The remains Page 11

  Without thinking about it, I slipped my hand in his. He turned to me, set his wine glass gently onto the coffee table, moved into me and started kissing me.

  I kissed him back but then pulled away.

  “We should eat.” I smiled.

  From where we were sitting I could hear the water boiling on the stove in the kitchen.

  “Do you want me to spend the night?” Michael softly spoke.

  I turned to him, looked into his brown eyes. I could see his desire to protect me. “If you’re going to stay, I suggest you call your mother first.”

  “She doesn’t wait up anymore. I’m forty-three years old, don’t forget.”

  I shook my head, rolled my eyes. Maybe this was a bad idea. Or maybe not. But just the mere suggestion of Michael staying with me proved a comfort.

  “I’ll go put in the pasta,” he said. “You relax.”

  He got up, went into the kitchen. As much as I wanted to take his advice and just relax, I knew I should be giving Robyn a call. It was important that I tell her about my plan to take the next couple of days off. After all, the school of art studio classes had to go on, not to mention the mid-month meeting with the board of directors, not a single one of whom was an artist.

  I got up from the couch.

  Locating my phone in my jean jacket pocket, I speed-dialed her cell. It was little surprising to get her message service. Robyn always picked up my calls. I left a message anyway, telling her about the days I would be taking off. Before I hung up, I decided to tell her that I would be having some company tonight in the form of my ex-husband.

  “Please don’t call past nine,” I said.

  Unlike Robyn, I didn’t get a thrill out of answering the phone while snuggling up with a date.

  Chapter 32

  After dinner I asked Michael to check the doors and windows in the apartment. By the time he came back in, I was already in bed, waiting for him. Was I making the right decision by letting him stay over? Was I being an idiot? Was all this happening way too fast?

  Somehow my sudden, almost abrupt desire to be close to him overrode common sense. With only a lit candle set out on the dresser to see by, he slipped in under the comforter and gave me a comforting smile.

  It’d been a long time since I shared a bed with my ex-husband. You might think I’d be all over him, and he all over me. But inside that dimly lit room, with only the flickering candlelight glowing against the plaster walls, we lay on our sides facing one another, looking into each other’s eyes, not saying a single word but shouting out volumes.

  For more than a few instances it seemed almost as if we’d never been separated or divorced; never spent even one minute away from one another. I wondered how it could be that two people who loved each other could not find a way to live together. But then I also had to wonder what still attracted us after all we’d been through; after the secret I had revealed to him.

  After a time, Michael reached out and touched my face. The gentle gesture sent a chill through my body. He leaned into me, kissing me on the mouth. I kissed him back. He moved in closer, then slid one arm under me and the other around me. He pulled me close to him and he held me. He held me so tightly, I thought he’d never let go. And when he began to cry, so did I. I felt our tears combining and I tasted the salt from them, and we hardly made a sound other than the beating of our hearts.

  For that brief eternity I was him and he was me and there was no past or future. There was only the sweet right now and all the wrongs that had occurred between us-all the hurt and all the pain-had suddenly and very definitely disappeared. In a word, Michael and I were new again. The love that had died was resurrected.

  I became convinced that if there indeed was a God, He truly did work in mysterious ways. Maybe He’d taken away the sister I adored more than myself, but somehow, He’d given me back Michael. He’d given me back my soul mate

  After a time, we lie on our backs feeling content and happy, holding hands, staring at the ceiling, not speaking or needing to speak, but just watching the flame-shadows that danced upon every surface that surrounded us from floor to ceiling. Set beside me on the table, my old dog-eared copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, it’s now delicate pages stuffed with sketches of Whalen from thirty years ago. As I lay in bed, I felt like taking one of the candles to it and lighting it on fire. I felt like destroying it and my past. But I knew I wouldn’t.

  When Michael got out of bed, he replaced the comforter over me. He blew out the candle and slipped back in bed. Reaching out, he took hold of a small tuft of my hair. He didn’t hold the hair so much as he let it rest in his fingertips, allowing the rest of the hand to sit on my pillow.

  “Love you, Bec,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Maybe four minutes later I was listening to the sound of his breathing as he slept soundly. For that one moment I felt happier than I’d felt in years.

  I fell asleep to that happiness.

  Chapter 33

  I’m walking with Molly along a stream bank surrounded by trees. The water flows as wide and heavy as a river. In the dream I’m walking right beside her, but I am also seeing the entirety of the dream as though looking at a movie screen.

  Although no one is speaking I know we are looking for a place to cross the wide stream in order to go deeper into the forest. This is a forbidden place, but I am too far gone now; too far into the woods to go back. My only choice is to follow Molly; keep my eyes peeled on her red Paul McCartney and Wings T-shirt.

  Soon we come upon a place in the stream that is shallower than the rest. There’s a series of boulders that rise out of the moving water. The boulders form a natural land bridge.

  Molly turns to me, that smile on her face wider than ever.

  “ Here,” she exclaims, as though she’s been looking for the spot all along. It’s then of course that I know for certain Molly has been here before. She’s defied our father, explored the woods without his okay; without my knowledge.

  “ Stay close,” she orders as we traverse the rock bridge to the other side of the stream. “There, I can almost see it.”

  Molly knows something is out there. It’s why she made me go into the woods with her in the first place.

  We walk maybe another one-hundred yards before that thing takes shape.

  “ You see it, Bec?” Molly shouts. “Can you see it?”

  I can see it by then. As amazing as it seems, as buried as it is in the trees, I see it as clearly as I see Molly before me.

  A house set in the middle of the woods.

  Then a noise.

  My cell phone vibrating.

  And a voice.

  “Rebecca.”

  Chapter 34

  The name was not screamed, nor spoken. It came to me as a kind of whisper. Or maybe it just came to me. Maybe it just happened inside my head.

  The cell phone went from vibrate to chime.

  I thought I heard movement coming from inside the living room. I sensed movement anyway, the same way an expecting mother might sense baby’s first kick. Heavy booted feet shuffling against the hardwood.

  My prone body was bolted to the bed. It wasn’t a bed at all. It was a concrete platform and I was bolted and chained to it.

  Heart drummed triplets against my ribcage.

  Was my cell phone really ringing? Was this a repeat of two nights ago? Had a voice been spoken? Had it been whispered? Had it all been a dream?

  “Rebecca.”

  I listened. I must have heard a voice. The voice had personality. It was gruff and low. There were specific details to the voice. There was a smell that went with that voice.

  The smell of stale cigarettes. I knew that smell, recognized it. Cigarette butts.

  Eyes wide open, unblinking, I swear I saw a shadow. The shadow of a man staring back at me from the open bedroom door, as if someone were standing inside the open frame-a silhouette against the darkness.

  Was Whalen standing there, looking back at me? Had he violated his parole
by sneaking out of the half-way house to come here?

  I swear it’s him.

  Footsteps along the bedroom floor. The filthy ashtray smell. The cell phone vibrating and chiming.

  If only I could lift my arms. If only I could have reached out and grabbed hold of the phone. If only I could have lifted my arms, reached out and picked it up.

  I wanted to scream. But want and desire were meaningless.

  I felt the presence of Michael beside me. We were not divorced. We were still married and he was sleeping soundly right next to me, close to me, his body curled into my side, his face facing me. Just like it’s always been.

  His sleeping breaths were not the least bit bothered by the sounds, the smells, the sights taking place inside this bedroom in the middle of the deep night.

  “Rebecca.”

  Every nerve in my body was body tingling, twitching.

  I can’t possibly be dreaming. Can’t possibly be dreaming. Can’t possibly be dreaming…

  I made a wish. Wished the voice away; wished the smell away; wished the figure of a small, thin man away.

  The man who took Molly and me.

  I began to drift.

  As though by some miracle I started falling.

  Faster.

  Then faster still…

  Chapter 35

  When I woke up the sun was shining through the windows. It seemed like a beautiful day, the terrible dreamt sounds, smells and sights of the night behind me. But not far enough. I reached out for the end table, picked up my cell and peeked at the time.

  Six-thirty.

  My hands trembling, I opened the phone to see if someone had called me during the night.

  Nothing. Not even a new text.

  Michael was still asleep. I decided to leave him be. Or maybe I just wanted some time to myself. Time to breathe, get my act together. I needed my routine. Craved it.

  I got up, threw on a robe to fight off the chill and got to work on making the coffee. I swallowed a vitamin with a tall glass of orange juice, tried to eat my two ounces of Frosted Mini Wheats, but only managed a couple of bites.

  As the rich aroma of the coffee filled the apartment, I began making a check on the living room. I walked the square-shaped room from one end to the other, my eyes examining the floor, the couch, the desk, the bookshelves.

  Nothing seemed out of order; nothing seemed as if it had been tampered with. No footprints on the floor, no handprints on the walls. I looked over the windows and the door that led out onto the stone terrace, looked for fingerprints or smudges on the panes and sills.

  Nothing. All deadbolts and safety chains secured.

  But what about the bathroom?

  I crossed over the vestibule, traversed the narrow hall that accessed the bedrooms and my rarely used painting studio, and entered the bathroom. I checked the window over the toilet.

  The window was closed.

  Reaching up and under the shade, I felt for the lock. It was unlatched. A jolt of electricity shot through my veins. Was it possible that my apartment had been broken into? Had Whalen opened this window from the outside, climbed in through it, slipped into my apartment and my bedroom, whispered into my ear? Just because no visible evidence of a break-in existed didn’t mean that it hadn’t happened. I remembered him as a small man. Maybe even small enough to fit through that open window.

  I couldn’t help thinking that Whalen had made his physical presence known inside my apartment last night. Or was I just plain crazy like Harris suggested? The victim of the dreaded PTS? The victim of vivid nightmares?

  I locked the bathroom window. Then I went into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, sipping it carefully. I tightened my robe against the chill. The old radiant heat system was blasting, but I was shivering cold.

  What was happening to me? I knew now that Harris wasn’t kidding when he suggested I see a psychiatrist. Post Traumatic Stress. I also knew that today I would fess up to the detective about the texts. Michael was right. I should never have kept the truth from the cop for even a single day.

  I took another sip of the coffee. It tasted bitter-sweet. Today was Thursday. Would Franny have a new painting for me today? Would he be upset that I wasn’t around to see it? That I was spoiling his routine?

  Smell and Touch.

  Those were the only senses left. They would be the titles of the final two paintings.

  I drank some more coffee, picked up my cell phone, and punched the instant dial-up for Robyn. Again, the answering service popped on.

  Why in God’s name wasn’t she picking up?

  Noise came from the bedroom. Michael was up.

  Should I tell him about my sensing Whalen in our bedroom last night while we slept? Tell him about my hearing his voice, smelling his stale cigarette smell? About the open bathroom window? My sense of reason said, yes, tell him everything. But caution told me to shut up about it. Shut up for now. Last night had been as perfect a night as I’d had in years. The last thing I wanted was to spoil it all this morning-spoil it for us. Michael was back in tune with me, with my thoughts and fears. He was here to protect me. I wanted to give him some peace, some space from whatever was happening to me. Was a little peace too much to ask?

  “Rebecca?” he called out from the bedroom. “What time is it?”

  I grabbed a second mug from the cabinet.

  Michael would need a good jolt of coffee before he started biting the nail.

  Chapter 36

  An hour later, I was getting out of the shower when the buzzer sounded on the front door. Michael was at his writing desk in the living room. I heard him curse as he got up from the table and tended to the interruption.

  While I towel dried my hair, I heard him open the apartment door, then head up the small set of concrete stairs to the building’s main entrance. From where I stood before the mirror I heard the door open.

  No words exchanged. At least, from where I stood in the bathroom, I didn’t hear any.

  After a few seconds, Michael came back into apartment, closing the door behind him.

  I stepped out of the bedroom.

  With one towel wrapped around my body, another wrapped around my head and hair, I saw him standing in the small vestibule, a thin square-shaped package held in his hands. The package looked a whole lot like a canvas wrapped in brown butcher’s paper.

  Standing beside Michael I began to feel the now too familiar blood pressure increase; the usual dry mouth.

  Michael just stared at me, the package gripped in his hands. Neither one of us had to say a word to know what it was.

  “Open it,” I said.

  “How about I just chuck it out?”

  “Open it. We can’t just ignore it.”

  He exhaled, stuck a finger through the paper, tore into it, and pulled it away from the painting. Immediately, even before all the paper was torn away, I recognized the scene. It was a house in the woods. The house in the woods. The one from my dream; the one from my past. Whalen’s house. The house my sister found some weeks before me while on one of her secret expeditions into the forbidden woods. The house I remembered so well; a house that appeared not to have been built from wood, brick and stone, but that appeared to have grown up in the forest out of nothing at all; a house that to me had sprung up from the ground like a thorn bush but that to Molly seemed like a miracle.

  The painting was a realistic rendering of that old, long forgotten farmhouse. The house was set in the middle of a second growth forest that had grown up all around it, consumed it for its own once its original owners had died off or simply abandoned it.

  Pulling the rest of the brown paper from the piece, Michael stared down at the image. My eyes began to tear. I took a tentative step forward toward my distant past, stood not beside my ex-husband but up against him. My unfocused eyes viewed Franny’s painting, but I did not see a static rendering of brown tress or overgrown pines or the heavy brush or the gray-brown clapboard house that stood in its center. My eyes instead saw the real
events of that day, like watching a real-time film that somehow was being broadcast on the canvas itself.

  Molly leads me through the woods, bushwhacking our way through the thick growth, twigs and branches slapping at our exposed faces, at our bare arms and legs, making our eyes tear from the sting. When we come upon the old two-story farmhouse it is like a vision or an illustration out of an old storybook-Little Red Riding Hood maybe; a secret place in the forest that would be entirely familiar to the Big Bad Wolf. It is a long-abandoned farmhouse, the farm having given over to nature; nature in turn devouring any semblance of humankind.

  But the closer we come to the dilapidated and rotting clapboard house, the more I can smell a foul odor. It is an odor I sometimes recognize when walking over a sewer grate.

  Molly turns to me, seemingly unaffected by the smell (or perhaps used to it by now?). She clothespins her nose and nostrils with the forefinger and thumb of her right hand; does it more for show than for the need to block out the rancid smell.

  “ It’s the old septic system, Bec,” she exclaims while coming upon a front porch that has all but collapsed into the earth from rot and neglect.

  “ God, how did you find this place, Mol?” I ask her, careful to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose.

  “ It’s always been here,” she smiles. “The house just kind of found me.” Holding up her hands as if to say Voila! “It’s our place now; our secret fairytale castle in the forest; our hideaway home away from home.”

  I find myself just staring at my sister who is me in every way, but so different at the same time. I’m not sure what I’m more amazed at: her or the discovery of this house and the possibility of having it all to ourselves. But then, unlike Molly, I’m half scared out of my wits. There’s a reason our father does not want us in these woods. At first I blamed the stream, the waterfall and the sudden drop off in the hill-side. But now I blame this old decaying house set in the middle of nowhere.