Fighting Gravity

by Julie Adams

  The scenes around me shift and became hazy. Fading out.

  I'm waking up.

  I’m breathing hard, my heart rate slowing at the relief of being awake and out of the dream.

  Still, I feel like I'm being watched. Yanking my earbuds out, I listen. Chilly fingers of fear run down my back. It was only a dream.

  The dressing room is small enough for me to see every inch and know I'm completely alone. Safe. Funny that life is the opposite of my dream.

  I leave the room and listen for any sound other than that of the old building's shifting and settling.

  There is none.

  No sounds of the workers’ tools. No sound of my brother or Beth talking. Nothing.

  Anxiety swells in my chest blooming in my throat. The same consuming panic I had in the dream clutching at me. I've never been here alone. I glance at my phone, it's nearly 7:00 p.m. It'll be dark outside.

  With footsteps nearing a run I dart down the dim hall. Coming out onto the stage, my movements echoing and amplified in the acoustic setting. One floodlight illuminates the space, acting as a spotlight making the rest of the room dark and gray.

  A creaking sound- no, the sound of something being pulled taut and grating. I turn and look behind me, eyes scanning the stage. My heart's beating so hard it hurts and I feel dizzy.

  A flicker of movement draws my eyes up and up.

  I scream. My heart plummets. And I run.

  Out! Get out!

  I run from the stage, down the aisle, blindly, going by memory. I fall into the lobby, lit only by the faint glow of the floodlight. I push against the entrance door and I'm thrown back.

  It's locked.

  I beat against the door. "Help! Help!" I run from one to another, trying them all. Beating with my fists at each. Screaming.

  There are doors around back but I don't want to go deeper into the theatre. "Help!" I scream again, my voice cracking from the strain. I keep banging on the doors.

  "Hold on!" A man hollers from the other side. I gasp with relief. "Can you find the lock?" He asks in English.

  "Locked from the outside!"

  "Stand back!" He yells. I stumble back a few steps and push myself against the wall beside me. If someone's here I want to see.

  Thump.

  A solid thud from outside the door.

  Thump.

  He's kicking the door. And miraculously it's giving. On the fourth kick, it caves.

  A man barely out of breath fills the door frame. "Are you okay?" He asks checking me over.

  I nod. I am fine, I am fine. I'm physically unhurt.

  "What's wrong?" His voice is steady and calm. He pulls out his phone and activates the flashlight. He looks me over again.

  I flinch at the brightness. At last, finding my voice to croak, "Call the police,"

  "They're on their way, when I kicked in the door I set off the alarm," he flashes his light towards the glowing keypad near the door.

  In my panic I had forgotten about it.

  The man slowly steps closer, he's tall and broad-shouldered, his hands settling on my arms. "What happened?" He asks.

  I can't form the right sentence, it's too surreal and I don't know exactly what happened. I point towards the stage. It just makes sense in my rattled state. And the fact I can't speak for fear of screaming.

  "Stay here, can you hear the sirens?" I nod. "The police are coming. Stay right here." He says again and turns, disappearing through the doorway towards the stage.

  I'm shaking. Tears flowing against my will. So much fear had filled me and needs some way out. I hug myself tighter. Frantically looking between the open door for the police and the doorway for the man.

  The sirens are just outside when the man comes back into the lobby. His face looks strained. "Did you see anyone else?" He asks.

  "No.”

  He nods and wraps his arm around me, pulling me into his warmth. "Let's get you out of the dark."

  He leads me out onto the street. In the light of the street lamps and flashing lights I squint. Too bright. Too chaotic. Too familiar. I close my eyes and turn away counting to ten holding my breath and letting it out.

  "It's alright, you're safe." He soothes. "Is there anyone I can call?"

  "My brother, he owns the theater," I explain my voice finally sounding like my own.

  "Okay," he says. His arm still around me, his warmth so different to my cold. His body solid to my shivering. His calm to my panic.

  Police officers approach and ask what’s happening in French. I open my mouth to reply in my rudimentary French but the man is already speaking. His voice commanding and sure. I can tell he's a man used to owning a room and being in control.

  I catch some of it, some words standing out to my ears. sister, owner, body.

  "Ah," the three police officers around us intone as they listen. "Okay, Monsieur Erickson," one says taking notes.

  "Call the owner, tell him what happened and that his sister is here and safe." Erickson, the man with his arm around me says.

  The cops scatter at his instructions and we are alone in the midst of hustling uniforms and people stopping to gawk.

  "Are you an officer?" I ask. He's so at ease about it all. An air of authority making others jump at his command.

  He chuckles, "No, no. They know me and my money."

  I thought about what that could mean. And who the hell can say things like that and not sound ridiculous. This guy, obviously.

  He lets me go and takes a blanket offered by an officer and puts it around my shoulders, tucking it all the way up to my chin like I'm a child. It's oddly comforting. He's oddly comforting to me.

  I'm beginning to calm down, with the police here and being outside in the light surrounded by people, I'm feeling better. I run through the last half an hour in my mind, waking and feeling like I wasn't alone. Then realizing I was totally alone. Then finding the body, just hanging there, the eyes lifeless, the mouth slack while the rest seemed so alive.

  It's amazing what details the mind can see in mere seconds in a high-stress situation. But you can trust none of them because the mind also likes to fill in the blanks of what you didn't see. I don't want to think of it anymore in case my mind tries to do just that.

  "Lily!" I turn, my brother is running towards me. His face drawn and scared. Beth is behind him and equally as freaked out.

  Brent grabs me into a hug. " Are you okay?"

  "Yes, I'm okay, I was locked in, it was dark and-and th-the body..."

  "Oh, Lil, I'm so sorry, we thought you went home." Guilt covers his face. Beth looks just as concerned, coming beside him. “Body?” He realizes what I've said.

  "It's okay. I'm fine. Just scared. Especially when I found..." Brent's brow furrows. "The workman from earlier, the one you argued with... He was hanging from the catwalk." My mouth feels so dry.

  "Jean?" He says confused. "He's dead?"

  "I panicked and ran, but couldn't get out. Monsieur Erickson broke down the door to get me out," I explain feeling a little foolish that I panicked instead of finding another exit. Or using the not-so-new technology called a cell phone.

  "I'm afraid I owe you a door," Erickson said.

  "No, you saved my sister. I owe you." He says formally. Even Brent notices the air around this man.

  "Only doing what anyone else would do." He shrugs.

  I turn to Brent. "You don't think it was her, do you?"

  Brent pales even more. "No," he shakes his head. "No, she can't find you here."

  "Still, maybe we should call," I need reassurance.

  "I'll call," Beth says pulling out her phone and taking a few steps away.

  Brent turns to the man. "We've taken up enough of your time, Monsieur, I can't thank you enough. If there is anything I can do, let me know," Brent pulls out a business card and hands it to him.

  "No trouble. But if you need anything let me know, don't let them give you a hard time
and keep your wife around to translate. If you need any kind of legal help let me know, my company has some of the best on retainer." Erickson hands Brent his own card, at a glance you can tell it's twice as expensive as Brent's, printed on heavy, creamy white card stock with bold black embossed lettering. It screamed I'm rich and successful.

  "Take care, mon chéri." He says looking unsure of whether to touch me again.

  He doesn't. And I kind of wish he had. He turns and walks away, a calm, confident figure fading into the night crowd. I watch him go, aware that something just passed between him and me. That we experienced this horrific thing together and I will likely never see him again.

  Beth joins us, shoving her phone back into her coat pocket. "Your mom is making some calls, she'll call us when she knows something."

  "Did you tell her what happened?" I ask, afraid that this will be the fuel she needs to fly to Paris and convince me to come back home. Then she will go back to treating me like a child. It had been nice at first, what I had needed after the attack, but now I was trying to be strong again. Be a functioning adult.

  "You should go home, get out of the cold," Brent says.

  "I'm not gonna leave you guys here," I reply.

  "There's nothing to do but wait,"

  "The officers will want to speak with me, Brent,"

  He looks frustrated. "Fine, let's see if we can at least get inside before my balls permanently relocate." He shivers going up to an officer and convincing him to let us into the office.

  Once inside the police tell us to stay put. They are still combing the theatre for a evidence and the medical examiner is looking over the body.

  A detective shows up soon after and starts asking me questions. Had I spoken to the victim? Had I had any contact with him since he argued with Brent that day? Had I touched the body or anything else?

  Then almost innocently he asks how well I know the victim. It could be an innocent remark, but the gleam in his eyes suggests something else. Perhaps he's thinking I'm some American girl swept up in the romance of Paris and a young man with an accent.

  "I don't think I've so much as said hello to him," I explain. It's the truth.

  "You work here?" I nod. "Yet, you've never spoken to the victim?"

  Brent catches on and scoffs. "They work in completely different spaces, Lily in the office and Jean has been working in the auditorium. Not to mention there's a bit of a language barrier, she knows little French and he knew zero English."

  The detective nods unfazed by Brent's defensiveness. Probably thinking you don't need to know much of either language to fall into bed together.

  The detective's phone buzzes and he pulls it out from his pocket, reads the screen. His lips purse and he nods to himself.

  "Okay, I think that's enough for tonight. The examiner is thinking suicide, but nothing's official. We'll be in touch." He bids us goodnight and leaves the room as if nothing had happened. As if he wasn't trying to peg me as some American femme fatale.

  "Prick." Beth sneers.

  It's nearly midnight by the time we get home. I go to bed with my door open, waiting for the phone to ring. I need to know that I am still safe. That all the events of tonight are a coincidence.

  That she's not out to finish what she started.

  Two

  Nathan

  I should feel like a hero tonight. I broke down a door to save a screaming woman. Not just any screaming woman, but one who as soon as I locked eyes with, I felt something for. A little spark at how perfectly she fit into my side, how easily she settled there. How warm and sweet she seemed.

  I'm not the type of man to use the term lovely but that's exactly what she is. Lovely. And yet, I feel like a criminal. A hoodlum like everyone thinks I am. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

  I hadn't just been passing by the theatre when I heard her screaming. I had been leaving it. I knew all the passageways and hidden spaces like the back of my hand. But no one needed to know that.

  To the police, I was The Nathan Erickson, heir and businessman. I held rank in social circles, donated my fair share to the force. I wasn't someone you fucked with. Not with the bevy of lawyers and politicians who were willing to back me.

  I don't abuse that power. It doesn't make me a good man but there is a hell of a lot worse. I sit in that gray area between, unsavory but not completely irredeemable.

  Although the women I've fucked would say differently.

  I hadn't expected to walk in and find a dead body tonight. I always seemed to be at the wrong place and at the wrong time. It's a good thing people trust my money or else I might be in some interrogation room right now.

  I could have kept on walking when I heard the woman scream, I probably should have. Now I was tangled up in this because of her. Tangled up with her. But her panic, her desperation, I couldn’t ignore it. It was something I recognized and I couldn't leave her, no matter what it might cost me.

  There was a quiet strength in her. It reminded me of someone. Someone who grew a little more blurry in my memory every single day.

  Ah, to hell with it.

  I push open my apartment door and tell myself not to think about it. It was in someone else's hands now. Not my affair. Not my type of situation, no matter how lovely and beautiful she might be.

  My footsteps echo off the pale marble, the apartment cavernous in the dark. I flip on lights as I go. I get to the second light, the one in the living area, when Frankie rouses from his nap on the large sectional sofa.

  Frankie's bug eyes look at me intrigued, his pug nose snorting. He was ugly and cute at the same time. And very independent, all he wanted was food, naps, and the occasional scratch.

  The dog jumps from his spot and comes to sniff my shoes. "Hi, boy, do anything productive today?" His plump haunches wag. I bend and scratch his back until he loses control of his little legs. "Let me guess, you slept, scratched yourself, ate, then sat looking out the window at all the cute French Poodles?" He nudged my leg with his head as if agreeing.

  Old Frankie lived in the lap of luxury. He had free range of the apartment with its open floor plan, all marble floors, plush rugs and furniture that enveloped you. He had a prime view out of the ten-foot floor to ceiling windows that look out on the Eiffel Tower and park.

  Most luxurious of all, Frankie has a pretty college girl that comes every day and visits him, taking him for walks and playing with him and making sure he gets all his meals. It's a small expense, he's the only thing I got in this world to love.

  And he is the only thing in the world that truly cares about me. A little sad, I admit. I pour myself a drink, watching the prisms of light from the tower dance through the crystal glass and amber liqueur. Then I kick off my shoes and peel off the Tom Ford suit jacket and tie, settling in next to Frankie to watch television. I want to see if there are any reports on the theater

  A small segment runs on local, just a clip of the stone steps lit up by strobing police lights. Nothing about her, no glimpse of her. And thankfully nothing about me. The more space I put between myself and the theatre the better.

  Turning off the television, I look at Frankie. The pug is half buried in the oversized pillows, already snoring in deep sleep.

  That makes one of us.

  Dragging myself from the couch I push up my shirt sleeves and refill my glass and wander into the spare bedroom that frames the tower like a picture and sit down at the piano.

  I leave the light off, I usually do. Some things just sound better in the dark, wordless music, the sighs of a woman being taken, meaningless words. I’ve crossed them all off the list. Being told meaningless words most of all.

  My fingers test the keys, finding the perfect tone. I know the words in my head, I just need to make the music.

  The notes are deep and slow, penetrating. Accompanied intermittently by a trickling of lighter notes.

  The melody is close, but not quite right.

  I lean away from the piano. It
’s no good. I’m too tired to work on it and too agitated to sleep.

  Overtired, my mother would have called it.

  Frustrated is what I call it. Ignoring the fact I've been up before dawn.

  I go into my bedroom, it's decorated to look like an expensive hotel room. Soft pale shades throughout, a big king size bed with white Egyptian cotton sheets, and a thick comforter. All framed by a beige tufted frame that’s great for all kinds of activities.

  I kick off my shoes and undress. I look away from my reflection in the gilt-framed mirror hanging on the wall, and slip naked between the sheets. I turn out the lights and turn on slow jazz.

  Instantly I feel myself relax into the bed. Music has always had an effect on me. I'd fallen asleep to the sounds of it for most of my life and have trouble sleeping without it.

  A few minutes later, as I'm starting to go under, I hear the clicking of Frankie's paws. He jumps up on the little bed I had made to attach to the foot of mine and circles and paws at his own soft bedding before curling up in a ball.

  Three

  Lily

  It's a weird feeling when your body and mind are screaming for sleep, and yet, you can't close your eyes and go to sleep. I dozed on and off all night, never reaching a full REM cycle.

  The ringing of my cell phone scares the shit out of me. The tone sounds amplified.

  "Hello?" I rasp into the phone, my mouth feeling gummy and gross.

  "Lily, oh, honey, how are you?" My mom's concerned voice comes down the line from thousands of miles away. A hug over the phone if there ever was one.

  "I'm okay, Mom. Did you hear anything about her?" I can’t say her name.

  "Yes, she's still in the facility. She can't hurt you." I let out a long breath, relieved. "Your brother texted me late last night and said it looked like that poor guy committed suicide," her voice is soft and steady, comforting.

  "Yeah, that's what they think. I'm not sure why he chose the theatre. Seems a little extreme over a fight with your boss."

  "Sometimes it's hard to understand why people do what they do," as she says it I can tell she’s thinking of me and what happened over a year ago. "Honey, you know you can always come home, take some time off and just let me take care of you." I knew she wouldn't mind me coming home, but it would have been all too easy. If I let her take care of me and my every whim and problem I might never leave.