by Mason, Renea
He nodded his head in affirmation, turned and opened the door for me.
I climbed in and spent the next hour dreaming about all the wild things the secret might be, but anything fascinating was erased by Miriam’s nervousness and her talk of a burden.
Sometime later the driver stopped outside Lydia’s Gallery. I checked the address on the card and the numbers and the words on the street sign. This was the place. But why here? Surely, she didn’t give me the smuteria as a gift.
I exited the car and again gave the driver a thank you. He may or may not have understood. The handwritten address couldn’t have been penned by Miriam. Her hands were too shaky.
After taking in the new window display of modern erotic photography, I opened the door to the gallery. The sound of door chimes announced my arrival. Patrice looked up from her newspaper from behind the reception desk. She smiled and gave me a cordial, “Bonjour.”
I returned her smile, nodded and busied myself searching the exhibits for any clue. Did she want me to find a painting? Was it stolen goods? Why the hell I was here?
A framed notice behind glass showcased some kind of greeting written in French, but it was the signature that caught my eye—Lydia Vincent. The signature matched the writing on the card. This was about Lydia, not Miriam.
The memories of the rainmaker kept interrupting my concentration as I searched. I found myself gazing at the painting of the angel once more. The cage, his clipped wings and the woman standing over him, deserved another moment of admiration. The lifelike details and the vibrant reds against a black backdrop gave the scene of an angel losing his freedom a gothic, foreboding feel. It was hard to look away.
Exhibit after exhibit and none that required a key. The stairwell was clearly marked and the basement was my last hope. The fire door squeaked and gave way to a stone and mortar stairway. Concrete formed the path up, but down was everything you expected from a creepy Paris basement. Good thing the sex was good, because basement diving in Paris, instead of visiting the Louvre, was pathetic. Just another sign that I should probably let whatever Miriam’s burden was, remain a mystery. I prayed there wasn’t a dead body or something horrid like that.
I took my first step onto the stone floor and stood between the units made of wooden frames and chicken wire labeled one and two. Various artifacts littered the walk path. I searched up and down the main aisle for anything that might match the key. Lydia had a ton of stuff. But nothing. Who did Miriam think I was, Sherlock Holmes? Worried Patrice might find me rummaging in places I wasn’t supposed to be, I hurried back upstairs.
I nodded to Patrice, whose welcoming smile was now a suspicious glare. The tinkling bells sounded as I walked outside, assessing whether I should give up or perhaps ask Patrice, or find a way to get in touch with Miriam.
I pulled the key and the note card from my pocket and looked at them again. The key had ‘1b’ etched into the metal.
Up the hill was a building, attached to the gallery, which looked to contain small apartments. Could that also be 125 Toret? An ornate, large front entrance and many balconies adorned the structure. I climbed the stairs and on a door directly in front of me was 1b.
I wondered if the doctor had enough clout in France to expunge my record, should I get arrested for breaking and entering. The key slipped into the lock and the door opened easily. It was an office.
There were two desks, complete with two computers and two leather high back chairs. The walls were covered in charts and graphs, broken up with the occasional erotic painting. There were also several bookcases filled with books. The one window overlooked the gallery.
From where I stood, the handwriting on the desk blotter matched the writing on the card—Lydia.
Why would Miriam send me to Lydia’s office? A mug sat on the desk and the dark brown stain in the bottom had long since been coffee or tea. The newspaper on the desk was three years old. The furnishings were covered in dust and in the far corner of the room a stain on the ceiling revealed water damage. No one had been there in a long time. There were still crumpled up papers in the trash.
What was this all about? I walked around the desk and there was a photo of a beautiful, young, Lydia. Strange… Why would she have a photo of herself? I moved to the next desk and upon it sat a photo of a young Xavier on his wedding day. The age difference between the two was striking. His smile was bright and naïve; it was nearly impossible to believe that this man, less than a decade later, had made the largest advancement in Cancer research ever—a definitive cure.
I pulled out the chair that faced the door and started looking through the papers on the desk. Nothing of interest. On the bookcases were dozens of notebooks in custom binding. I picked up the first one and a newspaper clipping fell out. Youth Pleads Guilty to Murdering Girlfriend. The article went into details of Samantha’s death from strangulation. It was Xavier.
I opened what could be best described as a scrapbook and began to read. Thankfully, Lydia wrote in English, but the disturbing thing was that there were journal entries that corresponded with the date of his crime. He’d said he hadn’t met her until college. What the fuck?
I laid the book—much like a parent might make for a child—on the desk and read entry after entry. Every detail of his life was noted, even those as a small child.
Hours passed and I was engrossed in a tale with fewer victims than my father’s but no less devious. I skimmed notebook after notebook, stopping to take in the details of the horror story. I felt sick to my stomach and my head cloudy from shock. Inside a black leather journal found in the back of desk drawer, I found the most damning evidence. I grew sick from each chilling excerpt.
Fucking Charles. “Maintain the integrity of the project,” is what he always preaches until he gets himself in a bind. “Keep your distance.” Is what he told me last time, but now when it’s his fat in the fryer, rules are meant to be broken. Why does it have to be my subject? Can’t he pick someone else? If I could kill Charles, I would. He has controlled me since I was a child when he would sneak into my room late at night. I’d kill him not only for that, and for getting me into this bloody awful Society, but also for all of the sick, twisted perversions his mind constructs. I’d be doing the world a favor to rid it of that sociopath. He killed that girl. He knew she was X’s girlfriend, and that bastard had to kill her and now he wants X to take the fall. He’ll pay for breaking his own rules. I’ll make sure of it.
Dear God… Miriam’s father, Charles? The Society? Lydia knew Charles killed Xavier’s girlfriend and never told him. That bitch!
Charles calls it conditioning. That’s how he explains his choice to place Subject X with those horrid people. I wish I had been able to follow X’s case from the beginning, but let’s face it, Charles only brought me in to lighten his case load. I’m safe since he feels he has control of me. I had always suspected the family abused X, but hearing the tales of what his father did to him made it real. I doubt Charles would see it as a tragedy since one abuser usually defends another. When I’m indignant about his decisions, Charles is always careful to point out that this is exactly why the “no contact’ rule exists and by breaking it I only caused my own suffering.
What in the hell were they doing? Playing games with people’s lives. So that was why she never slept with him. She was keeping her distance. She perpetuated all his nightmares.
Rage. Burning rage bubbled through me. Lydia was lucky she was already dead.
This afternoon I stood in the doorway to X’s study and watched him devour the knowledge from document after document. It’s been months since he started this fool’s errand. When he placed his hand on my cheek, and told me he’d give up everything to save me from the cancer, I almost confessed. But what is the kinder path? I didn’t make him a subject. I inherited him and my only solace is that I tried my best to salvage even the smallest amount of normalcy for him. I married him to give him every opportunity—access to my family’s money and my constant oversight. But the deci
sion is coming soon, if he doesn’t reach his ‘potential’ before thirty, he’ll be executed. I can only hope the cancer takes me first.
What the fuck? Execute him if he doesn’t reach his ‘potential’? Who the fuck were these people?
I’m getting weaker every day and the cure still eludes X. Charles had to die before I did. I couldn’t allow him to ever tell X. I refuse to allow him to hurt anyone else. If nothing else, I am an unsung hero for ridding the world of Charles Lemiux. X is the closest thing I’ve ever known to love; I can’t bear for him to know the truth. Charles and Miriam are the only people who know my secret. Miriam is loyal to the core, but Charles was enterprising.
It was my only moment of smug satisfaction in the horrible story I had just read: Miriam’s betrayal.
She continued, It should only take a couple of more doses to finish him off. Lazy man should have gotten his own coffee.
She’d killed Charles. I eyed his coffee cup sitting on the other desk. This was their office. They were a team. Always had been. Xavier had been manipulated by two people who held the title of Doctor. What did I do now? Miriam wasn’t kidding. This was a burden I didn’t want. I had fallen in love with Xavier just in time to crush him. Son of a bitch. I slammed my hand down on the desk.
My heart filled with hate. I was happy he didn’t get a chance to save her. How could I save him? Should I keep these secrets to myself and carry this nightmare back with me to the States or should give him the truth? Fuck.
I had to leave. I couldn’t take any more.
I placed everything back where I found it and I locked the door on my way out. The sun hid behind heavy clouds signaling the threat of rain. The limo sat outside the gallery, waiting. I walked down the stairs and directly to the limo door, but the driver wasn’t there. I turned around just in time to make eye contact with Xavier, standing in the doorway of the gallery. His instant smile broke another piece off of my heart.
Several large strides and he threw open the door. “Elaine… You had me so worried. Are you all right?”
I nodded, but it was a lie. I wasn’t fine. I couldn’t let him know so I tried to keep my features under control, but the urge to cry stung my eyelids and tightened my chest.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out something shiny that reflected the sunlight. Before I could register his movements he wrapped his hands around my back and clasped the shiny object to my neck.
“Let me see.” He lifted and held in his hand a pendant that hung from a silver chain. “It’s perfect. That jeweler is a true artist and he made this in record time.”
In his hand was a small wire cage with a pair of detached wings sitting inside. Just like those in the painting of the angel who had been forbidden to fly away.
“It is beautiful.” I blinked my eyes, fighting tears.
“It’s how I feel, you know. Like you freed me.”
“But the door was open all along.”
“You’re right, the angel thought he had to fly to escape, but if he leaves the idea of his wings behind, he can walk out as a man.”
I wiped the escaped droplet from my cheek. Could I get away with not telling him? If I really left tomorrow, was the truth worth destroying his world? I should throw away that key. Let him keep his love.
“Elaine, what is wrong? I didn’t upset you did I? I just wanted you to have a memento. I’m sorry.”
“No. No, it’s not that.”
Part of me screamed inside to walk away. It would be the kinder thing to do. Or would it?
The more the decision raced through my head, the more I couldn’t contain the emotions.
He wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. I savored the feel of his embrace and cursed myself for teetering on the verge of a breakdown when he was the one who would be destroyed.
“I love you, Elaine. It wasn’t part of the plan, but I do.”
I was wrong. Neither one of us were going to make it out alive.
The tears flowed from my eyes. Why did life have to be so unfair?
If he truly meant it when he said he loved me, then I had to give him a choice.
I wiped my arm across my face, clearing the tears.
“Elaine, did you hear me? I said I love you.”
Could I speak without hyperventilating? Was the truth worth throwing away any hope of love with him? Regardless, my love for him was great enough to let him decide. I refused to be another Lydia.
“Xavier, if you were me and your father had a terrible secret that would turn your life upside down, take you away from everything normal you’d ever known, would you want to know? I had a happy childhood, you know. That monster was a wonderful father. But to learn of the monster meant I had to lose my father and the illusion of my life. If you were me and you had a choice, would you choose to know or not to know?”
He kissed my forehead. “This wasn’t the response I was hoping for when I told you I love you. I guess it depends on how much you value truth.”
“And you… Do you value truth over all else?”
“Yes. I’m a scientist. A cure is nothing more than a discovered truth. An action to get the desired reaction. I spend my life seeking truth.”
“So, you would give up the fantasy?”
“Elaine, what happened? How did you end up here? Patrice called me to tell me you were here and acting strange. As soon as my meeting ended, I came.”
“Thank you, but could you please answer the question?” I sniffled.
He brushed a stray piece of hair out of my face. I should have been mortified, losing my composure, but the pain I felt for him was too great.
“I’d want to know the truth.”
I couldn’t hold it back. The words burst forth. “You didn’t kill Samantha.”
His features soured. “That’s sweet of you to say, but I was there, Elaine.”
“Yes. You had sex with her, but you didn’t kill her.”
“Elaine…”
“Just hear me out.” I knew I sounded hysterical and by the look on his face, I must have looked it too.
“It was Charles. He killed her. He had been molesting her as a child.”
“What?” Anger brewed behind his confusion.
“It was his hypnotic suggestion therapy—he merged two events. There were two separate instances. You slept with her. But you were placed on her dead body. They drugged you. They knew as a juvenile, you’d never go to jail. They let you take the fall.”
His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. I would give anything to never see him this way. Never see the pain he was about to feel. “They?”
More tears gave way. “Charles and Lydia.”
“That’s impossible. Why are you doing this?” He backed away and crossed his arms.
“I debated telling you. Part of me wanted to leave and never have to see this look on your face. God. But I love you and I have to give you a choice.”
“I didn’t meet Lydia until I was in college.”
“I know, but she knew who you were. Your adoption, the early admission to college, it was all part of the plan. They wrote the screenplay for your life to meet their needs and documented all of it. It was an experiment. It was Charles who drafted the production and Lydia perfected it.”
His arms crossed tighter over his chest.
“But don’t worry, she got Charles before she died. She poisoned him.”
“Elaine, none of that happened. Let’s go get you some help…” He grabbed for my arm.
“No.”
I turned and raced back up the hill, pulling the key from my pocket.
“Elaine… Please…” He chased after me.
I stomped up the stairs. I placed the key in the door just as his arms circled around my waist and started dragging me away from the door.
“Elaine!” This time he shouted, anger pouring from him.
It didn’t matter, the door gave way and I fell through the door, pulling him with me.
I bumped the desk and the coffee cup of dea
th clanked against the table.
“It’s all here. Every detail. Right there in those books.”
His anger dissipated, replaced with bewilderment as he stared at Lydia’s photo sitting on Charles’s desk.
The tears returned and I realized that dealing with an angry Xavier would’ve been easier.
“I’m so sorry. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” I walked to him and grabbed his arm.
He remained silent, shifting his gaze around the room. He didn’t acknowledge me at all.
I let go of his arm. A few steps later, he stared at his wedding picture, as though he were trying to recognize the people in the photo. He picked up and examined it with careful scrutiny. His words were far too calm. “How did you know about this place?”
“Last night, Miriam gave me an envelope and a cryptic message about not being able to carry the burden. She said she could see that you loved me.”
I had hoped that would have provoked some type of affirmation of his earlier declaration, but nothing.
“I didn’t know the address was the same as of the gallery. Xavier, I am so sorry.” He set the photo back in its place and pulled out the chair, moving almost in slow motion. His face revealed no expression.
“Xavier, I love you. No matter what you find…”
He didn’t look at me. “Elaine, I think I need some time alone. You can have Pierre take you back to the house.”
I covered my mouth with my hand to trap the escaping sob. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t acknowledge me. Instead he opened a drawer and began sifting through the contents. I pulled out the key and the information written by Lydia and sat them on the desk. His eyes scanned my actions but he went back to his task without comment.
I turned and pulled the door shut behind me, clutching the necklace he’d given me in my hand.
I ran to the bottom of the hill. Pierre was waiting. He opened the door for me and mumbled something in French, which I took as question—Would Xavier be joining us? I shook my head, but he pulled out a cell phone to confirm.
