There Are No Accidents

by Susan Bacoyanis

  “Come back when you have a warrant and I’ll comply with your request,” I stated and I shut the door. I stood with relief, my back pinned against the closed door as Andy swore loudly and withdrew his troops. The first round of games were over. Now I entered the second stage.

  Chapter 12

  THE ILLUSION

  It was still early so I showered and dressed quickly to maximize my time… I had much to do! Tom had laid out our strategy and I must implement each stage perfectly. There was no room for error… this had to look real. I systematically performed my tasks, checking the smallest details; the waste basket by the bed had soggy Kleenex from my tears, with two empty boxes remaining on the floor. The note that Tom wrote was on the night stand and that too was stained with tears. I emphasized the dark circles under my eyes which I drew earlier and left off the lipstick to look especially pallid. I wore dowdy clothes to create the illusion that I was a deserted, forlorn woman and I even left a half-eaten muffin on a plate in the kitchen as evidence of loss of appetite.

  At 8:30 a.m. I entered my garage through the internal connecting door and climbed into my car. Then I remotely opened the garage door and drove out accelerating past the officer on watch. I drove to my attorney’s office and handed him our computers, which I’d concealed in my largest tote bag and he duly locked them away, with our selected documents. He then handed me an iPad in exchange, programed only with innocuous material. I immediately loaded the contents of my external drive onto the iPad, transferring the fictitious material which would point to Tom’s infidelity. Our attorney and Tom go way back, having created a friendship built on mutual respect and a similar sense of humor. Their solid union surpassed all doubt that Tom was innocent, and I was pleased to have this man’s support in Tom’s absence.

  We rode in my car to avoid his prohibition by an overzealous policeman, stopping only at the local Starbucks for a much needed caffeine fix. Once inside my home, we checked every detail of Tom’s elaborate and systematic plan and then waited for Andy’s rabid reappearance. Sure enough, at 11:30 a.m. I answered the expected knock on the door and there was Andy holding up a search warrant for my inspection.

  “Now I would like to conduct a search of your property,” his tone was formal. My attorney joined us at the door and inspected the contents of the warrant and the specific items listed to be seized. When he was satisfied that Andy was acting within the scope of the warrant’s depicted time and location, he allowed entry. “Who are you?” Andy was obviously surprised by my companion’s presence.

  “My name is Robert Foster and I’m an attorney. I’ll be observing your search today in the interest of my friend and client, Frances Hay.” Andy was noticeably taken aback, he wasn’t expecting me to have legal representation.

  The search continued for almost two hours. They looked in every closet, every draw, running their latex gloved hands over my intimate objects, including my underwear and finally gathering up personal documents.

  “Why is this closet empty?” Andy asked, “and the drawers too?”

  “I suspect Tom packed his belongings before he left.” My attorney answered curtly. Andy was silent for a moment and then came the request we had anticipated.

  “Ms Hay, I believe you’re a writer?”

  I nodded. “Have you read my books?”

  “Don’t get time to read… where’s your computer?” I fetched my purse and handed Andy the iPad. I watched as he surfed his way around and inexpertly tried to navigate my files, before announcing that he’d be confiscating it for an in-depth inspection by his IT forensic team. Everything was going according to plan and Andy would soon become entrapped, by each deliberate clue we had planted in our cyber world.

  In due course, the iPad was returned. I would now use it constantly for my emails and writing. How could I disappoint the IT examiners when they access the software they had shrewdly inserted? The home phone would be bugged and my cell too. They would be listening to every conversation, surveying every website and analyzing each email, sent or received. The men posted to watch my house with their long-range lenses, would see nothing untoward and the blinds would be firmly closed to sunlight and darkness. “Expect to be followed and observed for six months, after I leave,” Tom had told me. “They’ll look for patterns in your behavior, so keep to a timetable and they’ll soon lapse due to boredom.”

  I gave my observers a routine that was predictable: I visited my agent, the doctor’s office and frequented the pharmacy for sleep and stress medication. I deliberately wore larger clothes to give the illusion of losing weight. I sobbed during lunch with girlfriends. I watched nauseating movies and played sad CDs to make me cry, perpetuating the illusion of grief and puffy eyes. My weekly groceries included a dozen boxes of Kleenex, which I transformed into wet, soggy trash for the waste-disposal surveillance crew to wade through. Every email I wrote to friends was carefully crafted. I logged every website I visited, deliberately planting mixed clues as to my future plans. Day and night, I appeared transparent, hiding nothing and everything, from these official eyes and ears who were paid to watch!

  Blogging about boring topics on equally boring sites was tedious for the IT observers. The subjects I perused were ostensibly for my research, wide in variety and of little interest to the mundane or the most ambitious nerds. However, for Tom and I blogging was our only form of communication which we carefully devised using two different sites. Tom would write me his news, disguised in a blog on the first prearranged site on our list, that we constructed before he left. My reply would be blogged on a different site and only the two of us would understand the flow of conversation. We changed sites at planned intervals and neither of us would blog on the same site. We had invented a code, so as to keep track of the sequence of our conversation. Tom would sign his blogs, Mr. followed by the beginning letters of the alphabet; Mr. A Mr. B etc. I would sign my blogs, Mrs. followed by the reverse; Mrs. Z Mrs. Y etc. We constantly moved our conversation between sites and for indeterminate lengths of time, consciously avoiding a pattern. I diligently checked into several blog sites daily, ostensibly to read and join a conversation, but my purpose was always to check our sites for adverse information that might signal an alarm in our absent lives. In this time of insanity, I would find some relief in the knowledge that my love was safe and well and he would find reassurance in the same.

  *

  During the first four months of surveillance, I acted the part of a seriously depressed woman, deliberately increasing the intensity. On my micro-recorder, that I use for my writing, I recorded a woman crying and would play back these sobbing episodes, varying the duration. My calls and emails told my tale of woe over and over again. At first the surveillance team may have felt sympathetic and perhaps compelled to intervene to prevent my suicide. But sympathy transforms into complacency and my unvarying habitual behavior would soon bore them. They would lose interest and inevitably process me as a sad, desperate woman whose lover had deserted her in favor of a younger model. Everything was going according to plan.

  The fifth month would bring the beginning of change and a blip to brighten the watch-brigade’s routine. Tom had sent a message in his blog, prompting me to sell the house earlier than we had planned. I began to search online for property valuations in my area. Next I called local realtors and invited them to visit my home. As I spun each realtor my sad tale I noticed a narrowing of their eyes as I spoke of my evil lover, who had deserted me for a younger woman. There was no doubt that these working women had suffered similar fates and they delighted in relaying their experiences of infidelity and consequently, divorce. We formed a bond of female comradery as each one determinedly committed to selling my house. Within two days, there was a For Sale sign in the front yard and I noticed an increase in surveillance.

  I turned to my online search engines and began to view property, as a potential buyer. I carefully constructed confusion as I looked in many areas and differing states. I knew my searches would be scrutinized and Andy�
��s excitement would rise with the thought of my leading him to Tom. He would be disappointed. By the beginning of the sixth month the surveillance team was confused, just as I had intended. Each day was like a chapter from one of my novels… perhaps the next to be written. The novelist inside me took over my daily life, scripting and structuring my story. My dialogue was so convincing that even my closest friends never doubted I was telling the truth. My last chapter would be the most difficult to write. I had to sell my story to Andy… hopefully a happy ending for me, but not the one he envisaged.

  *

  I had no idea where Tom was living. All I knew was that he was alive and safe, which he conveyed through his regular communication, until now. That information was quickly becoming old, as I hadn’t received an update for three days. I took a chance and blogged out of sequence, but had no reply. I walked round and round the room cradling my adrenalin as it elevated beyond my comfort level. This was the moment I had been dreading. Our separation was only bearable if I knew he was safe. Under duress, I did the unthinkable, I broke my routine and checked my blog too frequently. I couldn’t work… I couldn’t hold a thought that did not contain him. He spun in and out of my consciousness suppressing my appetite and sickening my stomach. I paced with jelly legs, imagining the worst as I peered through my blinds at my assembled interlopers. If they were still observing me, Tom was free from Andy’s clutches. Satisfied with their presence, my anxiety leapt to the unknown scenario of what if? What if Tom had simply disappeared? Or what if he had decided not to send for me? Maybe he’d simply changed his mind? This was a clear route to insanity and it took all my mental strength to regain control of my senses.

  At 1:45 a.m. I checked the blog site and to my relief, there was Tom’s cryptic message and it held the best news. I’d waited almost six months for him to send for me and this was it! The blog stated an apology for the delay due to imminent arrangements for me to join him… in Italy! Where in Italy, would become clear in his next blog. I was ecstatic!

  *

  We had previously arranged to advertise the house for sale after six months, but Tom’s intuition to sell now was correct. I was lucky. A cash buyer appeared, so I accepted their offer. I never met the buyers in person, their legal firm handled everything. Nothing happens by chance and all became clear during our next blog session when Tom’s coded message spelled out “a villa in the hills” and then “Amalfi”. It was time to spread the word.

  “I couldn’t bear to remain in this house without Tom,” I told Helen over lunch. “So I’m selling the house and guess what… I already have a buyer!”

  “Great! Where are you planning to live?”

  “Not sure yet… so I’ve decided to rent for a few months. Oh… this is all happening so fast!” I said excitedly.

  “Well, I am surprised, but this seems a healthy decision and it suits you! I’ve not seen you so animated since Tom left.”

  “Well, it’s time I moved on. I need to look after myself now and stop wallowing in self-pity.”

  “I know of a condo in my block… oh and there’s a beach house—”

  “Thanks… but I’ve already organized a rental property.”

  “Oh really… where?”

  “Italy,” I said calmly and smiled.

  “Italy! You’re kidding?”

  I shook my head and repeated, “Italy. I’m renting a villa up in the hills above Amalfi.”

  “What about your work, our contract?”

  “I’m doing what lots of writers do… I’m going abroad to write my best work, undisturbed, in a beautiful location.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes of course! Except for a cook and a housekeeper. I’ll work hard and probably get fat on pasta,” I laughed. Helen threw her arms around me, laughed and asked how long I’d be away.

  “I’m initially renting for three months, with the option to renew, based on obtaining a visa and then… who knows!”

  “I think I’ll join you for a working vacation. Ah… talking about work, you may find this interesting!” and she handed me an envelope. “This is not your usual fan mail type of letter,” she commented, as she prepared to leave. “By the way—” she called over her shoulder, “see if you can find yourself a handsome Italian! Now that would get you over Tom.” She meant this kindly, but “getting over” Tom was not on my agenda.

  *

  I remained at the table to open the letter. My fan mail is always dealt with by the publishers, so I wondered why this warranted a special delivery. The words I read were intriguing.

  Dear Ms Hay,

  Your book, The Journal, was insightful, but it was the original I needed to complete my life story. I want to share that story with you, as our lives are forever intertwined… one with the other. Everything that is affecting you now is due to me. I am the root cause.

  Please contact me.

  Sincerely,

  Gilda C-R.

  There was a P.O. box address and that was it! I buried the letter in my purse, thinking I might stall this curiosity, but it was too late. Her words were etched into the forefront of my mind and they haunted me during my drive home. I questioned how this woman could affect my life. I didn't even know her! But I knew I couldn’t leave for Italy without seeking an explanation, so I composed a reply and suggested she call me.

  Chapter 13

  ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD

  I was busy packing when I answered the call.

  “Ms Hay?” The enquiring voice was that of an older woman. “My name is Gilda.” That was enough to stop me in my tracks. I’d waited for over a week to receive this call.

  “Thank you so much for calling. I’m intrigued to know more. May I suggest we meet?” She eagerly agreed and we arranged to meet later that day. I arrived at the restaurant early, so I could choose the table in the far corner, where we might have some privacy. I sat in anticipation, wondering who I was about to encounter and what mystery linked us together. Several people hustled through the entrance and it wasn’t until the group was ushered to their table, that I saw the back view of a solitary woman standing at the front desk. I watched furtively as she spoke to the seating host, who pointed in my direction and then she turned towards me. There was a flash, as a streak of light pirouetted across the mirrors reflecting pure gold and I knew her instantly. Her small frame moved quickly past the tables, resembling a locomotive flashing through a tunnel. With one last strike the lightning was grounded and she stood before me with an outstretched hand and a smile.

  “Hello,” she said. “I have never seen a woman so driven in obtaining the object of her desire. I admire your tenacity,” and Goldie sat down beside me.

  “I’m not sure if I should thank you or apologize,” I replied. “It seems that we both had a strong desire for Lauren Carter’s journal. My objective is clear, but I’m curious to know yours?”

  We organized some drinks and relaxed into each other’s presence, searching for empathy and perhaps the beginning of friendship. She drew a deep breath, looked me in the eye and began her story.

  “I attended the auction solely to acquire Lauren Carter’s journal, because I wanted to read about my son. Even if it was loathsome, he was still my son… carrying my genes. I bought your book, The Journal, as soon as it was published and I gave a copy to my son. Yes… I was a frequent visitor of his while he was in prison. He seemed to enjoy our reconnection, but once he was released, I hardly saw him… and now he’s dead. I didn’t like him, he was a despicable, reprehensible person but as a mother, I loved him.”

  “Gary Carter was your son?” I was amazed! I wanted to hear more, so I listened intently.

  “When I was very young I married a dangerous man. He was a confidence trickster, what you call a ‘conman’. His seemingly harmless way of surviving progressed into criminal behavior and I soon found myself alone. I was a deserted wife in a foreign country, with no home, no money and a newborn baby. I was desperate, I could give him nothing. I could barely feed myself, so I
put my son up for adoption. I convinced myself that he would have more opportunities; an education, a better life with a couple who really wanted a child and so it was arranged. It was the most difficult decision of my life.” She wiped a tear away, sipped her drink and continued. “I worked hard, struggled to stay alive and eventually my state of adversity flourished into prosperity. I married again, but was unable to have more children, so I decided to search for my only son. I employed an agency and after several years, they finally traced him to the penitentiary and that’s where we became reunited.” She paused and leaned towards me, as if taking me into her confidence, “You see, my dear, in life, there are no accidents. Good people, bad people, they are the product of their genes and life experiences. You can’t fix them if they don’t want to be fixed and Gary was no exception. He wanted everything to come easily, whatever the cost.”

  A sense of shame came over me as I remembered the initial feeling of hostility I had felt towards this woman, judging materialistically by her ostentatious taste in jewelry. Now, I found myself captivated by her pragmatic intelligence and pertinacious courage. She was obviously wealthy, well groomed, and wearing designer apparel with expensive accessories. “You could easily have outbid me. Why didn’t you?” I asked.

  “I have to admit, that it was sheer conceit. I glimpsed something of myself in you. I turned around in that auction room and saw myself as a younger woman, standing in your place. You bid with such intensity that I thought you would have killed me, rather than lose the journal,” and she laughed. “You see my dear, our lives are inextricably intertwined. I am the root cause… the mother of an evil man who has affected your life. The consequences of my decisions, have brought us together in the sharing of this moment.” Her eyes pierced mine vividly and then instantly softened as she added, “I have had an extraordinary life… and you too, that’s why we’re drawn together. I’m asking you to write my biography. I can assure you that I have enough material to hold your interest… you won’t be bored. I want you to write about me, as you did Lauren, with the same intensity and compassion you displayed in the writing of The Journal. Maybe this will be your next book? You and I are connected not only through our past, but our future too.” Goldie’s philosophy had launched into the sphere of metaphysics as she sat back in her chair with a complacent look on her face.