by Abbi Cook
"Three it is. Congratulations! Come, come! We must celebrate!" my mother says to the man who is still watching me from down on the floor.
And then I'm alone in the room, my mother and all her guests gone to some other place to celebrate. There has been no cake and no presents, and my birthday has come and gone.
I wake up in a cold sweat, my nightgown drenched down to my waist. Turning my head, I see Adam sleeping soundly on his side of the bed. He snores lightly as he always does at this time of year because of his allergies. I want to wake him and talk about my dream.
As I sit in bed still shaken from the images I saw in my sleep, I realize the man in the audience calling out the number was my husband. He seemed to not know me well, so it must have been before we were married.
Had he been right about the white gown and my mother wrong? If so, why didn't my dream include the walk we took that was so lovely that warm evening?
I begin to think this wasn't a dream but a nightmare. Did it mean something? I have no idea, but I can't continue to suffer through sleepless nights because of the thoughts running through my head. I have to find some way to quiet my mind.
Chapter Thirteen
Natalie
As much as I know my sister has enough to deal with still coming to grips with Lauren's death, I awake in the morning exhausted from a night of tossing and turning and desperate to talk to Claire about what I'm going through. It will be good for me to get some of this off my chest, and it'll be good for her to have something to occupy her mind other than thinking about our sister.
At least that's what I tell myself as I get ready to leave for the drive to Georgetown to drop my car off at the shop and then visit her while I wait.
Claire and her husband Albert live in an old red brick home he bought for her as a wedding gift. It cost a fortune, but she married a man who seems to enjoy spending money, especially when it comes to his wife.
The five bedroom, four bath, thirty-five hundred square foot home feels ridiculously large for just two people, but Albert likes to remind anyone who mentions how much house it is for just the couple that once children come along, they'll be happy he chose a home with all those rooms. While I might think he overspent on the place, I like the idea that he's free with his money when it comes to Claire. She deserves that and everything he can give her.
The owner of a shipping business, he's found the key to success and doesn't mind sharing that success with his wife. I envy her for that. Adam has certainly done well for himself in his real estate development business, and I certainly reap the benefits of that, for sure. He's just not very free with spending money like Claire's husband.
After leaving my car with the mechanic, I walk the couple blocks and up the side stairs into the pristine white kitchen Claire keeps spotlessly clean at all times. A perfect wife when it comes to things like that, she wouldn't dream of having a cleaning lady come into her house like I've been known to do. I've tried to convince her that it's money well spent, but she claims she enjoys keeping the house clean. I even tried to explain to her that Adam insists that we have someone come in because no wife of his should spend her days scrubbing floors or cleaning toilets. She wasn't moved by my argument.
"I like taking pride in my home. It's not like I do anything else in life," she told me. Personally, I think she was underestimating all she does for Albert, but once she said that, I never brought up the subject of a cleaning lady again.
I walk into the white dining room next to the kitchen and smile as I pass the blue and gold abstract painting Adam and I gave them for a first anniversary gift. Surrounded by all that white, it stands out even more than I thought it would.
Everything in Claire's house is white or grey, except for the tan and brown tile backsplash in the kitchen, the tan and gold wallpaper in the guest powder room on the main floor, and the walnut hardwood floors. White walls and trim. White furniture. White rugs in the public areas. Then all the bedrooms are in a shade of grey that hints at blue but never gets there. Claire says she saw the color scheme in a magazine when she was researching what colonial style homes should look like inside. Something about the monochromatic colors being calming and classic.
Only one area of her house isn't white or grey, and that's where I find her sitting waiting for me. Just off the living room, outside on a patio that makes you forget you're sitting in one of the busiest cities in the world, she has a secluded area with pink and white rose bushes that reminds me of a corner of the yard at my mother's house. Trees full of deep green leaves provide just the right amount of shade from the midday sun, and on unseasonably warm spring days like today, you'll find Claire sitting out there reading a book on that cast iron patio furniture that reminds me of something you'd find at a house in Tuscany.
This private area of hers doesn't fit with the rest of the house, and I like to think that this is the true style my sister would have decorated her home in if she could have. It's warm and welcoming, just like her.
I spy her there as I make my way through the living room to the French doors that lead outside to the patio. My shoes make a tapping noise as they leave the white carpeting and hit the hardwood floor, alerting her to my presence. She looks up from her book and smiles that beautiful smile that never fails to light up a room.
"You're early. I thought it would take you longer to get here. I haven't even gotten the iced tea out yet," Claire says as she stands to head into the kitchen. “I’ve changed from water to iced tea these days.”
I wave off her concern as I join her outside. "I'm fine if you are. I'd rather spend all our time out here anyway. I love this secret hiding place of yours."
She rolls her eyes at my description of her patio. "You have a gorgeous backyard, and it's ten times the size of this little grotto I have here."
"True," I say as I sit down in the chair next to hers with the comfy orange seat cushion. "But it's not like this. I love how this place feels. Like you have your own secret hiding spot."
Claire's long brown hair falls into her eyes, so she casually pushes it off her face, revealing how much she's suffered in the months since Lauren disappeared. Still beautiful, now her deep blue eyes look slightly sunken in, the effect highlighted by the dark circles under them. Her cheekbones stick out more than before too, but she doesn't look gaunt so much as weary.
Weary at twenty-one.
Always worried about others, she asks with true concern, "Are you sure about the iced tea? I can have it ready in a minute or so."
"I'm fine. Relax. Let's enjoy this beautiful day."
In truth, if I didn't have so much I wanted to talk to her about, I would be interested in a glass of iced tea since the temperatures have to be pushing the mid-eighties already and it's barely noon. But what I need to discuss is more important than quenching my thirst right now.
First, though, I need to find out if she's just looking weary or if she's truly still feeling that way. Not that anyone should dictate how long a person should miss someone, but I had hoped by now she'd be feeling better. Claire has always felt everything so acutely, so it shouldn't surprise me Lauren's disappearance is affecting her this much.
"How have you been?" I ask, hoping that leaves the door open for her to talk about anything and everything she may be feeling.
"I've been better lately," she answers half-heartedly, as if she doesn't have it in her to lie anymore about how she's doing.
But if that's the truth, she's doing better than she was just a couple weeks ago. There's something to be thankful in that, no matter how small the improvement is.
"Albert tells me every morning that he's worried I'm going to fade away on him. He insists on having food delivered to the house every day so I don't have to cook dinner. At the rate he has me eating, I'm going to be a blimp by fall," she says with a smile.
I can't stop my eyebrows from rising up into my forehead. Quickly scanning the length of her body, I see the blue T-shirt she's wearing is hanging off her shoulders and her collarb
one looks bony and sharp. I suspect when she stands up I'll see her Capri pants are hanging off her too. Forget about making it to blimp size. I just hope by fall she's back to her normal weight.
"What kind of food delivery is he doing?"
She shrugs and scrunches up her face. "I don't know. Lots of healthy foods but it's all cooked and ready to be eaten. All you have to do is open the container and voila! Dinner is served."
"You don't seem too happy about it. Doesn't it taste good?"
She nods her head up and down quickly before she works to dispel the thought that Albert is feeding her terrible food. "Oh, no. It's fine. I'm just not a big fan of delivered food every night. I miss cooking."
I chuckle at the thought of missing cooking. "I'd love to eat like that for a few weeks. It sounds so easy."
My confession isn't news to my sister. She knows how much I've always hated cooking. "You would love it, I'm sure. Sometimes I think you got the wrong husband, you know that? Albert would be happy to never have me cook again and always eat out at restaurants, and I know he'd be thrilled if I told him we should have a cleaning lady. You'd be the perfect wife for him."
She conspicuously doesn't mention being the perfect wife for my husband. While they've never acted any way other than respectful toward one another, I've always had the sense that my sister doesn't think as highly of my husband as I do of hers. In truth, Adam would probably love it if I was more like Claire. He'd likely enjoy his meals more, at the very least.
I laugh at the thought of my being the perfect wife for anyone, including Albert Sampkovitch. "He would demand we eat out all the time after eating one of my meals, for sure."
Like always, my sister tries to convince me that I'm too hard on myself when it comes to that, but I know better. More often than not, my husband's mildly disgusted expression after he takes the first bite of dinner tells me all I need to know about my cooking skills.
"Have you talked to Mom lately?" I ask, hating to bring down the feeling of our conversation with this new subject.
Claire shakes her head sadly and frowns. "It's like Lauren merely went away on another European tour to her. She doesn't understand why I'm sad, and I don't understand why she's not."
"I know. I went to see her the other day, and she's puttering around her garden like it's any normal late spring day. Like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Maybe if she'd shown some emotion when it happened, I wouldn't still be looking for it now, but…"
My sentence drifts off to nothingness as I try to put into words what I know Claire doesn't need to hear again. Our lives were changed that day Lauren went missing. For me, there's a hole in my world that won’t be filled again until she returns, and if I wasn't dealing with my attack and all the bizarre things that have been happening to me, I might be as distraught as Claire still is. For my mother and Tess, it barely registered as a blip on the radar of their lives before they moved on like nothing happened.
Well, that might not be an honest description of my mother's experience. For Tess, that's true, but for my mother, it's like she never moved out of one stage of grief.
"Is she still as angry as she was when it happened?" Claire asks, almost reading my mind.
I nod, not understanding that anger still to that moment. "Yeah. She snapped at me the other day when I brought up Lauren in conversation. I don't know when she's going to start dealing with it like she should."
"What is it they say now? I think they added some stages to grief and now there are seven," Claire says quietly. "I don't care how many they claim there are. I just know I can't seem to get past missing her so much. Why do you think she’s never even called?"
I reach over and touch her lightly on the arm, knowing it doesn't help but wishing the gesture did. "I don't know about those things. I just know I want you to someday be happy again, Claire. Lauren would want that too. She does want that, wherever she is at this moment. You know that. She had a love of life that never went unnoticed."
My sister sighs and shakes her head. "We can’t talk about her in the past tense. She’s out there somewhere, Natalie. I just don’t understand why we haven’t heard from her. Why hasn’t she at least called to say she’s okay?"
It's the question that has stumped me since the moment I heard she ran away that night. Out of all of us, Lauren was the one who had the most plans. She wanted to conquer the world. She had such a future, and I can only imagine the kind of man she would have married. No real estate developer for her. Her husband would have to be a world explorer.
Claire doesn't need to hear about that unlimited future for Lauren at the moment, though, so I shake my head and give the same answer I have for months. "I don't know. I wish she would."
We sit silently as that reality settles in anew around us. In truth, it never leaves either of us. I just have the benefit, if I can call it that, of having other problems that give me a respite from thinking of Lauren.
Claire's mention of the European tour my mother so loved to send everyone but me on rattles around in my brain while we sit there not saying a word, making me think back to my nightmare. Curious if anything my sister remembers of that time could jog my own memory, I say, "I'm still a little jealous you three got to go on that trip and I couldn't."
My confession surprises her, tearing her from her thoughts. "Really? I'm more upset about the fact that I didn't get to be with you when you got married. Then again, we didn't get to do that when I got married either, so I guess it's just the way it goes."
"I wish Mom hadn't done that to us," I say wistfully.
"You broke my heart that day we left. It was so sad. You were crying so much, Natalie. I begged Mom to let me stay, but of course, she said no."
"Really?" I say, utterly stunned to hear I was upset. I don't remember that at all.
"Oh, yeah. I'd never seen you cry like that. It was terrible."
"What did Mom do?" I ask. Knowing our mother, she probably scolded me and sent me to my room.
Claire looks uncomfortable telling me as she says, "She just shook her head and rolled her eyes. You must remember. I'd never seen you so upset. I worried for days until I finally could call her to make sure you were okay. She said you were fine and not to worry, but I didn't believe her until you got on the phone."
"How did I sound when you talked to me?"
"Resigned but at least you weren't crying anymore."
I listen to her tell me about how I behaved like I have no idea what she's talking about because in reality, I don't. None of this sounds even vaguely familiar. It makes me want to know even more.
Leaning forward toward her, I quietly confide in her at last. "I'm having a hard time remembering some things lately. Things I should know."
Concern washes over her expression, and her deep blue eyes fill with worry. "Like what?"
I hesitate for a moment, uncomfortable to admit the truth even to her, but the need to tell someone overwhelms me and the words come tumbling out. "Things from our childhood. Things from when I met Adam. Lots of things. Like do you remember the night I went out to see Venus and the moon and you and Mom came out to find me in the backyard? I forgot that entirely until the other day when it all came back to me after you described what happened."
"Do you think the memory loss and the fainting have to do with one another?"
Shaking my head, I answer, "No. I think they both have to do with the attack when I went unconscious."
I want to tell her more, but I need to ask about something important first. In a voice barely above a whisper, I utter the strangest words that have ever come out of my mouth.
"What can you tell me about my wedding? I know you weren't there, but you heard things, right?"
Claire's eyes open wide in shock at my question. "You really don't know?"
I shake my head again and admit the terrifying truth. "No. Nothing. It's like a void in my memory."
"Have you told Adam?" my sister asks, a logical question to ask a wife. But nothing about this is
logical.
"No. How could I? I haven't told anyone until you right now. I can't."
"What about your doctor?"
Another logical question. In her despair, she can think logically. I can't.
"No. He wouldn't understand."
Even worse, he might tell Adam.
Claire sits quietly for a moment and then stands up abruptly. "Wait here. I'll be right back."
She returns a minute later and hands me a card. "A lady at the library gave this to me. I go there to get out of the house sometimes and I talk to a woman there. Please don't tell Albert about her. He thinks I go to look at the art books about Etruscan statues. That's what I told him. One day a couple weeks ago she gave me this card and told me to call this person. She said he can help."
Lowering her head, Claire adds, "I haven't called him but you should. He might be able to clear things up for you."
I look down at the white business card with navy blue words printed on it. Dr. Jacob Trevino, Therapist.
"I'm not sure I should go to anyone like this," I mutter quietly, knowing what Adam would think of me seeing a therapist.
"I think you should go."
Lifting my gaze to meet hers, I ask the obvious question. "Why me and not you?"
Before she answers, Claire smiles and I know I haven't offended her with my bluntness. "Because I'm just sad. That's normal. Forgetting huge swaths of your past isn't."
I force a smile as the fact that I haven't even told her about the nightmares and visions rolls through my mind. She would probably force me to see this therapist if she found out about those.
"I don't know if I'm going to go, but promise me you won't tell anyone we talked about this. Even Albert."