LUCIEN: A Standalone Romance

by Glenna Sinclair

  I’d taken the money Dan left me and filled up the gas tank to my car, first of all, then used the rest to completely replace my wardrobe.

  Even in college, I’d rarely worn anything other than sweatpants or jeans and a t-shirt. I retained most of those clothes in my move, but none of my collection was appropriate for a professional workplace.

  Certainly, as Dan had told me, not my bikini.

  Shopping was an unexpected pleasure. On the road, I’d never splurged on anything that I couldn’t put into my belly or the car’s gas tank. Now, though, my new clothes were a necessity. I put on my nicest jeans and cleanest t-shirt to go to a mall just outside of Seattle, treating myself to pretty shoes and pencil skirts and blazers, selecting accessories to go with them and a new purse that closely resembled a briefcase.

  I realized I was having fun before I could stop myself, reminding myself that I wasn’t allowed to have fun anymore. I was going to figure out just what Dan was hiding from me at Shepard Shipments and move the hell on, punishing myself in the penance of my choosing.

  I didn’t deserve to be happy because the one night I actually had chosen my own happiness over others, people had died.

  People who were close to me.

  People I loved.

  When Caro had come around the corner of that dark country rode, going way too fast, she’d noticed a pair of cars pulled to the side of the rode and panicked. I didn’t realize at the time what was happening. I was too drunk to process anything beyond my own selfish needs, and I woke up much later in the hospital with a concussion that could’ve been mistaken for a hangover.

  My first thought—first beyond whether I was seriously injured, where Caro was, and just what had happened—was that my parents were going to murder me for landing myself in the hospital. I didn’t even want to call them.

  “You’re awake,” the nurse had observed, her tone a little on the cool side of neutral.

  “How long have I been asleep?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

  “You slept all night,” she said, giving a perfunctory glance at her watch. “It’s nearly dinner time. Are you hungry?”

  My appetite dropped out through the pit that suddenly opened in my stomach.

  “It’s already Sunday evening?” I squeaked, pushing myself to a sitting position. I was sore, and there was a bandage on my forehead, but I felt no worse for wear. “I have to go. My parents are probably going crazy this very minute trying to figure out where I am. They’re going to be so pissed. Where’s Caro? Where’s my friend? Did she already leave?”

  The nurse who had been pure business before faltered for the first time.

  “Let me get the doctor for you,” she said, ducking out of my room, and I still didn’t think of anything beyond my own selfish situation. My parents were going to murder me; I was going to murder Caro for leaving me here; and I would probably never see the outside of my bedroom again until I went to college—if my parents even let me go anymore. I felt it more likely that I’d be sent to a convent or some institution for stupid, stubborn girls who refused to follow the rules instead of the University of Texas.

  The nurse re-entered the room, accompanied by a kindly looking doctor.

  “How are you feeling right now, Amanda?” he asked, perching on the side of my bed, examining the bandage on my head. “Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, with one being the least and ten being the—”

  “I feel fine,” I said quickly. “It’s just that I have to get home. Or is my phone here? Can I have my purse? Is there a phone I could use?”

  More and more, I was feeling less apprehensive of how angry my parents would be at me and more anxious about scaring them. I wasn’t in the habit of disappearing from my house and not returning. They’d notice me gone. They’d worry. They’d fear the worst. I didn’t care about being imprisoned in a convent any longer. I just wanted to tell my parents I was okay.

  “Amanda, you’ve had quite a knock on your head, and you’re very lucky to be awake right now,” the doctor said. “Do you remember anything about last night?”

  I swallowed hard. “I was at a party,” I said. “We left the party…after the police came to break it up. Caro and I went driving….”

  I narrowed my eyes. Everything was fuzzy, and I didn’t know how much had to do with the alcohol I’d consumed last night or the concussion I’d suffered.

  “We were singing,” I continued slowly. “I think…I think Caro lost control of the car.”

  “But you don’t remember exactly how or what happened afterward?” the doctor asked.

  “No?” I said uncertainly. “Is that bad?”

  “Not necessarily,” he said, patting my hand. I noticed for the first time that my other hand had a needle in it, attached to a bag of fluid above my head. “Much of the time, after catastrophic events, the brain tries to protect you by limiting your memory of the incident.”

  I swallowed, my mouth impossibly dry. “Catastrophic?”

  “There are some people who want to talk to you now…if you feel up to it,” the doctor said, standing up.

  Another twist of nerves in my gut. “Is it my parents?”

  “I think you’d better let them explain,” the doctor said, standing aside at the door to admit a pair of police officers.

  If I wasn’t already lying down, I would’ve swooned and fallen in response to my anxiety level. Yet, I still thought it was about me, still certain that I was getting in trouble for attending a house party and drinking beer underage and fleeing the cops and speeding down the road with Caro.

  I was so fucking selfish. So fucking stupid.

  “Amanda Beauty Hart?” one of them asked, both of them towering awkwardly over my bed.

  I was faint with dread, certain they were about to start reading me my rights as they dragged me from the bed and handcuffed me. “Yes?” I didn’t so much as flinch at my middle name.

  “The driver of the car, Carolina Salazar, lost control at high speed and went into a spin as she attempted to recover and overcorrected,” the same officer intoned, as if he were reciting the plot of a movie he didn’t find to be all that exciting. “She hit two cars stopped on the side of the road.”

  I swallowed hard. “Is she okay?”

  The other cop, a woman, picked up the narrative in only a slightly warmer tone of voice. “We regret to be the ones to inform you that Carolina Salazar died in the wreck.”

  My hand flew up to cover my mouth before my shoulders began to shudder with grief.

  This was my fault. All my fault. I’d been the one to suggest we go driving. I could’ve said anything else, but I’d wanted to go driving. Now, Caro was dead. It was all my fault. All of it.

  “Are you all right, Amanda?” the doctor asked from the doorway.

  “Can I please call my parents?” I sobbed. I needed them. I needed something. I needed to wake up and for all of this to be a bad dream brought on by too many beers the night before.

  “That’s the other thing we need to tell you,” the female police officer continued. “The cars that Carolina hit…one of them belonged to your parents.”

  Shock and disbelief numbed the worst of it as her words washed over me. A person could only take so much in a day, after all. And later—much later—when I’d pored over the police report, grappling with my new reality, scrambling to understand all that I’d done to ruin my life and so many lives around me, I finally got the complete story.

  Caro had taken a curve too fast. We would’ve had a breathless laugh about it, possible ending up in one of the fields bordering the road with a little minor damage to her car, if not for the two cars parked on the side, just after that curve.

  Caro had seen them and panicked, and the out-of-control car had spun into my parents, standing outside the second car, the owner of which had been blacked out of the police report.

  Most of the details about that second car had been blacked out, which frustrated me for a time, until I decided that I probably didn’t have
a right to know the stranger my decision had killed. They would just be one of a quartet of ghosts I would have to carry around.

  What I did know was that, for whatever reason, the two cars had stopped on the side of the road.

  For whatever reason, my parents were standing outside the driver’s side window of the second car.

  For whatever reason, Caro’s side of our speeding, spinning car had struck them, pinning them between the vehicles, and hitting the other car with such force that the driver of the second car had also died.

  And, for whatever reason, my selfish, stupid, ungrateful, horrible ass was the sole survivor of one of the most terrible wrecks in the history of my community. Before I’d gone to college—and in the circles of people I avoided on campus that knew the story—I became something of an object of pity.

  I couldn’t go to the funeral; I couldn’t face the sympathetic tears and bewildered platitudes. I couldn’t look myself in the face in any mirror I happened to pass. All of it was my fault. All of it. Four lives cut short because of me.

  There were lawyers and more police officers and an extended stay at the hospital for the majority of the summer before everyone around me seemed to agree that the best thing for me to do would be to get my education, as my dead parents intended, and try to get on with my blighted life.

  The struggle lasted all of two and a half years. I tried to submerge myself in anything to distract myself from my overwhelming guilt, the crippling sorrow. I tried having loads of friends, always chatting or hanging out or partying, then exiled myself when I decided that, since I’d denied four human beings the chance at making and maintaining friendships, I didn’t deserve any.

  I tried to give myself over to my studies, tried to bury my past in new information, facts, interpretations, and mounds of homework. Yet, it wasn’t enough. I lost interest too quickly, gave up too readily, didn’t care about the consequences of not completing homework or attending class or studying for tests. Who was going to hold me accountable? I’d been responsible for my parents’ deaths. I didn’t deserve to learn new things, to be a lifelong learner, as one of the professors urged the class, because I’d cut four lives short in one act of stupidity. I didn’t want to learn new things to support some distant professional future because I didn’t want a future. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I didn’t want to be alive, and yet here I was, continuing to trudge to class.

  I immersed myself in alcohol, attending every party I caught wind of, getting a reputation for being “that girl”—the one who drank like a fish but always ended up puking and weeping for reasons she wouldn’t disclose.

  I drowned myself in sex, seeking the nothingness after it was over, the relief to be blinded by intensity and then ushered back down, the sweet pain of meshing my body with another person and punishing myself after by pushing them away, refusing to see or talk to them again, giving myself an even worse reputation than before.

  When there was nothing else I could find to lose myself in, no liquor that remained a mystery, nobody else I was willing to give my body to, I decided to literally lose myself. In one night, I packed up my clothes and what few belongings I cared for, shoved it all into my trunk, and just drove. I rolled along highways I’d never seen, past cities I’d never see again until my car started sputtering. Then, I put more gas in it and kept driving. I repeated this pattern until I was in a state I’d never been in and thoroughly out of money. I’d inherited something from my parents’ deaths, but I’d left it in the care of estate lawyers, sick at the thought of spending money linked to their demise by my idiocy.

  I found a parking spot in a semi-darkened lot and went to sleep, not waking up until someone knocked on my window and asked if I was all right.

  That’s how I worked my way across the country; traveling when I had money, staying still and restless when I didn’t. I did anything and everything to earn money. There wasn’t a job I didn’t try in my pursuit to flee from myself.

  I thought often of just ending it all, ending my suffering with a knife or a rope or an acceleration into a wall in the car that had become my home. I wallowed in misery, unable to escape, unwilling to try to get over the tragedy my life had inspired.

  In the end, though, I decided that death was too good for me. I didn’t deserve any kind of relief from my sadness and regret. I’d ended four lives—three of whom were the most important people in my own—and I’d survived with just a bump on my head. Some part of me wished I’d been maimed, disfigured in some way, just so the world around me could appreciate the irony.

  My name might have been Beauty, but there wasn’t one goddamn beautiful thing about me. I was a monster.

  Chapter 4

  “Are you going in, dear, or are you lost?”

  I whirled around from staring at my reflection in the door at Shepard Shipments, flung my mind away from my torturous past, and was faced with a tiny, old woman with the very beginnings of a hump at the top of her back.

  “Lost?” I repeated helplessly. If only. I wanted to be lost from myself, to be lost from all of this. What was I doing here? I didn’t have any right to be doing this. My punishment wasn’t over with. I should’ve taken all of the money Dan had given me and given it to a homeless person or something. I should never have spent it on myself.

  “Are you supposed to be at Shepard Shipments?” the woman asked, adjusting her glasses over her milky blue eyes as she peered at my face and then gasped. “Oh! You’re Beauty Hart.”

  I was stunned again, in my odyssey for anonymous suffering, that yet another person knew more about me than I knew about them. First Dan, and now this wizened old woman. Half of me fully expected to be greeted by name by the walking commuters passing us on the sidewalk.

  “I am,” I confirmed, distinctly uncomfortable, wondering if I was vacillating between an anxiety attack, or if I just couldn’t get a good breath because of the tight pantyhose.

  “You’re expected, Beauty,” the woman said, nodding decisively. “May I call you Beauty?”

  “It’s my name, after all,” I said. “That’s just fine.”

  “I’m Myra Tuttle,” she said, sticking a small hand out. When I shook it, however, its strength took me by surprise. “You’re here to replace me.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised yet again. How many times was I going to be surprised by something in the span of a minute? “I’m sorry…I don’t think anyone’s replaceable.”

  She studied me for a moment before throwing her head back and guffawing at me.

  “Too true,” she said. “I suppose we’re all, more or less, irreplaceable. What I meant to say was that you’re going to be doing the work I used to be doing here at Shepard Shipments. I’m retiring.”

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know that. Dan…I was told the job wasn’t very glamorous. That’s all I knew.”

  Myra gave that same big laugh. “Well, that’s for sure,” she said. “Not glamorous at all. But rewarding, in its own way. Now. Let’s get ourselves inside so I can show you myself. Not glamorous. Ha!”

  I felt more comfortable than I had in ages as I followed this little old lady into the building and across the gleaming lobby. It was a long way away from the dank, dark bar where I’d been previously employed. It was so well lit that I hoped I’d done my makeup correctly in my car’s rearview mirror, and I resolved to scoot into a restroom to check at my earliest convenience.

  “Shepard Shipments owns the entire building, but the company rents the lower portions to other businesses it does dealings with,” Myra was explaining as we clicked our way across the smooth floors. “The company itself occupies a couple floors higher up in the building. These elevators here are fine. Don’t use the elevator at the back of the lobby.”

  I followed the direction of her pointed finger to see a single elevator secluded by a darkened alcove, its gold doors dim. It looked foreboding, unlike the shiny bright bank of elevators we were standing in front of.

  “Is that the elevator the other com
panies have to use to get to their floors?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” Myra said quickly. “That’s the elevator that Mr. Shepard uses to get to the penthouse at the top of the building.”

  “Mr. Shepard,” I repeated as we stepped into an open elevator. “You mean Dan?”

  She made a noise of disapproval in the back of her throat. “No. Mr. Daniel doesn’t live in the penthouse. He greatly enjoys his time outside of the company. The Mr. Shepard I’m referring to is, of course. Mr. Roland.”

  “Is that Dan’s—Mr. Daniel’s—brother?”

  “That’s right,” Myra confirmed, as we glided upward. “He lives at the top of the building. Quite convenient, if you ask me. But you’re never to use that elevator, do you hear me?”

  Never use creepy elevator standing all alone to go to a strange man’s living quarters. I nodded. That was a rule I could definitely live with.

  The elevator doors rolled open, and I followed Myra out into the reception area of the office. I was grateful to have run into her as I brooded outside. She seemed to be something cross between a fairy godmother and a grandmother figure. My only regret was that I was to, apparently, replace her. I wished she could be here to save me from all the ways I could screw up.

  “This is the floor where you will be spending the vast majority of your time,” Myra said, bustling along. For a woman so advanced in her years, she was certainly sprightly. I had to almost trot to keep up with her quick little steps, ducking my head self-consciously as people at the desks we passed by looked up, curious at a new face.

  The office space was nice enough—full of broad, open desks that weren’t separated by cubicle walls. The computers everyone clicked away on were the latest models, and everyone seemed busy, but happy. I’d never been in a professional office setting, but this one was much nicer than the mazes of cubicles I’d imagined for it.

  “Are you familiar with what Shepard Shipments is?” Myra asked, drawing to a halt so suddenly I almost crashed into her. I had to pay attention. There would probably be time to ogle my surroundings later.