Although the character on that show had been dying due to a terminal cancer. Medical dramas, always filled with tragedy. Or, perhaps, filled with touches of reality. What if his father had some creepy tumor and he had been blaming it on the drinking?
Marco raised his body again and looked up. Small snowflakes fell to his face, melting almost immediately as they touched his sweat and skin temperature. Through the pointy tree tops of the pines he couldn’t see the sun, but remnants and traces of its being there, behind all the heavy grey clouds. If he were a believer, he’d say his mother would be over there looking back at him the same way, but then he simply shook his head and returned to his own reality.
None of that was possible. The only explanation would be drinking. The alcohol that made his father aggressive and unpredictable, the liquor that killed him softly and killed, too, the ones around him. Drinking which had been responsible for his mother’s accident, if he could call it an accident. The scotch and the vodka, the actual spirits that ruined his childhood and that prevented him from being an ordinary teenager, enjoying his life just like the other ones, accompanied by his parents in their happy and successful marriage, just like the rest of them. He wasn’t ready to deal with all of that.
It would be good for Clarice to stay, on a second thought. She would know how to care for him.
Unless she also got affected by it and died too, just like his mother did.
An unexplainable tremor took charge of his body and Marco saw, on the nearest tree, an option to let that consuming rage off his chest.
The first blow hardly affected him and the pine tree, old and stiff, didn’t even shake with the lunge. A pine couldn’t feel, nor could it punch back and thinking of that he struck the second punch. And the third. And the fourth.
Marco came to his own senses and realized he had attacked the tree as if it were a punch bag, though a real punch bag would have been softer and less rude to his fists. At the same time, he wouldn’t be able to stop before realizing that ire had finally gone.
He came to a halt. His chest went up and down out of pace, while his body tried to recover from the oxygen he had lost after that nonsense battle. His knuckles bled, ground and open, and most of that blood was now imprinted on the tree. He wanted to scream, he wanted to run further, but he had no energy for that. He would just return home, happy to have relieved a sum from the whole tension in his mind. That attack would hurt a lot later, but for now he wanted to simply relish that relief – and he didn’t even need any drinking.
The house was not that far, he would just have to go down the road and, after, climb down a steep hill close to where they had found Clarice and finally he would be there. His thoughts from having found her in such degrading state haunted him again.
And there was also that story around the area about a murdered or missing family from the wealthy village up the mountains. He knew his father feared that family being Clarice’s and that, quite possibly, the missing husband could still be after her – maybe they had both been victims and the dude just wanted some help, now also lost on the woods, but he wouldn’t be the one searching for the guy, either. Another unwanted tenant wouldn’t be that pleasant for him.
Fatigue hit Marco just as he finished his descent, already noticing signs to a heavy snow night to come.
The father had asked him to empty the pool and he wondered if he had done that. Marco tried to remember and recalled having cleaned it in the morning, and using a long black tarp as a cover for the hole to protect it from the ghastly weather. All things done, he just needed a shower and a good dinner so he could sleep tight that night. Sun would set in a few hours from now and from that moment on the world outside the house would be a frozen hell of unbearable coldness. And he would have to put up with his father and the surrogate and their long, late night conversations.
He checked his phone, but he knew all his friends – no more than five – were travelling to some sunny place, far away from there, hence there wouldn’t be no messages to check. He thought about sending a “hi” to Laura, but didn’t want to bother her while she hiked somewhere in Chile or whatever she was doing in South America. He hated the idea of her traveling to a such far south when he wanted to have spent winter talking to her, reading some books together or even skiing, even when both didn’t even know exactly how to do it. He missed Laura, she had always been his safe haven.
The cabin was already lit on the inside, although he didn’t see his father’s car anywhere around. His father would never leave when he wanted the house for himself and now, out of nowhere, he was out all the time, leaving that stranger alone in there. Surely, he didn’t expect Clarice to steal from them or something, but the idea of being alone with her for hours didn’t appeal that much to him. Besides, he also feared deep down that his father would be running away to drink some and reunite with old drunk bar friends. What day was that? Thursday? Perhaps another Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in Derby? Marco didn’t really care.
He got in the house through the terrace door, stepping right inside the kitchen. The inside of the house felt sultry, although he could already smell something neat being cooked.
“Jason told me you like stews,” Clarice said while stirring something inside a big pot in the stove, without even looking at him. “so I decided to prepare one… dear God.”
She finally turned to see Marco and saw the conditions in which his hands were. She dropped the wooden spoon and dried her hands, walking towards him. Her posture was calm, though, hair pulled up in an improvised bun and wearing those old clothes of his mother that resembled worn out pajamas.
“What happened, Marco?”
“Nothing, I just… fell.”
Clarice nodded, showing him the sink while looking for another dish cloth to help the boy.
“I could swear I saw a first-aid kit somewhere…”
“Cabinet beside the fridge, top shelf.” He replied, approaching the sink and shoving his hands right under the running water.
As he previously thought, it hurt. He tried to hold the pain back inside his chest as the water ran through his wounds, carrying away the dirt from the woods and the blood altogether to the drain. The pain had become so intense under the water he felt his limbs tremble as that stinging and stabbing sensation spread through his arms. His body was still shaking when Clarice held his arms and soothed him and helped him clean his hands properly.
“It’s going to burn, but you need some soap. You would hate it to get infected.”
“Thank you.” He replied, rather awkwardly.
“I may not know my past, Marco, but I know fighting wounds. Since human beings do not possess remnants of moss and or wood chips, I think I don’t need to worry about seeing the other guy.”
“I didn’t…”
“It’s okay,” she said as she shut the tap. “We all need some escape valve.”
Carefully and bearing overly soft hands, Clarice dried Marco’s hands with a dry and clean dish cloth, being cautious to avoid any further unnecessary pain. He felt his skin pull and shiver, warm itself up and, at the same time, cool instantly down; Clarice’s touch, however, made it all feel more pleasant. She escorted him to the counter and he sat on the nearest stool, placing his hands over the dark marble.
“Just avoid any valves that could damage you.”
“I wasn’t thinking much, at the time.”
“It must run in the family.”
Clarice opened the small white box with the red cross and removed from it some gauze, what seemed to be some antiseptic solution and common bandages, something Marco knew he could do by himself, but didn’t bother to complain about it.
“He is not drinking again.”
Marco didn’t understand, but didn’t say a thing, either, for he felt the urge to shut his lips when the liquid she poured dropped onto his hand and started to bubble intensely, spreading and burning, effervescing and disinfecting his wounds. A splinter had buried itself in the back of his hand, now partially inl
aid in it, and Clarice removed it with a surgical precision, almost well trained.
“If you say so.”
“He’s not, Marco. When he arrived, he was lost and confused, but there was no smell of alcohol.” She tossed the splinter to the sink. “Believe me, I know it.”
Marco held down. In his mind, thousands of judgements paced around, torn between his father – who he knew quite well – and Clarice and the reason for her to be so generous to them. It was a selfish way of thinking, since they were offering support and had helped a woman on the verge of death, but most of his criticism were about the sheer fact he could be starting to grow fond of her.
“Are the memories returning?”
“Slowly.”
Clarice dried his wounds and stared at his hands closely, just to confirm they were clean. She grabbed another flask and this time he recognized it as the ointment his father or mother always covered injuries that were deeper than bruises and scrapes with. Delicately, she spread a drop of the balm on his knuckles and fingers, always careful not to be too stiff on the touch.
“Was it all about you being angry at your father?”
“I’m not angry at him.”
The scathing look Clarice gave him, followed by that knowing smile made Marco lower his defenses a little bit more.
“I just don’t want him to go back on drinking, y’know.”
“And you think he’s replacing your mother… with me.”
“I’m sorry, I said some stuff I didn’t think about before.”
“Much of what we say without thinking reflects our true hearts.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
Clarice, who had started to bandage his wounds, refrained.
“Not this this, I mean… Try to reconcile us.”
She stopped what she was doing at once. Marco, for instants, feared it would make her nervous and she would have some sort of fit and leave the house for good. He would have a lot to explain to his dad, if he ever arrived. Clarice, then, stood up and walked to the stove, putting out the flame and returning to where she was before, calm and prudent, resuming the activity of closing his wounds.
“I may not remember that much, Marco, but I know what it is like to have a relationship destroyed by an addiction, an aggressive husband and an absent father. Your father is at least trying.”
“Maybe a little too late.”
“Don’t say that, Marco.” Her voices sounded graver, though controlled as usual. “People should be given second chances.”
“Not all people.”
“All.”
“Okay. What about a man who kills a child? Should he be given a second chance?”
Clarice shrugged and started on covering his left hand wounds.
“I am not here to judge, Marco. But I know your father killed no child.”
“My mom’s not here, though.”
Her eyes, focused on his hands, raised briefly and met his. She sighed and kept on it.
“The past is in the past,” She said, finishing the dressing. “But if I may be honest, I agree with you… with some of it. But Jason is trying and, even though I know too little of you, I believe he deserves this support from you. He’s not drinking, Marco.”
“Does your husband drink?”
The question came out faster than his awareness to stop talking before causing a major issue. Now he had already thrown that question, leaving him no way out of that.
“Yes.”
Clarice stood up again, but now she put herself to collect the flasks and gauzes to put them back in the place they belonged. Her eyes seemed steady, her hands… not so much.
“And you think that’s why he tried to kill you?”
“Marco, I don’t…”
“It’s cool. I overheard some of your conversations with my dad. Sorry for that.”
She shook her head and dropped the first-aid kit at the counter, returning her mind to the stew, which was still steaming in the pot.
“There are few memories, but all of them are always soaked in alcohol… and pain. I’m not sure whether to consider this amnesia as a blessing or as a curse.”
He stayed quiet, realizing how his wounds started to get itchy just now that they were all covered and protected. Marco ignored it and grabbed the kit, he would put it away himself. When he came back to the counter, deciding between disappearing under the excuse of taking a shower or staying and talk a little more with her, Clarice looked quite lost, her eyes lost somewhere beyond the window over the sink as if observing the horizon, but without seeing it, per se.
“Do you remember something else?”
“This view… I guess it looks like the one I used to have.”
“Everything looks the same up here, in the mountains.”
“At times, I doubt myself. When you’re in my condition, you realize that telling what’s a memory from what’s something created by your mind is nearly impossible. And it hurts.”
Marco breathed out and pretended to observe the same thing Clarice had been looking for beyond the window. The woman, at last, returned her attention to the stew, placing the glass lid on the pan and tidying the kitchen up distractively.
“You could just go along with it.”
“I cannot.” She replied, once more staring at him. “You know… I have this faded memory and I’m in a field and there’s a child running towards me. And I think it might have really happened, but it could also be a dream that is so embedded into my mind that I want to believe is real.”
“If it makes you feel well…”
“At the same time,” she continued as if his comment hadn’t even been made. “At the same time, I remember this night I returned home and he’d been waiting for me, crumpled, reeking of cheap whiskey and there was anger in his eyes.”
Marco knew what it felt like to be uncomfortable. That moment, however, referred to a feeling so extreme he could barely describe it himself.
“Women talk too much, he told me. All because… all because a friend had made an anonymous tip to the police accusing him of being violent to me.” She broke off her shaken gaze, lost in memories, and she returned to reality in the realization she was talking to a sixteen years old. “Anyway. This one I know to be real and the difference between knowing it or not is crucial.”
“And how do you know this one is real?”
She lifted the hem of her sweater, showing a portion from her back which had a reasonably light scar imprinted on, however too long to have been made by an accident.
“That night I fell from the stairs. Fifteen stitches and a lying testimony saying alcohol had clouded my senses. An accident. I think this is the most common excuse.”
Marco felt his stomach turn inside out as he felt something trying to come up from it and suffocate him, making him much more unease, if it were possible. He didn’t want to show it, but it was extremely visible.
“I’m sorry Marco, I didn’t intend to make you feel like that.”
“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” He believed that questions would make him look less disturbed. “And why didn’t you tell them the truth? The police guys, I mean.”
“I read something about it once. A victim never acknowledges being a victim until finding themselves near death. Maybe that was it. I was being pushed towards a precipice, believing all the way he would hold my hand in the end. And then I fell from it.”
Marco stood up and moved his head sideways, dazzled.
“I think I’ll go upstairs and take a shower.”
Clarice seemed eager to question him or even try and hold him further in the kitchen, but all of that had been too overwhelming for him. He couldn’t exactly point out what had given him that unsteadiness – it was either the abuse caused by the alcohol or the precipice metaphor -, he just knew he needed to leave that place before the feeling got worse and he panicked as well.
VI
She served tea as usual, pouring the boiling water slowly into the mug. The soothing herbs and cinn
amon smell immediately danced on air, following the thick cloud of vapors coming from the liquid. Then she sweetened the beverage moderately, gently stirring the dash of gold to the tea with a small silver spoon and, as she finished doing it, she dropped the teaspoon at the sink and delivered Jason his reward. He kept on watching her, aware that it would still take him a few minutes until he could savor the tea with long gulps the way he loved so much. The feeling was so comforting and delicious he couldn’t hold himself back.
She continued her chores, she still had to prepare her own. And she repeated all the procedures, pouring the steamy water inside the mug and serving herself with a little more honey – for she knew Jason would rather his a little less sweet -, and she picked up a new spoon to stir her own tea, this time with the tranquility of someone who still has eternity to enjoy while sipping from it. At last, as she normally did, she took the spoon to her mouth and smiled, tossing the small piece of silverware to the sink, too.
“We should go hunting.”
Clarice laughed, a so natural and comfortable laughter that got Jason appalled. Ever since she arrived, he had never received such calm laughter from hers like that.
“I barely know how to chop a steak, Jason.”
“I could teach you. I mean it.” He got infected with her chuckles and dreamed of a summer morning as the thick scented smoke from the tea invaded his nostrils while he spun the mug between his hands. “It’s one of those rarest moments where Marco and I have fun together.”
“It would be interesting,” she mumbled while uncovering a blueberry pie resting on the counter. Jason loved the blueberries. “But I’m not sure I should leave the house, I…”
“You’re wary, I know. But I’m a great shot, you’ll be safe with me.”
“I just can’t tell if you will be safe with me.”
Clarice cut two slices from the pie and placed them in two different plates, pushing one to Jason.
“Do we have blueberries?”
She shook her head in a smile that contained more information than she was letting show. Something felt wrong to Jason.
The Woman Hidden Page 12