by R. Lee Walsh
“I appreciate the thought, but we both know that's not the point. He never should have taken it in the first place. It's nobody's business what I write in my diary.”
“Agreed, but there's nothing we can do about it now. He's under tremendous pressure these days and you're not making things any easier.”
I open my mouth to argue but this's not the time to bring up Silverhill. Besides, as if this morning's pre-dawn threat wasn't enough, I was caught smoking in the parking lot (again) today, only this time by a nasty woman reporter who's made a career out of trying to discredit John. In a matter of minutes she had pictures posted on the internet and I spent an hour in his office being accused of everything from sabotage to drug addiction. After a lengthy period of dramatic sighs and silent glaring, he launched into his laundry list of my failings. As usual, it started with complaints about my lack of respect and defiant behavior--sins that go against everything he stands for and preaches.
“Why do you have to make everything so difficult?” he sighed. “Can't you just pretend to be normal for one day?”
“By all means, let's do more pretending,” I said. “We don't get enough of that around here.”
Flaring his nostrils, he once again threatened to sign the papers. However, in light of the big Easter celebration and the added pressure of so many reporters hanging around, he was feeling generous.
“I don't want to see or hear another word about you until Monday morning. I mean it.” He then demanded my car keys and cell phone. Unable to refuse at that point, I'd been forced to hang around at the church until a family member could take me home. Between the stares, glares and whispering from staff members, I spent the better part of the afternoon lurking in bathrooms.
“Why today?” Aunt P asks. “You know the place is crawling with reporters. You don't even smoke.”
“So what if I did? When does my life belong to me?” I turn to glare at her. “Don't you ever get tired of pretending? This is all an illusion, you know. It's a show we put on to entertain the masses.”
She purses her lips and her eyes narrow. “I disagree,” she responds sharply, gathering her papers. “You're eighteen years old and blind to everything good in your life because you're so focused on what isn't. Like it or not you're a part of this so-called 'illusion' and your immature behavior reflects poorly on all of us.”
Stung by her tone, I slump in my seat as she stands. Aunt P rarely gets mad. She's one of only three people in my life who loves me unconditionally, which means I've really screwed up today. “You know I love you, Hope,” she continues, smoothing the skirt of her candy red suit. “But it's time to grow up. John is not your worst enemy.”
I watch her exit the now empty sanctuary, brooding over her parting words. The truth is, she's partly right. What happened today was my own stupidity. It's just that lately the maintenance guys are the only ones who don't seem to mind my company. During lunch they gather behind the building for a smoke break and rather than being singled out for another stupid interview, I decided to tag along. I should have known some psycho reporter would follow me.
Adding insult to, well, insult, as I'm about to seek out yet another bathroom to hide in, my older step-brother Simon marches into the sanctuary with a tour group, demanding I retrieve a box of fliers from storage. As the newly appointed head of public relations, he never wastes an opportunity to flaunt his superiority. We have a lifelong mutual disrespect for one another and there's nothing he loves more than seeing me humiliated. I know for a fact he's the one who sicked that reporter on me, which is why I left a token of my appreciation in his car. Later, when he goes to drive home, he'll find a pack of cigarettes on the dash board, strategically placed where everyone will see them.
Cussing under my breath, I'm nevertheless relieved for the escape from the ongoing circus upstairs, so I take my time wandering through the sea of cardboard boxes and extra folding chairs in the cavernous storage space under the arena. An elaborate set waits in pieces for Sunday's Easter spectacle and even by Broadway standards, it's impressive. The stone that rolls away from Jesus' empty tomb is enormous and the cave looks exactly the way I remember from our televised trip to the Holy Land last year. My stepsister Faith did the artwork and her eye for detail is uncanny. Walking around each piece admiring her handiwork, I catch a glimpse of bright red fabric on the floor some distance to my right. Thinking it must be a part of the set I haven't seen before, I wander that direction and discover it's actually Aunt P. She's sprawled out on the floor next to a wall of holiday decorations like a discarded doll.
This isn't the first time she's pulled this kind of prank, so I roll my eyes and wait for the punch line. Never one to let the day end on a sour note, she's like Mary Poppins and the Mad Hatter in a red designer suit, which is why kids of all ages adore her. When she doesn't move I swallow my pride and venture a few steps closer. “Look, you were right and I'm sorry,” I say. “I promise no more smoking with the maintenance guys.” When she still doesn't move, I sigh. “Okay, fine. No more smoking ever.”
I wait another beat for her to pop up and yell “Gotcha!” or whatever she's got planned, but still nothing happens. Becoming annoyed, I take another hesitant step closer. From a distance, she appeared to be lying on her back, but now that I'm only a few feet away, I realize something's off. Frowning, I quickly close what distance there is left between us and see she's actually on her stomach--only her neck's twisted so far her head is turned face up.
I have this surreal moment where my brain refuses to accept what my eyes are seeing before my whole body recoils and I gag so hard it chokes me. My vision tunnels, going black around the edges and my mind scrambles to process a thousand details at once. This can't be happening.
I hear an odd clicking noise somewhere behind me and spin around, searching for the source. My senses sharpen to a primal awareness and the hair on my neck stands up. I strain to hear over the thunder of my racing heartbeat while self-preservation screams that I should run for help. My body seems to have disconnected from my brain because like some bad parody of a B horror movie, I'm paralyzed with fear.
A panel of fluorescent lights flicker above me and I get this overwhelming sense that I'm being watched. However, a second sense seems to be warring with sheer terror, demanding I pay attention to something else--something I desperately need to see right now. Clutching the red diary she gave me less than an hour ago tightly against my chest, I force myself to turn back to the gruesome state of my beloved Aunt P.
It doesn't take a detective to see this is no accident. Only an extreme act of violence could turn someone's neck all the way around. Unable to bring myself to look below her face, I quickly examine her ashen features, silently begging her to blink or show any sign of life. Her twinkling brown eyes are open but vacant, seemingly fixed on a blood spattered tan shoe near her head. I follow her empty gaze and a faint, but unmistakable message glows in the blood on her shoe, then fades.
Run.
A metal door clangs open in the distance and I startle, instinctively looking for a place to hide as the staccato clack of high heels echoes down the concrete hall. The barest whisper of fabric brushing against cardboard comes from somewhere close to my right and I freeze again, all my senses zeroing in on the sound. The air's suddenly heavy with the scent of something putrid, like decaying flesh and burning hair. My gag reflex wars with the instinct to remain perfectly still and silent, breathing only tiny sips of air through my mouth.
I hear my mother's frustrated voice calling out for me in the hallway and something internally snaps. All at once I find myself in motion, sprinting through the maze of boxes toward the loading dock. When I reach the enormous metal doors, I look back to see her at the storage room entrance.
“Hope? Where are you going?” she demands. “Where are the flyers you were supposed to get?”
While she's speaking, a shadow passes behind her. Oblivious, she stares at me, waiting for an answer. I open my mouth to warn her but hear the distinc
tive scrape of the metal door again. She glances briefly over her shoulder but the hallway must be empty because she looks both ways without acknowledging anyone then returns her attention to me.
Conflicted, I scan the storage area again, but somehow sense the threat is gone. A “normal” girl would run toward her mother at this point, seeking comfort and shelter in her maternal arms. A thousand bitter arguments and years of mutual disappointment have created a gulf between us that even now I can't see a way to cross. Her cell phone rings and she fumbles with her jacket pocket, answering on the second ring.
“Hi, honey. Yeah, I found her. We're on our way up.” Her brow furrows and she pauses to listen while staring at me, her eyes narrowing. I'm guessing Simon must've already run to Daddy about the present I left in his car. In hindsight, that probably wasn't the best idea and John's probably signing the papers for Silverhill now. The exasperated look on my mother's face makes my decision for me.
“Bye Momma,” I whisper, opening the door to the loading dock, racing toward the parking lot and away from everything that's broken in my life. The last thing I hear is my mother yelling for me to come back “this instant!” and the door slam between us as I run.
~Three~
And I made haste to obey them and went out from my house, and made to the doors as it was ordered me.
Secrets of Enoch 1:11
Within hours, the media speculations on the discovery of a dead body at the world headquarters of the Omega Alliance (OA) will run the gamut between a bizarre religious ritual gone awry to a full blown terrorist attack, which just goes to show you can't trust anything you hear on the news. In a scramble to do damage control, the bureaucracy behind the largest mega-church on the planet will decide the Son Rise! Easter Celebration will still go on as planned (aka The Show Must Go On).
As for me, I hail a cab outside the front gate of the OA compound and go home. Once safely inside the house, I lean against the heavy oak front door, my whole body trembling. I don't expect anyone else to be here yet, but call out just to be sure. My grandparents stop by on a regular basis and there's always the endless parade of church elders, parishioners and OA employees. The only response is the ticking of an antique clock on the mantle in the living room.
After a quick tour of the main floor to make sure the place is truly empty, I race upstairs to my room where I quickly fill a backpack with necessities. My hands shake so bad I have to stop twice, forcing myself to slow down and take deep breaths.
At this point Aunt P's body may or may not have been discovered, but sooner or later someone will come looking for me. Not only did my mother see me running from the scene--which is bad enough--but every critic, crackpot and rabid reporter in the country is about to descend on the OA like sharks scenting blood. In a matter of hours any hope I had of a future outside this madhouse will be gone.
Taking one last look around the room I share with my step-sister Faith, I see Tiger crouched on the window seat, his sea-green eyes calmly watching me. The thought of leaving him behind makes my stomach clench, but there's no way to take him with me now. I tear a page from my journal and draw a simple cat face with three words under it, leaving it under Faith's pillow.
You owe me.
Once the dust settles and they realize I'm gone, she'll know what it means.
Twilight's fast approaching as I leave the house on foot, darting up the alley. I make two quick stops, first at a drugstore and then the local Goodwill, before finally retreating to a gas station bathroom to do a little damage control of my own.
In the harrowing hours that follow, with the help of Miss Clairol and some new old clothes, I change my appearance, saying goodbye to my long dark hair and hello to shoulder length dishwater blonde. Using the outrageously expensive fake I.D. I purchased months ago in preparation for the disappearance I'd planned for once I got to college, just after midnight I depart Rochester, New York, on a Greyhound bus headed for Portland, Oregon. Five straight days on any bus is my idea of torture on wheels, but I'd never make it past airport security with my fake I.D and my 1997 Honda Accord is out of the question. Besides, it's still back at the OA and John took my keys. Frankly, it's the bus or hitchhike and I'm not that desperate.
Yet.
I decided on Oregon because it's the only state in the U.S. where the OA does not have satellite facilities, which is one of the reasons I picked there to go to college. Recently, there's been heated debate over that last bastion of heathendom, largely due to the opposition of a mysterious organization called the New Generation. I don't know much about it other than its anti-religion and its leader appears to have no use for John Matthews or the Omega Alliance. Portland is their base of operations, and in light of my current situation, it calls to me like a neon Las Vegas billboard.
So while the rest of the world debates whether the Antichrist has appeared in the OA basement or my stepfather had secret dealings with the Russian mob, I'll be stewing in a greasy vinyl seat trying to figure out how the hell this could have happened.
Aunt P's my mother's sister and as far as I know, didn't have an enemy in the world. John, on the other hand, gets death threats all the time. I'm guessing with all the extra hoopla going on over the Easter spectacle, some psycho must've gotten past security. There's no doubt in my mind that whoever did that to her was still in the storage room and watching me. I shudder to think what would have happened if my mother hadn't come looking for me. However, as far as I can tell from the snippets I've been hearing from other passengers, so far there are no witnesses, no suspects and the only victim appears to be Aunt P.
The loss of my Aunt is so enormous that a part of me refuses to accept it. Along with my grandparents, her infectious laughter and unconditional love have been the only constants in my life. I keep envisioning scenarios where it was all a hoax or she somehow, miraculously, survived. In order to keep myself from complete hysteria, I pretend she's sitting beside me. Pull yourself together and sit up straight, she would say. There's never an excuse for bad posture.
As the first light of dawn creeps over the horizon, I'm delirious with exhaustion but can't allow myself to sleep. Aside from watching for flashing red and blue lights, every time I close my eyes I see Aunt P's face, her lifeless eyes staring at me. I end up hyperventilating and having to put my head between my knees.
Outside of Cleveland, Ohio, an elderly couple gets on, seating themselves one row behind me. I overhear them chatting about a news conference that has something to do with the OA.
At the next stop curiosity gets the best of me and I decide to risk going into the depot. Once inside, I immediately scan the television monitors, while trying my best to blend in with the crowd. It's 5:00 p.m. and most stations are broadcasting some form of news, but so far they're not saying anything about the OA. Frustrated and knowing the bus will leave soon, I purchase a newspaper and caffeinated beverage, careful to stay on the perimeter of the security cameras. As I head back toward the entrance, I hear a newscaster mention the Omega Alliance and John's voice quickly follows. He's speaking to a crowd of reporters with my mother by his side.
“We grieve for the woman who brought such joy to our lives and ask for your prayers and support as the investigation into this tragedy continues. We are confident that the person or persons responsible will be swiftly apprehended and justice will be served. In the meantime we ask that you respect our family's privacy as we grieve.”
There's the usual cacophony of shouted questions as reporters try to elicit one more response. John ushers my mother away from the cameras while she stares solemnly ahead, ignoring the shouted questions.
“Pastor Matthews, is there any word on your missing stepdaughter?”
John's head snaps up and my mother looks stricken. There's a hush as John quickly tries to recover his composure, his expression a carefully practiced neutral. My mother mumbles something and he shakes his head as another reporter asks my mother to repeat what she said. Before John can stop it, a microphone is thrust in my
mother's face and a close up reveals her eyes are puffy and red. She has that cornered animal look and takes a shaky breath before looking straight into the camera. “Hope is dead.”
The reporters go ballistic and OA reps attempt to maneuver my mother and John away from the melee. The newscaster stutters, trying to come up with an appropriate comment, but I no longer hear anything being said. I immediately turn and exit the depot, blindly making my way back to the bus. My vision distorts and every step takes incredible effort, like walking underwater. Somehow I reclaim my seat and the bus pulls out, leaving the shards of my so-called life on the depot floor. I lean over, resting my head on the seat in front of me, trembling so hard it feels like seizures. As long as I live I will never forget the look on my mother's face or the anguish I saw in her eyes. She was talking to me when she looked in that camera and there's no mistaking her message. Don't come back.
Up to the moment when I saw the absolute devastation in my mother's eyes, the child in me was still hoping to be rescued, but those days have obviously ended. As far as my mother and the Matthews family are concerned, I am dead.
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