Forgotten

by Neven Carr

  Shit.

  My cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment. I cleared my throat and returned indoors. Confusion was still my enemy or perhaps, in this case, it was my friend, protecting me from making an absolute fool of myself. I heard a shuffling movement behind me, but I resisted the temptation to glance his way.

  “Milo should be here soon,” I said, looking at my watch. “Want a coffee while we wait?”

  Saul accepted, and I headed to the kitchen. As I entered it, I froze.

  “What’s wrong?” Saul asked.

  “My kitchen, it’s, well, it’s… tidy.”

  “And that’s unusual?”

  I recalled the last time I was in it, Christmas morning, when Nate had come to collect me. I recalled Nate’s shaken look because of its abysmal state, and my unease at his ‘shaken-ness.’ Now, before me, was something altogether different.

  For starters, the sink was empty; that in itself was conspicuous. But, the bench tops, the stainless steel surfaces of the oven, the microwave, dishwasher, fridge were so spotless, I could practically see my reflection in them. As for the floor, it glistened with the noticeable scent of lavender. My kitchen hadn’t just been tidied; it had been cleaned, meticulously so. I explained this to the man near me.

  “Could Nate have cleaned it for you?”

  I looked at Saul and laughed. “Are you kidding? Nate has trouble making a bed. In my family, the male species aren’t trained in menial house duties.” I looked around again. “No, Nate didn’t do this. And I know he wouldn’t have said anything to my parents.”

  “Someone else then? Mel perhaps.”

  I recalled Mel’s phone conversation earlier and her derogatory comments regarding the condition of the unit. She had collected my belongings and was as mortified as Nate was. I also knew there was a better chance of Mel succumbing to a tooth extraction than housework. If she had done something so selfless, there was no way she could’ve kept it to herself. I shook my head.

  I strolled down the short hallway and entered the bathroom. Like the kitchen, it shimmered with an aroma of purity and orderliness. The sink, the bath, the toilet, faultless. Two teal-blue towels hung from the polished rails, impeccably folded, each aligned with the other. Nearby, a matching face cloth, arranged in one of those origami-style flower shapes, ornamented the vanity. Even the large-beveled edge mirror was completely smudge-free, displaying the perplexity on my face.

  A horrifying sense of deja vu quickly hit me, disturbing images of overly cleansed kitchens and mirrors and floors.

  Of Simon.

  “Saul, this is really freaky,” I murmured, not sure if he could hear my low, scratchy sounding voice.

  Thankfully, he did. “We’re leaving, just until I get this place checked over.”

  I couldn’t have been happier.

  But what if….

  Trancelike, my head slowly spun to the right. I looked past the office and the spare bedroom until I reached my own bedroom. There was nothing remarkable about it, nothing outwardly sinister.

  Except, unlike all the other rooms, the door was closed.

  Call it some twisted curiosity of mine or some bizarre need to prove my ridiculous suspicions wrong. But I began taking small, unhurried steps towards my room. Saul called out to me. I stopped but not because of Saul. I breathed in once… then gasped… breathed several more times to be sure. The strong disinfectant, the open sliders, the closed bedroom door.

  All needed…

  … to stifle that smell.

  A thin film of moisture prickled my skin. And the continuous thud in my ears was deafening - Saul’s voice becoming nothing more than a perpetual, distorted drone.

  Simon.

  I sprinted to the door and with one quick turn of the knob, shoved it open.

  And there he was. On my bed.

  I wasn’t sure when the mental part of the shock actually connected with the physical. But for a split second, I was able to take in the entire scenario, the horizontal position of the body, the limbs, the head and the rose petals, scores of the crimson red shapes framing his figure. “Simon,” I whispered, before falling into the long-awaiting shadows. “Simon,” I repeated with more urgency.

  And in that precise instant, just as the hungry darkness overtook, I actually imagined he answered.

  ***

  How can darkness be so malevolent, so menacing, when even there, beauty can exist.

  Here I was in the nucleus of its ethereal gloom, staring directly into the eyes of beauty.

  The eyes of Simon.

  He had risen from the richly shaded bed of flowers, looking as impressive as the first rays of sunshine after a series of overcast days. He glided towards me and once there, stood directly opposite. His face glistened with inimitable joy, his expression tender, empathetic, his bright, hazel eyes brimming with love.

  He was as I had always remembered him.

  Tears pricked my eyes as I fought to adjust to what I was witnessing. There was no rational explanation to describe it, only that I was staring into the man I had loved for many years, the man to whom I was willing to commit myself.

  The man I also knew to be dead.

  How could this be even possible? “Simon,” I whispered. “Is that really you?” I was afraid of his answer.

  He smiled that smile I knew so well, the one I would’ve touched and kissed many times. I reached out to him but he fast shifted back into the shadows, signaling for me to keep my distance. My heart stumbled. To smell his familiar scent, to feel his arms around me once again, was all I thirsted for. Why would he move away?

  “Clauds,” he said. “Don’t cry. I hate it when you’re sad.”

  I choked at the sound of his voice. I hadn’t heard it in such a long time. It was like hearing fine music when there had been none. “Sad?” I half-laughed. “How could I be sad with you here?” Again, I stepped forward. Again, Simon told me not to. “Why can’t I touch you?”

  His eyes saddened. “It’s just not possible. And… and I can’t stay.”

  Something strong rocked me and I almost lost balance. “What… what are you talking about?”

  “I can’t stay,” he said again, this time with more firmness.

  My stomach began convulsing. I clutched it hard. “I don’t understand.”

  But he stood there motionless, speechless; an indescribable look spread across his face.

  “Why are you here then?” I spluttered.

  Long, free strands of hair suspended over one of his eyebrows as it always had, but unlike before, he did little to sweep it away. Instead, he watched me, somber now, unsmiling. “Ask the question, Clauds,” he said in soft, slow rhythms.

  Question? What question?

  I asked Simon; not that I cared. I didn’t want to be bothered with any question. I didn’t want to be bothered with anything that didn’t concern him or us. I was being selfish, I know, but I only wanted him. Fresh tears found a bottomless well and I furiously brushed them away.

  “Ask the question,” Simon repeated, in the same, deliberate manner.

  “Why?”

  His head swayed to one side. The gentility of the movement melted what little remained of my heart. “Because the answer will give you something important… something just for you.”

  I shook my head with an unexpected ferocity. “You are what’s important.”

  “And that’s why you need to do this and because I want you to be happy.”

  Was he serious? “I can’t ever be happy without you.”

  His luminous smile lit the bleak shadows, furnishing him with an almost spectral appearance. It was beguiling, his smile. His eyelids opened and fell almost in slow motion. “You will be happy,” he said, “And it’s okay, Clauds, it’s very okay.”

  I watched his face beam with love. What could I say or even do to prevent the inevitable from happening. “I love you, Simon,” I whispered the only thing I knew. But it wasn’t enough. With all the wonders that love could do, it still had its immovabl
e boundaries.

  Love couldn’t return life to the lifeless.

  He reached out to me, but no sooner than he did, he withdrew. His brow tightened into a painful grimace. My heart ached to an unbearable level. I would’ve been happy to remain there, just Simon and me, simply existing in this fathomless, unworldly darkness for an indefinite period.

  But Simon had to go.

  I didn’t think I could endure it again. I searched his face for a little latitude, but there was none. “Where… how?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he replied. “I just need to know that you will be. Do what I ask, promise me, Clauds.”

  And in the end, I had no other choice but to agree. For a short while, he existed there, until he smiled for one last time. I watched him slide away into the dismal shadows, return to the floral laden bed and to his previous pose.

  It all seemed surreal as he methodically locked his two hands, one over the other and fixed them above his heart. He fastened his gaze upon mine. “Always yours,” he mouthed and before another second passed, he closed his eyes and became rigid once more.

  “No,” I yelled, but the word remained stuck in my head. I tried to move but I seemed incarcerated. Panic fed my determination, engineered my persistence to keep crying out his name, to awaken him from this eternal sleep.

  An ear-splitting silence reigned instead. But, I couldn’t give in.

  With one final, momentous pool of energy, I screamed.

  Chapter 23

  Claudia

  December 27, 2010

  11:25 am

  I JERKED AWAKE.

  My head was dizzy, muddled and the sudden light intrusive. I groaned, threw my arm over my eyes and shut out the world.

  What the shit was happening?

  “Just give yourself time,” a male voice said. “You’ve had quite a nasty shock.”

  I had?

  “But you will be fine.”

  Fine? I didn’t feel fine at all. Who was this man?

  I peeked beneath my wrist. Although slightly better, everything was still oddly off-balanced. When I finally stopped blinking, it was to see a familiar face. “Dr. Camparo? What are you doing here?”

  I took a moment to establish where here was. Further peeks informed me in my unit, stretched out on my back along my sofa, my bare feet raised unceremoniously on the sofa’s armrest. Something soft and grey was strapped to my arm, beginning to balloon.

  “Making sure you’re okay, my dear girl. Otherwise, Mrs. Camparo would have my head on one of her horribly menacing chopping blocks.” I felt his broad laugh ripple through his short, chubby body and into the sofa.

  The Camparos, both retired, both Italian, lived in the upstairs unit. Since I had moved into Zephyr, almost a year ago, they had treated me like their surrogate daughter, often spoiling me with home cooked meals.

  Dr. Camparo ripped the monitor free from my arm. “Your blood-pressure is back to normal,” he said. “We were worried about you. You were out for a good fifteen minutes.”

  I tried to straighten up. It was challenging. “I don’t remember what happened.” I was suddenly aware of the constant drone of voices behind me. Who were they and what were they doing in my home?

  Dr. Camparo held my half-raised head and tilted a glass of water to my mouth. I sipped. It felt good. I sipped some more. Before long, I was sitting upright, still a little woozy, but feeling a lot less like a child’s spinning toy.

  Centered on the far wall, directly opposite, was a large, striking profile shot of Papa and me, taken on my twenty-first birthday. Our foreheads were just touching, our eyes locked with the other. Categorical and unconditional love poured from every single living pixel.

  Below was a quote I had stolen from a poster:

  The reason why daughters love their Dads the most, is….

  That there is at least one man in the world who will never hurt her.

  A series of horrible shivers worked through my body.

  “If it helps any,” Dr. Camparo began and then stopped. He rolled up the monitor, unclipped a nearby, heavy-duty black bag and slipped the monitor into it.

  “If it helps any,” I echoed.

  He side-glanced me and sighed, long and heavy. “You kept calling out his name, Simon’s name.”

  Simon?

  I spun in the direction of the unbroken babble and caught sight of blue uniforms and white coats. Police. There were police in my home.

  Simon.

  Shit.

  Using the side armrest as support, I stood. My legs were rickety but it didn’t stop me. I thieved a second or two to steady them, and allowed the sharp shot of adrenaline to carry me forward. I ignored the repetitive concerns from Dr. Camparo, the loud admonitions from the law enforcement, and the unfriendly hands blocking my way.

  I had only one thing in mind.

  Simon.

  Simon and the bed of flowers.

  As I neared my bedroom, a large hand grabbed my arm. I tried to shake it off but it was too powerful. “Angel, don’t….”

  “Ethan,” I said, half-crazed, still lunging forward. “It’s Simon.”

  “What?” Ethan’s grasp weakened. And I immediately broke free.

  Somewhere in the distance, an angered voice yelled, “Get her out of there!” There was no mistaking that greasy, autocratic tone.

  Weatherly.

  Regardless, I pumped on, that chronic sense of deja vu, that repugnant odor of death once more haunting me. When I reached the doorjamb, I grabbed it and then gazed numbly at the man on my bed. “Simon…,” I whispered.

  But the man on the bed was not Simon.

  I shrank back. The man was elderly, perhaps sixtyish, grey-haired, his drawn face heavily stubbled. I buckled over and clasped my now, cramping stomach. Where was Simon? Nausea rose.

  I dashed to the bathroom. I threw my head over the sink and dry retched several times before finally throwing up. I didn’t even notice Ethan until I spotted his mystified reflection in the mirror. He was abnormally lost for words. Adrenaline was fast deserting me along with my sanity. Ethan helped me to the bath where I balanced precariously on its ceramic edging.

  Within seconds, Weatherly appeared. His skin was like one who had accidentally fallen asleep in an overlooked solarium. “What do you think you’re doing traipsing all over the crime scene?”

  Ethan strapped his arms around me. I could make out a low growl inside his chest. “Piss off, you bastard.”

  Weatherly huffed and twitched, looked sideways a few times, then back at us. “Watch yourself, Sloane. Don’t think just because you sit under Reardon’s umbrella, that that’ll protect you, forever.” He grinned that malicious grin of his and then stormed off.

  Ethan brushed my long fringe off my face. “You could’ve just told me you didn’t like French toast.” He looked at the once sanitized bowl where my breakfast remains were most likely still evident. If I didn’t feel so wretched, I would’ve smiled. “Where’s Saul?” I asked instead.

  “Right here.” Saul stood where Weatherly had been seconds earlier. He sounded strangely irritated. But, I had no time for it. I pulled myself up. “It’s Simon.”

  Saul glanced at Ethan, then back at me. “Are you talking about the man in the bedroom? That man isn’t Simon. His name is Danny Souza.”

  I bit my lip. One of the supposed gun clan? Of course. And, so this ridiculous pattern continues.

  Except that is, for Simon.

  Anxiety gnawed at me. “You have to listen, Saul. It’s the same as Simon, the whole position of the body, the colored flowers, the distinctive tilting of the head….”

  I choked on the last words as I recalled the unearthly experience I had while passed out, as I recalled Simon’s loving words, the absolute finality of his closing eyes. I pressed my messed-up head into my hands.

  Had Simon really existed? If only for a moment? Or had it been nothing more than my subconscious working overtime.

  It had certainly felt real.

  And ou
r love more than.

  I recalled my absurd, embryonic feelings for Saul. And just as quickly, I sensed a massive disloyalty to Simon. The bathroom walls began closing in on me, shrinking the space I needed to function. I was suffocating, smothering under my own rising mania.

  I had to get out of there.

  “What do you mean?” Saul asked me.

  My voice was less urgent. In fact, with each retreating step, numbness began to spread throughout me. “Check the police records. And you’ll see; it’s the same.”

  “But that was almost fifteen months ago,” Ethan piped in. “Why would anyone go to so much trouble to copy that particular crime?”

  Saul was doing the whole, frantic rubbing of his brow thing. “I don’t know,” he said, in a un-Saul like edginess. “Maybe, maybe someone who really wants to tilt Claudia over the edge.”

  Well, touché.

  “I have to sit outside.” I didn’t wait for a reply from either man. I steered my way past the disparaging-looking police, collected my leather ballet flats and pulled them on. I then stepped onto the patio and slumped into one of the chairs. I tried to focus on the ocean but somewhere in the past hour, its beauty had subsided and its ability to pacify had waned.

  “You okay for a while?” It was Saul. “I’ve a few more things to do and then I’ll take you home.”

  “Home?” I laughed. It came out more as a cough. “Saul, I am home.” But even as those words left my lips, I knew that that would never be the case again.

  Saul said nothing.

  “Did Milo ever turn up?” I asked.

  Saul’s no was emphatic.

  “Then why ask to meet me here?”

  Unless….

  “You don’t think he would’ve known about this?” Even suspecting such a thing appalled me.

  Saul stepped closer. “I’ve already thought of that.”

  “But that’s not him, Saul. And you know what Weatherly will think.”

  “Weatherly doesn’t know. I haven’t told him, not until we find out the truth.”