Cuts Like Glass

by Dana Feldman

  I see nothing, no sign of acknowledgement. He doesn’t seem to know that it’s his father that I’m speaking of. It’s odd though because his father’s photo has been on the news during the year since his disappearance and the two look so much alike.

  He did say that he never kept in touch with him, perhaps that included keeping any sort of tabs on him online. I remind myself that with Gabe’s many reincarnations, any online trails would soon run into cold dead ends.

  But surely the name would sound alarms. I decide to go for it. To just say it aloud, see what happens.

  “Gabe, my husband,” I start, not a flash of any recognition on his face, “he disappeared at sea that day. I don’t know what happened exactly, I’d been hit by something hard, to the back of my head,” I say, my hand touching the area of my skull as I say the words. Still nothing. There’s no sign of any reaction even when I say the name.

  Bob Brown had told me after our first meeting that he was only able to go back five years on Gabe’s name, that there was literally no record of Gabe Griffin before that. “He’s a ghost, this one. I can tell you in all the years that I’ve been doing this, I’ve never been unable to find a paper trail that didn’t lead me to a target’s current whereabouts, even if someone had changed their name,” he’d said to me, a look of defeat on his face.

  He’d further explained that because the fingerprints on file for Gabe also only went back five years that the trail had run cold. The only connection Bob had to Gabe and his two former wives and Peter were long-buried marriage licenses and a birth certificate, all found in a safety deposit box linked to a man matching Gabe’s general physical description: height, build and certain facial features that were identified via security footage from the bank.

  When I asked how he could confirm that these belonged to Gabe, he explained that several other items had also been found in the box. Included were several passports in various aliases, as well as driver licenses with various names, from various states, and credit cards for each identity. The passports and licenses had photographs of a man that had changed his looks: different hair color and cuts, varying eye colors that he explained as contact lenses and even prosthetic noses and chins to further change his appearance.

  “I have a guy,” he’d told me, “that does this sort of thing for a living. He’s what you call a tracker. He hunts and he always finds what he’s looking for. The faces are all from the same man: your husband.”

  “The works,” is what he’d said to describe his findings. The term he’d used to describe Gabe was a Dark Shadow: a person that’s virtually untraceable. When I asked how he was able to find the safety deposit box, he smiled and winked at me. “It’s what I do,” he’d replied.

  I hadn’t stopped ruminating over this information since the day I first met with Bob and read the documents. I was also admittedly very distracted by the two ex-wives and son that my focus had been entirely on those newly discovered facts and not on the real issue: who in the hell had I married? But as the past several weeks had gone by, I had started to try and figure things out.

  I had been given the pieces of the puzzle. I just needed to work out where in the hell each one of them fit. It was now known as fact that Gabe had changed his identity numerous times. He certainly had the money to do so. This would certainly explain the gap in time after he killed Peter’s mother, as well as his second wife, and the time period wherein I met him. Those lost years, if I could just find them, would help me to finally discover whom I shared a bed with.

  “I think that I’ve heard something about it on the news,” Peter says, pulling me back into the conversation. “To be honest, I haven’t been keeping up with much since I got back. The past year is a bit of a blur.”

  I’m grateful that Peter hasn’t been following the case. I’m also determined to discover the real identity of the man that I married. The alias he used when I first met him was one of many and the trail won’t be easy to navigate. Trying to find out who he really is won’t be easy. I decide that now isn’t the time to get into this. I want to wait until I am able to dig deeper into Gabe’s past.

  “I’m very sorry about your husband,” he says, looking at me. I feel as if he’s searching for something, some missing piece that I’m withholding. He’s right, there’s so much that I’m not telling him, and he seems to sense it.

  “Thank you. I just want you to know that things can fall apart for anyone, and I know what it’s like to feel so alone that you can’t stand it.”

  “I just feel like I have no family, and the few friends I still have, they don’t fully understand me anymore, you know?”

  “Yes,” I tell him, “I do know exactly what you mean. So how about it? We’ll just try it out and, if it doesn’t work, no harm, no foul.”

  “Ok,” he says finally, a smile across his face.

  “Ok, then. You said you were leaving at the end of the week and today is Wednesday, so how about I pick you up Friday or Saturday?”

  “Friday is good,” he says, extending his hand for a shake. “Deal.”

  “Deal,” I say, and extend my hand. “And I’ll find out about that job.”

  “Thank you,” he says, “for everything. I guess sometimes even when you think He isn’t, God is looking out for you.”

  “Yeah, I’d certainly like to think so,” I reply, hoping that He hasn’t forgotten about me.

  I walk towards the door to leave. I turn around one last time. “Friday,” I say, “I’ll see you then.”

  He nods and smiles. As I head to my car, I realize that I can’t wait for the next forty-eight hours to be over. This isn’t just about finding out more about Gabe anymore. It’s suddenly about getting to know Peter.

  What will people think? Well, they already think I’m quite horrible so I guess that doesn’t matter. What does matter is Dr. Bryer. I cannot even begin to imagine how he’ll analyze me on this one.

  It’s probably best not to say anything to him at this point. I need him in my corner, just in case. As I drive back to my hotel I notice a car that I feel I’ve seen before. As I get onto the highway I see what I think is the same black sedan that I saw earlier this morning.

  I’ve been visiting Peter a few times a week for three weeks now. I sometimes stay at a local hotel between visits. I always have to head back to Los Angeles for my appointments with Dr. Bryer in between.

  Am I being paranoid thinking that I’m being followed? The windows are tinted so I cannot see who’s in the car. Thinking back on the past several weeks I realize that I’ve been on a schedule with my therapy sessions Mondays and Fridays and my visits here Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays.

  Anyone could’ve learned my schedule and known where I’d be. I breathe a deep sigh of relief as I watch the black sedan get off at the exit before mine. And then I realize that if Gabe were following me, for instance, he’d know to do that.

  He’d know where I’m staying anyway so what difference does it make? I decide to go back to the hotel and get my things. I’ll head back to Los Angeles today.

  I call Bob Brown. He answers on the first ring.

  “Hello, Ella” he says, recognizing my number.

  “Hi, Mr. Brown, I was wondering if you had a moment? I just need to ask you a question,” I say, my voice trembling.

  “You actually caught me at a good time. How can I help you?”

  “That comment that you made to me that day, when you first told me that you’d never come across anyone without a paper trail that could lead you to their current location, ” I begin, tentatively, hoping that he hasn’t forgotten.

  “Yes, I stand by the fact that it’s an odd case,” he replies.

  “Well, then you gave me the documents to show all of Gabe’s various aliases, right?”

  “Yes, but each of those leads ran cold. I could only track each alias for a few years and then it was a dead end.”

  “So what we need to do is to link these aliases together, find out what he did in between during the
dark years where there was nothing,” I say. “It’s during those times that we might be able to discover his real identity.”

  “That’s the part that left me stumped. During those dark years, as you call them, there was nothing on him. He must’ve been living strictly on cash, under the radar. I’m thinking Mexico, maybe Venezuela, some place where people don’t ask too many questions. He would’ve had to go where he could just blend into the crowd.”

  “You must come across a lot of people like this in your line of work,” I say.

  “I do,” he replies with a heavy sigh.

  “Then why is this case so different?”

  “Well, in your husband’s case it’s more than just the fact that I could only find records on him with the name Gabe Griffin from 2009 to 2014, in addition to the other documentation used to create other aliases prior,” he says. I can hear him breathe through the phone, deep and heavy breaths. “It’s also that there is no database with fingerprints matching those used on any of his identifying documents to anyone on any record anywhere.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “Everyone who’s ever had a passport or a driver’s license or any issues with the law has had their prints taken. I couldn’t find his anywhere. You let me search your house, his car and office, as well as, the boat. Everything was wiped clean, but I found one item, something of yours that he’d touched and forgotten to wipe clean.”

  “What?” I ask, fighting to stay in control of my emotions.

  “There was a framed photograph of the two of you on your bedside table. I assume from happier times by the smiles on your faces,” he says.

  I think about the photograph in question. It was from the day he proposed. When we’d gotten back to shore, we’d asked a local fisherman to take our picture. We were so in love, and he was holding me from behind, and I’d turned my head to kiss him. I’d had it made into a black-and-white and had it framed and engraved with the date. I always kept it by my bedside so that it would be the first image I would see when I woke up in the morning and the last before I fell asleep at night.

  “He must’ve picked it up and forgotten about it. I was able to get a pretty decent print off it. There’s no match anywhere to that print. It’s as though he never existed.”

  “How’s that possible?” I ask, completely confused. “He was married before so his prints had to have been taken for the marriage license.”

  “To your question, it isn’t possible,” he replies. “And whatever fingerprints that he used on those licenses, they weren’t his, and I’ve not been able to find the person, or persons, that they belong to.”

  I don’t say anything. I just keep driving. Both hands are tightly gripping the wheel. I can hear Bob Brown breathing through my speakers.

  “Are you still there?” he asks.

  “Yes, I’m still here,” I reply, scanning the road behind me for black sedans. Comfortable that I’m no longer being followed after driving around aimlessly on side roads, I finally pull into the hotel parking lot. All is clear.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Since I don’t feel that I was able to get you everything that you need, I’ll do some more digging and let you know what I come up with,” he says. Just as I’m wondering what else he’s going to look for, he answers my thoughts. “I’m going to find out where he is and what alias he’s using now. And I’m going to find out the names of anyone he’s working with. I have a reputation, you know, I always come through for my clients.”

  I thank him profusely. Just before we got off the phone, he’d warned me to keep an eye out, to be careful and to be fully aware of my surroundings. I promised him that I would.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE GOOD DOCTOR

  I’m noticeably distracted as I arrive at Dr. Bryer’s office for my Friday appointment. I try to play it off as exhaustion but he isn’t buying it, not for a second. He sits in the chair directly across from me, his hand rubbing what’s now turning into a full beard of gray. Stress, I assume.

  I gaze out the window and watch as the blue sky turns a darkened shade of gray. Thick clouds blanket the city, a warning of rain to come. Los Angeles and rain aren’t a good combination. I think about the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the long drive to Santa Barbara and sigh deeply.

  “Any new bad dreams?” he asks. I shake my head no. He makes a note, circling it just once. He looks up at me, waiting for me to say something. I search his eyes for a clue, something that will tell me what he wants for me to tell him.

  “Just a lot of tossing and turning. I wish that I could fall asleep long enough to even have to worry about that, having any sort of dream,” I tell him, knowing full well that the dark bags under my eyes are proof that I’m telling the truth.

  I spent all of last night staring at the ceiling thinking about my conversation with Bob, and of course, that Peter will soon be staying here with me. I also spent a lot of time ruminating over whether or not to share any of this with the good doctor. I don’t think that I can stand the lecture that he’ll surely give me if I do.

  “Have you been taking anything to help you sleep?” he asks, feverishly writing everything down. I’m suddenly extremely cognizant of every movement I make, facial expression I allow him to see, and word that I speak.

  “No, I don’t like to take anything. I always feel foggy the next day,” I reply, straightening my posture, keeping my expression neutral and my tone even.

  “Ella, you need to get your rest. It’s important. Let me just write you a prescription, fill it or don’t. It’s obviously up to you, but I see nothing good coming from you becoming so exhausted that you can’t properly function,” he says, scribbling in his prescription notepad. “Can you see anything good in your progress when you’re not sleeping?” he asks, ripping the paper from the pad and handing it to me.

  “No, I suppose that nothing good can come from that,” I say, taking the paper from him. I’ve always avoided taking medications, especially those for sleep. I’ve always preferred to be alert, in control. I need to be, especially now. “I’ve definitely felt a bit out of sorts the last few days,” I admit.

  “So, how have the last few visits with Peter been in Santa Barbara? I assume that you saw your step-son?”

  I don’t immediately answer him. I instead stare out the window, watching as the clouds gather closer together, trying to figure out the best way to honestly answer his questions without giving away too much.

  “Has this become one of your off-limit topics of discussion?” he asks, trying to sound lighthearted but not quite mastering the attempt. I know that he’s very curious about Peter and my motivations for seeing him.

  “I thought that nothing in here was off-limits?” I ask, trying to match him in tone. I smile and look him squarely in the eyes. He smiles warmly, a show of surrender. He will not bait me further.

  “Well, I can always tell when you prefer not to discuss a particular subject,” he says, sounding ready to change the topic if that’s what I want to do.

  “How’s that? I mean, I’ve answered all of your questions, have I not?”

  “Yes, but you have a certain way of steering the conversation away from certain subjects. We all do that, I understand it,” he says, catching me in his stare. I cannot lie to anyone if they’re looking me in the eye. He must have picked up on this.

  “I suppose that I do that. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about Peter, it’s that I can fully understand how my frequent visits with him the past three or so weeks could seem…what’s the word I’m looking for here?” I stop myself, and think. “I suppose that some might find it all a bit odd, under the circumstances.”

  “There’s no judgment here Ella, you know that, right?” he asks, sincerity in his eyes, in his words.

  “Yes,” I say, “I do. Maybe it’s not that I’m so concerned with your judgment of me, maybe it’s my own of myself.”

  “Tell me. What does seeing Peter make you think about yourself?”

&n
bsp; “If you could just stop recording me and put that damn notebook down for a few minutes, I just might tell you,” I say with a heavy sigh. I smile at him, letting him know that I’m not angry with him for keeping such detailed notes but that I much prefer if he didn’t, while we discuss Peter.

  He puts his notebook and pen down on the coffee table that sits between us. Then he presses the button on the recorder, stopping it. “Okay?”

  I nod my head and smile again, this time slightly embarrassed. I hope that I’m not coming across as insecure as I feel about this matter.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I begin. “I was just going to go and see him once, maybe twice. That was it.”

  “What was your intention exactly?” he asks, crossing one leg over the other, his hands intertwined, cupping the extended knee.

  “I thought that maybe Peter would somehow shed some light for me on his father, something to let me know who Gabe really was. Who he was as a father; I suppose, as a person really. I thought that maybe they’d spoken, made some sort of amends with one another, had a relationship of some kind, any kind.”

  “And this would help you how exactly?”

  “I feel like I have no idea who I married. There were so many compartments in his life. I fit neatly into the one but there were obviously so many more,” I say. I don’t tell him about anything that I’ve learned from Bob or Evelyn. I’m not ready. I’m still not sure how much I can tell him, how much I can really trust him.

  “You have no idea how many patients have said that very same thing to me over the years,” he says, smiling, trying to make me feel like I’m not alone, I suppose. I have to remind myself that there are still so many things that I haven’t told him about my marriage, things that I’ve never told anyone.

  “Well I think that my husband not telling me about two former wives and a grown son would be a bit much for anyone,” I say, stopping myself from blurting out anything further.

  “I’ll agree with you on that,” he says. “But how does continuing to see Peter help you with that? You’ve already told me that they didn’t ever have any sort of a relationship so how can he possibly help you to figure out your husband?”