polite response, but that’s exactly what he did.

  “Of course you have talent! Only people with a bright future ahead can draw like this and at the same time deprecate their own work. History proves that the most successful artists have been like that: Snobbish, temperamental perfectionists. I happen to believe that if they didn’t get involved with some type of damaging excesses, torturing their minds and bodies with all sorts of penance or agony, they would have suffered less, but that wouldn’t be fun, would it?” He shrugged. “Then they wouldn’t be geniuses or...martyrs.”

  I took a deep breath and let it pass. After all, I didn’t understand most of the meaning embedded in his comment. Of course, I understood the sarcasm, but I couldn’t refute it, even if I wanted to.

  The silence expanded. I expected he would ask the fateful question. Adrian placed the drawing on table and then pulled a chair close to me. I waited, but he said nothing.

  Suddenly, he asked, “Did you like the clothes?”

  What? I was completely bemused by that question. Shouldn’t he ask me about what I remembered during the crisis?

  “Clothes?”

  He grimaced with mock surprise. The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. He seemed to be enjoying my confusion.

  “Charity hasn’t been here?”

  “Yes, she was...”

  “And...?” He raised one of his perfect eyebrows.

  Yep, the penny dropped...What a gaffe! I should have thanked him the moment he walked into the room. He probably thinks I’m the rudest person on the planet.

  I gasped. My fingers flew to my mouth, too embarrassed to speak coherently. “Oh, th-thank you! I should have said something earlier. Of course, the clothes are beautiful...fantastic...but I can’t accept them. It’s not right, you know...allowing you to spend money on me...” I stopped to catch my breath. “I tried to tell her that. Charity, I mean...your cousin, but I couldn’t convince her to take them back.”

  Adrian laughed. “Charity is a power of nature.” He scrutinize
d me. “If it’s your conscience that disturbs you, relax. Charity has tons of clothes. Every year she donates bags of them to the welfare and assistance centers of St. Paul and Divine Town. The clothes she brought to you involve no cost or extra work.”

  Mmmm... If that’s true, the situation is even more humiliating for me. I know his comment was intended to make me feel less indebted to both he and Charity, but to my ears it sounded like I was a charity case and the powerful Cahill family was my benefactor.

  Why did I get the impression that he was lying? All of the clothes, even the shoes were my size! What were the chances of two physically different people having exactly the same body shape and size, right down to their feet? Some of the tags were still inside the bags, as if someone had hastily removed them.

  Of course, I realized that Charity could be compulsive—like those girls who are always buying clothes they didn’t need, half of which they never wore. Every foray into the closet probably required use of a map or GPS. With great effort, I ignored the fact that Charity’s body shape was noticeably different than mine and accept that coincidentally the clothes given to me were my size, but what about the make-up and hygiene products, the beauty creams? They were brand new, the seals unbroken. Had she wanted to donate them too?

  It’s true that I had no proof that they’d purchased all those things especially for me, nor was there any reasonable motive for them to do so. Maybe I am paranoid. In any case, despite the initial feeling of humiliation, his explanation left me feeling relieved because it meant that I hadn’t caused them any unnecessary hassle or financial loss! Oh, girl...so you choose to close your eyes and believe him.

  “The clothes are very cool. Thank you both for your kindness.”

  “But...?”

  I stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “Something displeased you,” he said, using that same sarcastic tone. “But I can imagine what happened. I recommended that Charity bring you only her simplest clothes because I suspected that you do not like to wear flashy things, but I know my cousin very well and I’m guessing she didn’t follow my recommendation and brought some fancy things too...”

  It was disturbing that Adrian seemed to know me very well too.

  Mmmm... It’s the shoes...” I began awkwardly. “They’re not for walking around or for work. They all have high heels...very, very high heels. I enjoy tennis, you know? I need something more practical.”

  Adrian laughed. “And you’re a practical girl.”

  “I try to be.”

  He shifted in his chair and bowed his head. His eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “Can I look?”

  I pointed to the closet. “Go ahead.”

  He didn’t play dumb. He didn’t hesitate for a second and opened the door. He glanced at the rows of chic, exotic sandals—some with ruffles, buckles, and bows, others with rhinestones, and one transparent-looking pair...suitable for a Cinderella.

  He laughed again. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “No, please. I owe you too much already!”

  “You don’t owe me anything.” He became so serious that it scared me.

  “Are you sure?”

  My eyes strayed to the window. The memory of the winged monster came back to my mind. I wanted so much to talk about it...mainly about the creature that had snatched Cridder off of me and torn him to pieces. I didn’t have the courage to initiate the conversation because Adrian—medical resident Adrian Cahill—would recommend my immediate commitment in the psychiatric ward, especially if he knew what was going through my mind.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, suddenly wary.

  I didn’t respond right away. I kept looking out the window, as if I could find the answer out there. Was everything that was happening to me the product of my sick mind? I’d researched online and read about brain tumors that caused hallucinations. Was that why Dr. Talbott ordered a CT scan? Why hadn’t I been told the results? Maybe they were so bad that nobody wanted to tell me? No, I’d been experiencing these symptoms since childhood. There could be a tumor, but if there is, I’d be dead.

  I also read another article about rejected children. As I understand it, they tend to become adults who live an emotional roller coaster life— one day an inferiority complex; the next, delusions of grandeur. They become people with low self-esteem, trapped by fantasy, and perceive themselves as exceptionally neglected in comparison with others; but to escape the psychic pain caused by rejection, they imagine themselves as perfect and beloved—as if they were predestined to occupy high positions or to play extremely important roles in the lives of others.

  But I wasn’t like that. I mean, all I wanted from life was not to be unemployed. The only symptom that fit in my current behavior was my constant paranoia. I still had the feeling that people were hiding the facts of me and I couldn’t understand why.

  “You’re safe here,” Adrian said softly, observing that I was upset. For a fleeting moment, I could see a worried look on his face, but not for long because he quickly resumed his inscrutable expression.

  “Is it possible for the mind to manufacture its own memories?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He sighed and took my hand again. “It is possible, especially after suffering a trauma. The mind can also mix elements from past and present situations to re-read how the events occurred.”

  Damn! If that’s true...if that had happened to me, then my suspicions led me to a dead end. What I need most right now is an explanation that proves I’m not crazy.

  “Where exactly did you find me?”

  Now it was Adrian’s turn to be confused. He sat down in front of me, staring at me intensely, with his head tilted—a trademark gesture.

  “A rescue team found you on the Mountain of Polish Man. The paramedics said you must have gotten lost on one of the trails around the Poland Springs Resort.

  It couldn’t be true. My mind couldn’t play a trick like that. Damn, tell me I’m not insane as well!

  “I was in South Portland,” I objected in a small voice.

  “No, you were not,” he retorted calmly.

  I could feel something was very wrong. I stared at his face for a few seconds. He held my gaze with an inscrutable expression. Unlike me, Adrian was a very difficult person to read. Sometimes I swear he was like a river of lava burning underground, ready to erupt into a volcano and other times he was as cool as a glacier, not revealing even a shadow of emotion. The volcano rapidly turns into a snow-capped peak.

  The memory of my enigmatic conversation with Asia “No Surname” caused my thoughts to detour off course.

  “It’s not the first time I’ve heard about The Mountain of Polish Man. What is this that? Where is that?”

  He looked at the floor, almost like he was bored, and then he raised his head and started talking like a teacher who is annoyed about having to repeat an explanation for an inattentive student. Was he upset with me? Suddenly, he seemed so elusive...as if part of him was not fully involved in the conversation.

  Definitely, I bored him. My heart sank. I felt mortified.

  “In 1832, an adventurer from Poland was lost in that area. He was never found, so the mountain was given that name. Since then, there have been frequent reports from people who swear they witnessed supernatural things going on there. Other disappearances were reported, but they never found the bodies. Some say they’ve seen the Polish man wandering through the trees, just before people disappear. That’s why the older natives consider the place to be haunted.” Adrian gave me one of his dazzling smiles, like a boy who’s telling a whopper of a tale.

  “But that’s precisely what attracts the tourists—all of the amenities they have to offer visitors who are eager to try their luck... and who knows, maybe they’ll see a ghost! Parapsychologists, ufologists, witches, black magic worshipers...” He giggled, making it clear that he considered all of this to be nonsense. “Hundreds of people invade the place, which has a lodge, cabins, campgrounds, a recreation center, outdoor recreati
on activities—even a travel agency in charge of tours to regions considered to be the most frightening.”

  He frowned. “Morrison is still the majority shareholder of the investment and I think he still works as tour guide. The guy is a lucky bastard! He was able to become a legend in what has become a highly profitable business venture.

  Ah...a mountain full of mysteries. However mysterious, it was the sudden memory of a mobile number that struck me, leaving me stunned. Carmen...if I was not in South Portland, then she and her brother, Bob, did not exist. I needed to call her and add the missing pieces to my puzzle.

  Even though I wanted Adrian to stay and help me, my intuition told me that he wouldn’t collaborate for my purpose. Of course, this feeling could only be a product of my paranoia, but I could not react differently.

  When he was around, I experienced torment and delight simultaneously. It was scary how the notion of reality had evaporated. I needed to get away from his power over me in order to think objectively...at least for now.

  I looked at him for a long moment, recording his face in my memory and then I forced myself to say the words, “I need to use the phone. Could you excuse me?”

  Adrian narrowed his eyes and then got up very slowly. At that moment, he seemed like a predator preparing to pounce on its prey. There was a quick flash behind the lens of his glasses, before he resumed his usual countenance.

  “Sure. Take your time.” He gave me a polite smile and left the room. Was he wondering who I wanted to call?

  In the silence that followed, I regained my composure. My rapid heart rate continued unabated and I felt slightly dizzy. I looked at the phone and saw the list of extensions pasted to the top of the nightstand. I dialed the number and an operator answered immediately.

  “Yes?”

  “Could you please help me complete a call?”

  She patiently listened as I gave her the number, then asked, “What is the area code?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know. All I know is the location—South Portland.”

  “Please wait,” replied the woman in a professional voice.

  Professional voice, professional smile...I had to learn that too.