by Nicole
But here, in this room, time had simply stopped. Like those clocks that mark the exact moment of horrendous disasters like earthquakes and stand silent forevermore, this room remained exactly as before.
Slowly, she stretched out her fingers and tentatively touched the handle of the vacuum cleaner, standing beside the bed precisely where it had been when the blow had landed and the nightmare had begun. It felt solid and real. Maybe this was the reality and the other, the living room, the fantasy. Perhaps all that was necessary to end this, make everything as it had been again, was simply to close the door and stay here.
Somewhere in the background, she could hear Pat muttering to herself as she rummaged in the closet and bureau.
Shutting her eyes, Sheridan turned her back on the vacuum and tried to turn off the attack video playing in her mind. Being in this place that had once been her haven, her refuge, seemed to exacerbate the horror. As if the entire apartment had somehow absorbed a terror, an evil that permeated the very air.
Where are you, Nick, she thought desperately. I need you!
The irrational thought popped into her head that if he were there, curled up beside her, he could somehow make everything all right again. He’d snuggle tightly against her, put a velvet paw on her arm to reassure her, run his rough little tongue over her cheek and gaze up at her with those beautiful eyes.
Nick’s face formed in her mind, blurred and indistinct. As if she were seeing it through rippled water or cracked glass. Only his eyes were clear…bright and reassuring as the blue beacons of a lighthouse at the entrance to safe harbor. The sight of them seemed to calm her, ease her white-knuckled need to flee this place.
And for the first time since the nightmare had begun, Sheridan had the tiniest glimmer of hope that things would, eventually, be all right.
Chapter Twelve
Brian was buried as quietly as the ghoul press would allow. Barred from the church services and the private cemetery, they had to content themselves with pictures of his parents and younger sister scurrying to and from the waiting black limousine, trying to shield themselves from the prying lenses and shouted questions. And if Brian had any friends, they were conspicuous by their absence.
Seeing the two-minute snippet on the evening news, Sheridan was reminded of something her mother had told her as a child: “If there’s no one there to mourn you, you’ll never rest in peace.” She wondered if any of them, herself included, would ever find peace again.
With a simple, two line, handwritten note, his father quit his job as super and the family moved away; where, no one was ever quite sure.
After all the suffering, destruction and finally death that he’d brought into so many lives, it seemed almost anti-climactic. The proverbial whimper.
Now, all that remained for those left behind was to try and put the fragments of their brutally disrupted lives back together.
*
“And why not, may I ask?”
“Because, Pat,” Sheridan answered wearily, “nice as your guest room is and as wonderful as you and Bruce have been, I can’t stay here forever.”
“No one has said forever,” Pat corrected gently, shifting her weight on the edge of the bed. “Just for a little while. Until you’re well. The doctor gave you a practically open-ended excuse from work and you’ve got all kinds of sick leave. What you need is to rest and relax for a while.”
“I’m not going to get better lying around here watching television and dwelling on…on things I’d just as soon not dwell on.” She sighed and looked down at her hands, picking at the quilt on top of her. “Sometimes I don’t know which is worse; the flashbacks in the daytime or the nightmares.”
“Oh Sher.” Pat leaned over and took the other woman in her arms. “I’m so sorry. I feel so…so helpless. I’d do anything…”
“I know you would.” She smiled a little. “And you have. More than you can know. But it’s time I try to move on. And that means being on my own again.”
“But…”
“But nothing, Pat. My mind’s made up.”
“Where will you go?” she asked anxiously. “You can’t go back to your apartment. I mean…”
“I know what you mean. And I don’t have any intention of going back there.”
“Then where will you go? What will you do?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. A lot. And I have three things I want…need…to do. One, I need to find Nick. Next, I need to find a new apartment. And lastly, I need to work on a new story that seems to have arrived full blown in my head and which is screaming frantically to get out.”
The corners of Pat’s mouth curled down and Sheridan cut her off before she could speak again.
“I know what you think about Nick. I know what everyone thinks. But I know it’s not true.”
“How can you know?”
“Because,” she whispered, “if Nick were…were dead, part of me would be too.”
Pat felt her throat close up, and her heart clutched for her friend. Sheridan was in the worst kind of denial. She’d refused to talk about the attempted rape to anyone. Not to the counselor or even to her. It was as if she’d decided that ignoring it could somehow make it go away. And her refusal to accept the truth about Nick was obviously part of the whole denial process. There was no use in trying to make her see reason.
“What do you plan to do?”
Sheridan immediately brightened.
“I’m going to make posters, have them printed up and plaster the city with them. I’m going to offer a reward. Nothing gets people’s attention like money.”
“All right,” Pat relented. “If that’s what you want, you can use the computer in the den.”
So for days, Sheridan paid one of the neighborhood teens to check her fire escape morning and night for Nick. She papered the city with flyers offering a “substantial reward.” Vets offices, the humane society, every pet shop in the area got a notice. In the days following his disappearance, she saw every large (and not so large), male (female and neutered) black, dark gray, light gray, spotted and tiger tabby for miles around. But no Nick.
At the end of many long, frustrating days of posting notices, talking to strangers, looking at cats and searching alleys, Sheridan would drag back to Pat’s house, lock the guest room door and collapse onto the bed, wracked with tears until she finally dropped into a restless sleep.
Some nights, she’d dream of Nick, having fought to save her life…crippled, bleeding…crawling off somewhere to die alone in some filthy, garbage-strewn alley. Once in awhile, though, he’d come home to her, leaping onto the carpet and rubbing himself joyously against her legs at the reunion.
Most nights though, at least once, she’d relive the attack in all its horrible, minute detail, bringing her wide awake, heart racing, body trembling and sweating, shame and disgust and terror hanging on her like a dirty cobweb.
And the tears would flow again.
*
Sheridan happened upon the apartment quite by accident.
One afternoon, while she was posting a flyer about Nick on a community bulletin board in a small neighborhood grocery, she noticed a handwritten ad for an apartment. Since the building address was just around the corner and she was finished for the day, Sheridan decided to take a chance and go see it.
The address turned out to be a wonderful old Victorian home, painted a cheerful sunshine yellow with crisp white gingerbread trim. A turret at the right corner of the house, rose to a point above the gray-shingled roof. Huge, stately maple trees on either side framed the house and the empty flowerbeds in front, waiting for spring. Snow carpeted the front lawn, split perfectly down the middle by a wide cement walkway leading to the front door. On the wide veranda porch, an old-fashioned swing completed the picture.
Pushing the doorbell produced a wonderful, resonant, bell sound from deep inside the house, audible even from the outside. A moment later, the door swung open.
“Yes?” asked a tall, nice looking elderly woman with snow-white curl
s and bright, dark brown eyes.
“Hello,” Sheridan answered awkwardly. “My name’s Sheridan Phillips. I saw the ad about the apartment in the grocery store around the corner. I’d like to look at it, if it’s still available.” She glanced down at the scratch paper in her hand. “Mrs. Farnsworth, I think.”
A warm, friendly smile appeared on the other woman’s face. “I’m Maude Farnsworth and yes, the apartment’s still available. How many of you are there?”
“Just me.”
“That’s good. The ad says one bedroom and that would be one person or a married couple. I don’t want a family of seven or college kids playing ‘Musical Roommates.’ Too old for that.”
“I can certainly understand.”
“Come in.” She stood aside and Sheridan stepped into the large, comfortable entry hall, dominated by a huge grandfather clock and a dark, antique hall tree.
“Thank you.”
“It’s the second floor, front,” Mrs. Farnsworth was saying as she closed the door. “This way.” She led the way up the front stairs, carpeted in a rich burgundy, complementing the turned white spindles and thick dark banister.
Upstairs, they turned immediately to the right, Mrs. Farnsworth taking a ring of keys from her apron pocket.
“Carrie, the former tenant, up and eloped last weekend.”
Putting the key in the lock, the old woman turned the doorknob, opened the door and stepped aside for Sheridan to enter.
“Nice young man,” she commented as they moved into the large living room. “Been going together for a long time. He’s in the service and got a transfer to Hawaii. Can’t blame her. She said she was sorry to be leaving without proper notice but when you’re young and in love…”
Sheridan gasped in delight as her eyes fell on the turret alcove, the curtains open to the long circular windows, sunlight spilling into the room.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, moving to the large alcove and glancing out toward the front yard and quiet street beyond.
“It is nice,” Mrs. Farnsworth agreed, coming to stand beside her. “This turret is the reason Ralph and I bought the house originally,” she commented wistfully. “That was almost forty years ago. Place was a big, old, rundown eyesore but we loved it the second we saw it. Real estate agent and all our friends thought we were crazy. We spent our first night having dinner in the downstairs turret alcove.”
Sheridan could see that the old woman was seeing another time, gazing out the window and looking at the past. She waited silently for the other woman to return from her nostalgic journey.
“At any rate,” she resumed quietly, turning to face Sheridan again, “when Ralph died five years ago, it was convert the house to flats or lose it. This one was the first one rented. Not very big as you can see. Kitchen’s through there, small dining area. The living room’s large and even though the fireplace is small, it’s nice on a cold winter’s night. Except for my flat, which is directly downstairs, it’s the only one with a fireplace. There’s a little veranda outside the French doors there.” She nodded to the far side of the living room. “Not much to it but there’s room for a lawn chair and a couple of potted plants and it’s nice in the summer heat. Bedroom and bath are over there.”
“It’s exactly what I’m looking for,” Sheridan told her when they’d taken a short, quick tour of the apartment. “Could I fill out an application?”
The older woman waved her hand as if to dismiss the whole notion. “Oh, good heavens, that’s too much trouble. I’ve got a little personal information form and a rental agreement downstairs. Got both of them at the stationery store.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll want references and to do a credit check.”
“You employed, Miss Phillips?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m an Administrative Assistant for a civil engineering firm.” She hesitated a moment. “I’m…I’m on temporary disability leave right now but I’m still getting a full pay check.”
“You have a place to live now?”
“Yes. An apartment on French Court in the Fairview Heights area.”
“How soon would you like to move in?
“I was hoping to move out of my apartment as soon as possible.”
“How ‘bout next weekend? I have the painters coming in on Monday and I expect the place will be ready by Saturday.”
“That would be wonderful,” Sheridan breathed, hardly able to believe her good luck.
“Good,” the other woman announced with a firm nod of her head. “That’s taken care of.” She put out her hand. “As long as we’re going to be neighbors, you can call me Maude.”
“And I’m Sheridan,” she smiled reaching out and taking the other woman’s hand. It was a surprisingly firm handshake.
“Now, let’s go downstairs, have a cup of tea and get the paperwork out of the way.”
At the top of the stairs, Maude turned to her and frowned slightly. “There is just one more thing,” she said firmly.
For a moment, Sheridan was afraid she was going to go back on her promise of the apartment. “Yes?” she replied warily.
“Do you like cats?”
The question took Sheridan completely by surprise. “Yes,” she managed to stammer out. “I’m…I’m very fond of cats. I had one I loved very much until…until very recently.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Farnsworth told her, patting her gently. “I only asked because of Asia, my calico. She’s like me. Old, crotchety and set in her ways. Had her since she was a kitten. Before we had to convert to flats. Still thinks she has the run of the place and pretty much comes and goes as she pleases. Your veranda is one of her favorite haunts when the weather’s nice. Just wanted you to know. In case you don’t like cats or are allergic or something.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Sheridan smiled. “Asia sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to meet her.”
So the next Saturday, with the help of a rental truck, Pat, Bruce and several of the people she worked with, Sheridan left one part of her life and began another.
Avoiding the living room, she scurried quickly into the kitchen, immersing herself in wrapping and packing her dishes, glasses and cookware. Having already discussed the subject with her friends, she listened as they began packing and hauling her things down the stairs.
There wasn’t really very much. Most of her clothes and personal items had already gone over to Pat’s. Rocker, coffee and end tables, bureau and mirror, bed, computer equipment and desk, television, VCR and stereo, and dining table and chairs were the main things. Because she couldn’t bear to look at them, the sofa and entertainment center had been consigned to a local thrift store. In order that she not have to look at them again, they’d been picked up the day before.
She’d received a formal letter from the owner of the building (well, actually his lawyer) stating that in view of the “unfortunate incident,” she would not be held responsible for the “stain damage to the living room carpet” or the “emergency repair of the living room window.”
Also, in return for her written assurance that she “would not seek to find the building, its ownership or management in any way responsible for the problem,” they would, barring any damage beyond normal wear and tear, be happy to refund her security deposit and provide a positive reference to any future landlord.
Opening the cupboard, Sheridan was momentarily startled to see two large cans of salmon. She’d bought them the last time she went to the store before…
Tears blurred the shelves, making a multi-colored smudge.
Oh God, Nick!
Sheridan slumped against the counter, her shoulders sagging as sorrow overwhelmed her again.
She couldn’t stay here. Even her love, her belief, her need for Nick couldn’t overcome the horror that Brian had brought into this place. Just being here now, in the daylight, the apartment filled with sun and other people, the evil seemed to be pressing in on her, threatening to suffocate her. It was taking every ounce of strength she had
to fight down her panic-stricken urge to run.
But she couldn’t leave, either. This had been where she and Nick had made their home, shared their lives. This was where he’d return. Where he’d expect her to be waiting. If she left, she’d be abandoning him. It would be admitting that he wasn’t coming back. That she’d lost faith in him. In them.
Could he…would he, ever be able to understand? Forgive her?
“Nick,” she screamed in her mind. “I need you so much.”
*
Sheridan stared out into the unfamiliar blackness of her new bedroom.
After clearing out her old apartment, they’d all piled in their respective vehicles and begun the reverse process at the Victorian. Everyone had ooooed and aaaahhhed over her flat, especially the turret window. She’d insisted that her computer desk be put in the alcove where it fit perfectly. Gino, one of the interns from the office, had immediately set about hooking it up for her.
When all the furniture had been placed and the boxes stacked in various rooms, Sheridan had paid for buckets of fried chicken, all the trimmings, cola and beer. They’d sat on the living room floor, talking and laughing, trying just a little too hard to make the transition seem festive. Carefully, they sidestepped any hint that the move had been caused by anything more than the normal transience of everyday life. In fact, Pat had commented (again) how much more she liked the Victorian than the old place. Someone else told her that it would be a shorter, more convenient commute to the office.
Finally, they’d all drifted away, saying their good byes, wishing her well in her new place and hoping to see her back at work soon. Exhausted, she’d deadbolted the door, checked to make sure the windows were locked and gone to bed.
But even the physical exhaustion could not coax her body to shut down and sleep. Like the monster in the closet of her childhood, Sheridan’s mind knew the nightmare of the attempted rape was waiting just over the threshold of dreams to leap out and attack her as it did every night. As it did in her unguarded daytime moments. And the fear of that monster had become almost as terrible as the event itself.
