The Woman Hidden

by Lucas Mattias

  In there she was safe. And soon, she’d be free.

  As the cab put itself into motion and gained speed, she removed the sunglasses, watching the green spark of her eyes on the reflection, the first time in years realizing that they were, indeed, really beautiful and one day they could even be filled with life again. She put the glasses inside the bag and took her hands to the head, slowly sliding the wool cap back until it completely came out.

  The locks fell over her shoulders, with that shade she already knew, but that she had missed so much. It was slightly rumpled by the time it had spent pulled up underneath the cap, hiding something that could’ve made her an easy target. She removed the gloves and, with the finally free hands, she shook her hair from the top of her head, allowing them to move again as in a long time they hadn’t been able to.

  She couldn’t leave all memories behind, as she had considered once, but after all, who are we when our memories are taken from us? What is left behind when all that has built us overtime and that shapes us disappears, dissipating and vanishing into the ice that seems so endless and painful as it falls from the skies? Where do the purposes, characters, dreams and desires go to? Maybe it would be better to keep them, as hard and painful they were, despite them opening scars she no longer wanted to see. Those memories, although torturing and traumatic, had to be kept so that she could know exactly where she had come from and where she intended to go from now on. So that she could still have a purpose, even though she was ready to leave it all behind to never come back again.

  She had to remember, eternally, who she was.

  She had to be herself.

  “Nice hair,” the cab driver commented, watching her from the rear-view mirror.

  She had to be free.

  She didn’t reply, she just breathed in silence, relieved by the freedom and the sight of her original and natural red hair on the window pane, again framing her face wouldn’t have to hide so much pain and depression inside anymore.

  She was free.

  EPILOGUE

  TO: annemccormick@dghospital.com

  Cc/Bcc:

  Subject: …

  Hello, doctor.

  I know I promised you news soon, but the situation hasn’t allowed me. I hope you know, however, that not a single day goes by without me thinking of you and feeling this heavy grief of not having you here with us. Not a single day I don’t recall the support you offered even in that moment it all seemed to be falling apart, in the moment I felt I had no way out. You taught me once we can even be called the fragile sex, but that it all changes when we unite and your acts only worked to corroborate your words, something I shall take with me forever.

  The beep from the machines echoed lazily and it was the first sound she heard while her eyes remained shut, too heavy to allow her the light of the day. She was not in the woods anymore, that she knew.

  Opening her eyes, she entered desperate mode, a flood of adrenaline crossing her whole body in a split second. She was at a hospital, she was trapped, she was cornered.

  The sudden peak of energy forced Clarice to move up on the bed, but as she did it, a deep pain coming from her shoulder tore her body, bringing her back to the rest. The shoulder was bandaged, covered by layers and layers of gauze, the same way her other wounds were now. At least she could breath, she could still remember.

  Flashes came to her mind, taking her back to the previous night, in the woods. Had the bodies been found? Did they know she was the one behind it all?

  Clarice, supporting herself on her right arm, dragged her body until she managed to sit at the side of the bed, noticing then she wasn’t cuffed or immobilized. An IV tube was stuck into her arm, probably sending in fluids and painkillers, while other wires measured her heartbeats. When she raised her hand to remove the IV, the door was suddenly opened and she froze, fearing the worst.

  “Clarice!” The voice called her, overloaded with relief.

  Only then Clarice did notice it was Anne, her only option in the hospital. With her impeccable white coat and her expensive high heels, Anne locked the door behind herself and ran to the bed, abandoning the bag she had with her at a chair nearby.

  “I feared the worst had happened to you.” The psychologist said, pulling her dyed red hair back into a ponytail. “When Marco left, I thought I wouldn’t get to warn you in time, I knew I couldn’t…”

  “It’s okay,” her hoarse and groggy voice replied, while Clarice tried to put herself up.

  “I know you’re still weak, but you need to leave.”

  Anne’s tone, albeit smooth as any other therapist, implied urgency. Clarice lifted her eyes to her, unsure she would manage to walk out of the place.

  “The snowstorm?” Clarice asked, while trying to recover the pressure that had escaped her.

  “It’s gone, but it might return.” She showed the bag. “Some clothes, a phone and the package you asked me to…”

  Clarice grabbed Anne’s arm, exasperation dying her face blue and red while her lips trembled.

  “My clothes? The phone? Where are they? I--”

  “They’re safe. I said you were an old patient of mine and took your belongings.”

  “Not all worked as planned. Anne, I don’t…”

  “I know. I imagine.”

  “The phone…” Clarice stopped talking and focused her energies on her legs when she put herself onto her feet. “The recordings are there, you know what to do.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “Do what I told you and it will all find its way. I have to get changed.”

  “Clarice, I know this is not something you want to hear after you wake up…” Anne said while Clarice removed the hospital gown and put on a sweater from the bag. “But you must disappear.”

  Clarice raised her arms after some struggle and pain and Anne, noticing the answer that hadn’t come, turned to Clarice and tried to help her put her arm inside the sweater.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing, not yet.” Anne continued, giving her the pair of heavy pants. “But I heard the sheriff called a detective from your city for a joint investigation. They are all walking on eggs now they have a second case, they just found another body in the lake.”

  “And now that Jason is dead he saw a reason to request help in an investigation.” Clarice bitterly commented, zipping her pants up.

  She was not completely renewed after that hurried flee, but she had rested enough for some stupid pains to bother her.

  “I don’t have further details, but I can send you later.” Anne went on, giving her the bag. “I also left in there some stronger painkillers also, this wound on your shoulder will probably need it.”

  Clarice grabbed the bag and checked the contents: a phone and the orange flask with the medicine, besides the sealed pack she had buried a few weeks before and sent the location to Anne, requesting it to be rescued as soon as possible. Her jewels, her money, and some other stuff she would need to access what used to be her husband’s; in there she had her one-way ticket for the future.

  “My car is in the front parking lot, you’ll…”

  “Anne, I can’t.”

  “You need.” Anne replied, placing her keys into Clarice’s hands and closing them afterwards. “You swam too hard to die on the shore, Clarice. You need to go and it is the best solution. Nobody will suspect.”

  “I will return it. I’ll leave it at the station, keys inside. I’ll let you know when to pick it up.”

  Anne nodded and, avoiding touching her injured shoulder, she hugged Clarice.

  For a long while, Clarice hadn’t felt such comfort and affection in an intimate gesture. It was truthful, recomforting.

  “Anne, thank you. Not for the car or what you’re doing here, but for all. Agnes, the support…”

  Anne shook her head, already trying to conceal the tears that attempted to escape from her eyes.

  “You know I never agreed with most of your plans, but you both deserve a better life, a l
ife that was taken from you, Clarice. You, mostly.”

  “Come with us.”

  “I can’t. Not because of my husband or the stability I have here, but… there are other Clarices out there, other Michelles. I may not save them all, as I didn’t save her in the past…”

  “Do not blame yourself.”

  “But I’ve got to try, Clarice. And anytime you need, I’ll be here.”

  Anne wiped her tears, trying to avoid more tears to come and opened a smile. Clarice rubbed her own eyes, too. She didn’t want to cry, that was a good moment, after all the darkness and oppression, after the tons of toxicity she had faced in the recent times.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “Back to my city, stay somewhere and wait. If this detective shows up…”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it, but if I hear anything, I’ll tell you. Now you really have to go, before anyone see us in here.”

  Anne gave Clarice all the instructions she needed to escape. It wouldn’t be an easy road, but it was the best option she could offer. Before leaving, however, Clarice came back and hugged the woman again, ignoring the aching shoulder, while her face became wet again.

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  Anne said nothing. She didn’t have to. Clarice smiled one last time that same painful smile she always had and left, leaving Anne behind knowing the woman should be exuding that job well done feeling. At least, she should. Her, on the other hand, still had a long way to go.

  After our goodbyes at the hospital, it all took an unexpected turn. I thought it would be easy to finish cleaning the mess I left behind, but it only cost me more time and more troubles. I know you never fully supported my plans, but you always knew how to understand and, just like once you told me, we need to do our part.

  For a while I stopped being myself. Literally. I took this new persona, another life, another face not only to conclude the story I had started, but to also know how the experience would be like and, after a cold analysis, I can assure you that it is not the best of options. Although a new life may offer you countless possibilities, what is within me is what I am and this long-developed essence, however worn out and decomposed, it what makes me the woman I am today. I’m not saying things do not change; what I realized is that, even though the past might live in the body of a long-winged vulture with claws that grasps us by our shoulders, it can be left behind, it can be overcome. That shadow will still be there, but if it gets completely removed at once, it would also remove all we are, all that composes, all that moves us.

  An unannounced horn broke her focus, causing the brush to jump from her hands and brutally land onto the floor, splashing the dye all around. Not that it mattered; that cheap by-the-road motel was barely worth what it charged the guests and the only good thing they had was the hot water and the convenience store.

  She grabbed the semi-permanent hair dye box that rested on the bed, searching for information regarding the time it should stay in her head and some other important things about application. Maybe she wouldn’t even get the desired tone, but she wouldn’t risk permanently dying her natural red hair. Black was a good choice, mostly because she had never seen herself with such shade in contrast to her face and she would take a chance, since she needed to take a new life for a few days.

  She was still lost in her readings when her phone rang on the mattress, forcing her to drop the package to capture it. She hadn’t been expecting anyone’s calls, they barely knew where she was. She picked it. Anne.

  “Did something happen?”

  “No,” Anne replied in a patient voice on the other side, “how are you?”

  Clarice stood up and stared her reflection on the small mirror of the tight bathroom connected to the room. A dark drop ran down her forehead, while she tried to balance all her locks on the top of the head during the product required sitting time.

  “I’m fine, trying to survive in a motel whose most frequent guests are bedbugs and sexually transmitted diseases.”

  Anne laughed and Clarice also put on a smile, turning her focus back to the dye instructions.

  “Aubry asked me about you, if I knew you or knew where you came from.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. I thought I knew you, but I had never seen you before. He’s intrigued, even more about Jason’s death.”

  “And the detective?”

  “I also got him to give me some intel on it, not completely, though. Can you write it down?”

  Clarice jumped out of bed and ran to the dresser where her bag was, looking for any kind of piece of paper and something she could use to write. All she came up with was an old newspaper she had picked at Derby’s bus station and a dark lipstick she had with her, barely used. That would suffice.

  “Go.”

  “Name is Anthon Gilles, 9th precinct.”

  “Why do I feel I know this name?” Clarice asked, holding the phone with her shoulder while scratching the information on the paper with the lipstick.

  “Monica Frey-Gilles’ husband.”

  “The Monica Gilles?”

  “The woman herself. I believe you’ve met in one of the gatherings.”

  Yes, Clarice recalled. She had seen the woman at distance and recognized her for the fame and the Forbes cover she had been on. Pompous, slightly arrogant, yet sensitive. Another victim willing to open up and find salvation. The opportunity she had so much expected.

  Do you remember when you told me I should never become the thing that oppresses me, that degrades me? Those are words I’ll take forever with me and, frequently enough, I repeat them to myself, trying to keep my focus and my path. I’m not a vigilante, I never intended to become one. But chasing after freedom, I had to sink into feelings and experiences that no one should ever go through, no one should ever live them. Much is said about the heaviness of taking someone’s life, not much is truly known about the ghost that hides behind such simple action. Yes, simple, but complex in its wholeness.

  All is gone now. I know it will still take a while for the scars to really fade, only leaving here the remembrance they had once been there, but I don’t mind. Time is memory’s best and biggest enemy and I know that, someday, if I ever manage to forget at least half of what I’ve been through so far, I’ll be able to consider myself lucky. Memory, Anne, is more complex and obscure than we could ever imagine. There’s a usual struggle between recalling and forgetting, between associating things to your memory and letting those strings created by the mind go away; a frequent experience of not remembering something anymore or having this wall we build ourselves for our own safety. But the most devastating, though, isn’t not remembering. The most devastating of all is, finally, recollecting all things the way they are, the greatest challenge. I learned, in those recent times, that there’s an enormous difference between remembrance and belief. Believing something happened does not make it true, until it becomes an easier to accept truth, until it becomes an accepted truth. The consequences of that, though, are forgotten. And they cannot be.

  “Agnes is the best thing that has happened to me lately.” The woman said, giving the credit card to the young boy behind the counter with a green apron.

  Clarice observed, holding her coffee in hands. There was something magical about that woman and not only because she saw, in her, part of her past. She had something else in her, a past she could’ve had if it weren’t for that mediocre marriage in which she had sunk into. Monica Frey-Gilles was one of those really powerful ladies, who wouldn’t accept taking the husband’s name to replace hers. No, she would take the name, but after hers, to show who was really important in that matrimony. Even though she was wearing a couple of thousand dollars coat and exclusive Louboutins, even though her face radiated opulence and etiquette, there was pain beneath those eyes.

  Both women walked to a table at the back of the store, away from the noisy teenagers and the pretentious hipsters, away from the crowd. Clarice sat beside Monica, tossing her now dark
hair back.

  “How did you get to the group?” Monica asked her while checking some text messages on her phone, before shutting it off and placing it face down on the table.

  “Anna McCormick, she was my psychologist at Derby, at least during the seasons I spent in there.”

  “So you’re not from here.”

  “I am. But my… ex-husband’s job required many trips all the time.”

  “And what was his name? I don’t recall you saying it.”

  Clarice took a sip from her coffee to give herself a moment to think about the answer. Nathan’s name was important and, both of them being in the business field, it was quite possible Monica knew him. She didn’t want another loose end to be tied in the future.

  “Dennis. Dennis Houaiss.” Was the best she could come up with by using random names that came to her mind. “But it’s not important. I was at the last meeting, at the chapel.”

  “Oh.” Monica sighed, facing her cup of coffee, probably disturbed by remembering what she had shared. “I don’t remember seeing you there.”

  “I’m more of a hidden woman. The reason I suggested this meeting was that I believe I can help you.”

  Monica’s eyebrow shivered and jumped, torn between disbelief and surprise.

  “I don’t think you’re capable of undoing…” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “A forced abortion that happened two years ago.”

  “I was talking about the second part of your testimony.”

  Monica, then, straightened herself up and leaned against the back of the seat, putting on a light uncertain smile to her face.

  “I don’t quite comprehend… I’m sorry, I forgot your name again.”

  “Meade,” She offered a hand. “Georgia Meade.”

  How weird it was to offer someone else’s name instead of yours. Clarice kept on shaking, believing that at some point someone would eventually recognize her or something even worse: she had to keep repeating to herself that new name afraid that, in case someone called her, she would never answer.