“May I help you?” The unknown doctor asked him, dismissing the other doctor with whom she had been talking before.
“It would be better if I could speak directly to McCormick, she…”
The doctor offered him a hand as a soft, natural smile appeared in her face.
“That would be me. Anna McCormick, nice to meet you.”
Marco froze and, although he had already reached her hand for that shake, he felt the floor disappear under his feet. Now he was indeed lost in a river with no shore anywhere near.
“You said your name to be Flyce. I feel like I--”
“My mother was Michelle Flyce, I believe she was one of your patients.”
The smile on the doctor’s face slowly faded, as her blue eyes took a saddened spark.
“Michelle. Oh, God, Michelle. She was not only my patient, she was a friend. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Could we talk?”
McCormick didn’t argue, she just showed him the way to her office.
Marco felt relieved as they walked in the new room. The psychologist didn’t seem one of those movie clichés, she was not a woman with a rigid face and dubious smile who would hide behind a clipboard while sitting in an expensive armchair. She seemed available, open, trustworthy.
The office was a place he wouldn’t expect to see in a hospital. It was one of the corner offices, therefore the big windows offered him a pretty view from the city and the mountains around. It was well lit, well decorated with white and silver tones, besides the colorful abstract paintings and their smart geometrical figures. In contrast to the room there was a large dark sofa, apart from the table and the armchair of the doctor by a wide soft rug, also white.
She showed him the sofa as she sat at her armchair. Opposite to what he thought, she didn’t reach for a clipboard or just pretended to listen to him. She crossed her legs with extreme finesse, unintentionally flashing a beautiful pair of legs supported by expensive high-heeled shoes.
“How’ve you been, Marco? Did I get your name right?”
Yes, she did. Marco’s glance, however, wasn’t at her anymore. His eyes swept the office, imagining that this was one of the places his mom used to spend some of her afternoons, sometimes the nights, confessing, talking, telling her things that should have been kept a secret. That is how it worked, right?
“I’m fine.”
“What brings you here? If I’m not mistaken, it’s been three years since…”
“Since the accident.”
She just nodded, while her tongue gently ran through her lips.
Marco hadn’t felt so apprehensive in a long time. Although she could be pleasant, he felt as if under a microscope, being analyzed all the time, having each of his reactions observed and duly evaluated, giving her everything she needed to know about him.
Right behind McCormick, Marco saw a wall with photos and pictures that seemed happy. Many women and only women. His mom could be there.
“How’s your father?”
“He’s good. Actually, he’s one of the reasons I’m here.” He noticed how she seemed to be alarmed. “Nothing serious, he just had a syncope at home, he’s under observation.”
“You’re already a man, Marco. Sometimes it impresses me how fast time flies.”
He scratched his head, unsure on how to react to that compliment, whether with a compliment or just by going straight to the issue.
“I found one of my mom’s diaries recently.”
“And did it disturb you?”
“You can say that.”
Great. He was in therapy, again. He had hated the first time and he was not sure he would enjoy this one.
“I’m not here to talk about it.”
“Well, maybe it would be good to talk about it. Maybe the reason that brought you here was knowing how close to the case I was, or that I know what you’ve been through in the last years of life s…”
I’m not here to talk about it.”
She silenced herself when she noticed the stiffness in his voice. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. He needed to put the words and ideas together.
“The diary… my mom talked about this support group.”
“Agnes. It’s an idea I had, basing myself on the well-succeeded experiences some fellow colleagues had with support groups for victims of posttraumatic stress disorder and even people who suffered from alcohol or drugs addiction. Some studies suggest that the internet, when used as a supporting platform, works as well as the meetings in person, once people find less barriers when behind a screen, protected by an avatar and a fantasy name.”
“So she was part of the group?”
She seemed to hesitate.
“Yes, Marco, you mother was part of the group. I kept a close eye, but many patients were part of the group, just like the patients of other friends I have in the field, from many places around the country. Is that what you wanted to know?”
No, it was not. But he couldn’t directly ask it to her.
“I feel that’s a part of her I didn’t know. I feel it’s a part I will never know.”
Ana sighed, showing a gentle smile.
“Marco… may I call you Marco?” He nodded in response. “We never get to completely know people beyond what they allow us to know. And I’m telling you this as a psychologist, as someone who people assume to know everything about everyone. Isn’t that the impression you have of me?”
“Maybe.”
“I can tell you’re anxious. Maybe for being or trying to be controlling. You are confident, but what bothers you is not esteem, but the fear of losing control of things, since you’ve never had it in your life. But even those are things you let me perceive.”
“You meant that…”
“You’ll never know anyone entirely, even if it’s your mother, father or your children, in the future. You may think you know a brother, for instance, for having lived with him a whole life, and you think you understand the reasons that took him to use drugs, for example. You think it’s comes from the pressures he suffers, or for being weak. But what you don’t know it what is really going on in his head, you will never know all the fears he has or the strings that stop him from moving on with his life or even changing it. Each person is unique, and there’s something far, a lot far beyond what we see.
“It would maybe be nice to access this part of her life. I mean… it feels like there’s still something to learn about her, something I cannot ask her about anymore or… you understand, I think.”
“I do. But that’s something you’ll have to accept. Marco… we are all memories.”
“What you mean?”
“If I ask you who you are, how will you answer me?” He shrugged, to which she smiled. “You’ll use all you have in your own mind to do so. Your thoughts, your fears, your longings. It is difficult to describe yourself, I know. But if I tell you to tell me who your father is, for example, you’d have a prompt answer. Maybe long, maybe short, but the answer is there. Because you base yourself on the memories you have, on what you recall from him, the moments you’ve spent together, the reactions and the flaws he possesses. Your mother, right now, it only a memory. Is it possible that this memory is slowly fading away because of her absence, her death? Sure. But we are all memories to other people.”
Marco digested that thought for a while, trying to accept how much sense it had. As much biased he were regarding shrinks, that stupid five-minute conversation seemed to want to have some effect on him.
“What about when those memories go? What’s left?”
“That’s what we all long to know, Marco. What is left when all that composes us disappear?”
She stood up, the white coat dancing around her tight black dress. Instead of showing him out, she walked to the wall of photos and took one of the magnetic pictures from there, going back to him afterwards. Finally, she delivered the picture to Marco.
“This is a rare picture, from one of the few Agnes encounters we ever had.
Some women forged strong bonds by sharing their experiences and decided to support each other live. One of these women was your mother.”
Marco was ready to see it, when she stopped him from doing it, covering the photo with her pale hand.
“This is one of the last pictures of your mother, an image you’ve never seen and that could be the only ‘new’ photograph you’ll see of hers. See when you feel ready. I’ll leave you alone for some minutes.”
Marco nodded and, protecting the hand with his own hands, he held on until the knock-knock from her high heels indicated she had gone. He took a deep breath and raised the picture to his eyes, deciding that he was, indeed, ready to see that last new photo he would ever see of his mom.
And there she was. On that photo, doctor McCormick was in the middle of a group of lined women in a huge hug picture, smiling at the camera. McCormick herself didn’t look that bright, wearing sunglasses and trying to naturally smile to the picture. They were at some sort of park, with grass and a shining blue sky on the background.
His mom was next to the psychologist, two heads to the right, with a huge smile. Marco didn’t remember the last time he had seen such smile on her face. The last memory he had of hers was in agony, pain, features that precede death. There, however, there was no space for death. His mother was smiling, evidently well. Her dark and voluminous hair framed her face in a magnificent afro-style – the last memories he had she always wore them covered in turbans – adorned by a colorful, long, summer dress. That photo should date back to 2012 or the summer of 2012, just a short while before her accident. He sighed.
Marco was about to drop the picture and leave the office when his eyes captured another known face, a face standing exactly beside his mother in a comfortable smile, although a little more modest and held back than Michelle’s. The woman seemed to shine under the photographer’s captured sun and her emerald-colored eyes shone in the picture, along her natural red hair that reflected the sun in its entire majesty.
He couldn’t believe it, although now he had just confirmed what he had read.
… she’s not like me. She’s strong, her own woman, one of those who silence the place in which they walk in…
He looked at the picture again, his eyes burning and wet as his trembling hands barely could keep the magnetic paper between his fingers. His heart pumped fast and, although he could scarcely understand what was actually going on, he knew he couldn’t spend one more minute in there.
… I wonder how could she have let herself come to such point, allowing herself to suffer this way when life seems to tell her it is not at all necessary…
Marco dropped the picture on the sofa and rushed out of the office as a rocket, people and corridors around him turning to a white and grey blur as he advanced in large and fast steps, looking for his way out of there. Someone called his name, the elevators would take long and he reached for the stairs. He didn’t want to hear, he didn’t want to speak, he didn’t want to be there. His throat seem to tighten around itself, his pulse was so strong he could hear it in his ears.
… but it is not up to me to judge her, not when she understands me in ways I cannot even begin to…
Marco pushed the hospital doors with all the strength he had in him and, as soon as he saw himself in the fresh and cold air, he put his hands on his knees and took the air deep into his lungs, his breath faltering, the face warm and wet, at the same time. Snow fell heavily, the wind tossing small flakes of it against his face, as if trying to wake him up.
… Clarice is a true friend and the best person I could have ever meet in Agnes. A sister by choice.
Marco took another deep breath, the sharp wind scratching his interior just like that realization did. He was out of air. He had to run, to escape, he needed to punch something. What was happening?
What if Clarice knew? What it Clarice and his mother… no. It was not possible, he couldn’t see how. It had all happened in one single night, there was no way…
… there was no way.
It was just a coincidence. The passed-out woman, whose psychotic husband had tried to kill and who found shelter in their home. The woman who helped him to reconcile with his father. The woman who had fallen into depression in such a way she had even attempted suicide. That Clarice…
Was someone he knew.
But what did he really know about her?
Clarice.
There was nothing clear about any of that. Marco checked and found the car keys in his coat pocket. He recalled having parked it a little ahead, right at the hospital’s entrance. He just had to find the car and get out from there, completely neglecting the fact that his father might need him. No, what his father didn’t need was that new addition. He had himself found the connection, he himself would deal with that.
Women talk, he remembered his father saying once. Women talk too much.
Marco parked the car and watched the cabin in all its calmness, with the snow already covering the roof and windows. The snowstorm was coming and it would come with all it had. Behind and around the house, the pines danced and shook, the wind reaching unimaginable speeds.
The fingers drummed around the wheel while he tried to organize his thoughts once more. The photos, the diary entries, the psychologist’s voice… all repeating in a loop and echoing in his ears, making it more difficult that it already seemed.
He removed the seatbelt and stretched himself, taking the phone out of his back pocket. He dialed Laura’s number again, hoping the bad feelings would have been forgotten by then.
“What?” She asked on the other side, her voice as monotonous and the interior of that car.
“Laura, I need your help. I don’t know what to do. Clarice knew my mom. They were both friends, I don’t know what to do, I…”
“Marco. Marco! I don’t understand.” She said. “Who’s Clarice?”
He leaned his forehead on the hand that rested on the wheel, his head low as he tried to control his breathing and his impulses to yell and punch the dashboard. To avoid the rage burst, he simply tightened his grip around the wheel, letting his head tilt back against the seat of the car. He exhaled strong and loudly, as a furious roar came out.
“A woman my father and I are helping. It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does, Marco. You’re in distress.”
“I saw the name in my mom’s diary, I thought it was just coincidence and…”
“Wait a second, my mother’s here.”
For some long minutes, the line went silent. Marco even checked the screen just to make sure the call was still on. He felt like his heart was about to jump out of his mouth, so much were his anticipation and stress. Fuck, at least be here when I need you.
“I’m back.”
“Laura, Clarice and my mom were part of the group. You really don’t know…”
“Marco, I just joined therapy. After your mother’s death, you know. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I will talk to her.”
“Be careful, Marco.”
“I need to talk to her.”
Holding the phone against his ear, Marco opened the car door and walked out.
Outside was much colder than what he had calculated. With the free hand he zipped up his jacket and hugged himself, trying to walk straight amidst the strong wind that blew, carrying with it curtains of swirling snow.
“Are you still there?” He asked when the call seemed to have failed.
The wind was so strong he barely heard her voice.
“Where--r--Marco?”
“I’m arriving home now. Laura, promise me something?”
“Ju--say--the c--losin--you.”
“If I’m not back in a couple minutes,” he lowered his voice as he reached the entrance door. “Call the cops. I’m serious.”
“I’m here.”
Marco didn’t hang up. He kept the call running and put the phone in the front pocket of his parka. Careful, he unlocked the door and, to his dismay, it was al
ready open.
He looked back one more time. The car was already under a few layers of ice and the landscape, although excessively white and heavy, felt the most tranquil thing he had seen in that whole day. He took a deep breath and turned to the house again. It could all just be another one of his anxiety episodes. A bout, a huge coincidence. The woman didn’t even have memories.
He pushed the door and walked in.
There was a sweet scent in the air, cinnamon maybe. The warm air inside felt comfortable, though heavy. He inhaled again and closed the door behind himself, blocking the creaking of the trees and the fuss created by the gale outside. Now all sounds were blocked away and the silence took charge of the room.
Marco advanced a few steps, the phone still on in his pocket. Laura was with him, he had nothing to fear. Carefully he removed the phone from the pocket and held it in his hand. The call was on, indeed, although he tried to pretend to be just casually walking with his phone up.
“Hey.” He called, already crossing the living room.
The fireplaced crackled, warm, but besides that there were no other sounds. He took one more step forward and heard wood crying underneath his feet. That creak was not his. He froze and stopped, holding his breath.
“Clarice?”
He turned around to the door once more, from where the wood creak had come from, but before he could even see what was going to happen, something hit him in the face with such power he saw everything go black suddenly, followed by the thud and the dizziness that accompanied him as he fell to the ground, on his knees.
The phone fell from his hands, sliding across the floor. Stunned by the hit, Marco took a hand to his face, from where blood ran freely. His hands trembled and the sound of the impact kept on ringing inside his head. He was losing focus, losing his awareness.
Marco felt his body weight more than usual, his head like a large boulder being supported by a twig. His body dropped sideways, completely laid on the floor and, in a last glimpse of hope, he saw his phone screen enlightened with Laura’s face in it. He just had to reach for it before everything went back to black at once, he just had to…
The Woman Hidden Page 30
