Fixed Forever

by Laurelin Paige

  "And if that's true," I came back, "then that hired delivery man might lead us to our real guy."

  "She's four years old, Hudson. She can't possibly relay any information that's useful. We might as well not involve her at all." She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her, only to return a minute later. "Unless there was something really remarkable about the man. She is a smart kid. If the guy had a limp or an accent…"

  By that time, she’d convinced me not to pursue that avenue of investigation. "I'll send Jordan to talk to the mother that handled the birthday party. We'll start there first. Mina will be a last resort."

  When I left for the office on Monday, we still didn't have a firm certainty of what tactic to take with our daughter. We'd agreed to put it off one more day, both of us knowing that every minute that went by increased the risk of Mina forgetting anything she might recall about the encounter.

  Christ, she was just a little girl! She shouldn't have to be a part of this at all.

  On the drive to work, I dealt with another issue. Or tried to. Celia.

  I had things to say to her. She had acted oddly from the moment we had spoken to her about our threats, and while her husband was acting reasonably and responsibly by having the journals brought to the States immediately, something had still been off.

  It should have been her who had offered to help, not a man who was, in many ways, a rival as much as a peer. It would be better, I believed, to confront her alone, without her spouse present. Without my spouse present, for that matter.

  I called her cell phone. I let it ring until it crossed over to voicemail before I hung up. I tried again with the same result, then decided I would try to speak with her later.

  Later happened as soon as I arrived on my floor and found her waiting in my lobby, our eyes met.

  Without saying a word, I unlocked the door to my office, then stood aside gesturing her in. I followed her, shutting the door behind me.

  But before I could address her at all, I discovered she had something to say as well.

  "You really fucked up, Hudson," she tore into me before I could even get behind my desk. "And you can't blame that on me. This was your doing. You're the one who brought this to my house."

  She was tense and cryptic, pacing back and forth in front of my desk like a smoker jonesing for her next cigarette break.

  There were ways to handle this woman. I knew them, every one. I had long ago become a pro at managing Celia Werner when we'd run our experiments and games together. I could turn the situation around.

  But I was tired. Worn out. Exhausted from arguing and digging and wading through the emotions and remnants of the crimes of my past. I had precious little energy left, and she didn't deserve to have it wasted on her.

  I slammed my fist down hard on the desk, making her jump and cutting her off. "Did you do it? Are you behind this? Yes or no? Once and for all."

  Her face wrinkled in anguish, as though I'd slapped her. "No! I told you, I didn't —"

  "Then I didn't fuck up. We need those journals. We need them to solve this. Whatever it took to get them, I don't regret it." I was dismissive and final.

  She ignored my cues, insisting on her innocence once again. "I have always been real with you. No matter what I've done, what schemes I've pulled. I have still always been honest with you, when we were face to face. So when I say I didn't do this, you should know I'm telling the truth."

  I sat down in my chair and looked up at her as though I were surprised to still find her standing in front of me. "How could I know anything?" I asked innocently. "I don't know you anymore. Remember?"

  She nodded, her lips tight. She kept nodding and she stared at me for several hard seconds.

  Then without another sound, she turned around and left my office.

  I should have felt good about it. She'd walked out like a wounded animal. It should have been a victory.

  But I wasn't convinced I was in a war with Celia Werner Fasbender. There was no victory to be won here. Not really.

  And if I was wrong, then I knew she'd find a way to have the last word.

  It was an entirely different Celia who answered the door when Alayna and I arrived at her hotel room the following morning.

  "Come on in," she said, as invitingly as though we were the first guests to arrive for bridge night. "I've already ordered tea and coffee—I didn't know which you preferred in the morning," she said looking directly at my wife. "I also have an assortment of fruits and breakfast pastries, in case you haven't eaten yet. I know sometimes it's hard to remember to take care of yourself in times of stress."

  Alayna and I exchanged a glance.

  "I've already eaten," Alayna said blankly. At the last minute she added, "Thank you."

  Celia's smile didn't falter at all. "They're here if you change your mind."

  "How about we just get started?" I said, determined to move this along as quickly and as efficiently as possible. It was one thing when I'd followed Alayna over so that she could speak her mind. That had been on Alayna's terms. Today felt entirely different. Today was out of my control. And where my wife was involved, I resented not having that control.

  I was the one who felt responsible for her being here. I hated that she had to do this, had to sort through my worst stories and spend the day with a woman who had worked so hard to bring her pain—especially when it was debatable whether or not she was done.

  "Where are the journals?" I asked, keeping the ball rolling.

  "Since you’re obviously not hungry either, Hudson, they're in here. Follow me." Celia made a left down the hall, and walked deeper into the hotel suite. Alayna started after her, but I grabbed her hand first, lacing it through mine. I wasn't sure if it was to bring her comfort or for my benefit, but it felt better going into this with our hands joined.

  "Is Edward working with us as well?" I asked as we walked after Celia.

  "No. He went into work. It’s just us and the nanny," she said leading us into the dining room.

  Then there they were, the journals from our past, spread out on the dining room table. Eleven in total, I counted. Black and slender and harmless, except for the words that they contained.

  My stomach rolled, and I was suddenly grateful that I hadn't accepted any of the food Celia had offered.

  I was also glad it was only the three of us. I wasn't sure exactly how much Celia had told her husband about the contents of the books before us, and while a part of me hoped—for her sake—that he was aware and accepting of her former sins, there was absolutely no reason he needed to participate in the airing of mine.

  "I don't know if you had a plan about how to attack this," Celia said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear that had fallen from the loose bun gathered at the back of her head. "But I was thinking that you and I, Hudson, could each grab a journal and start reading through it. When we come to a name of someone involved in an experiment, we could record the name as well as any other details that may be important regarding the subject. Such as whether or not we believe they might still have hostile feelings toward you or me. Most of those references in the letters seemed vague, but if we come across anything that seems to possibly be referenced, then we can note that as well."

  The three of us stood around the table, none of us moving. It was precisely the manner that I had planned to sort through the books, but having Celia take charge threw me off-kilter. Made me doubt the method.

  "If you have another plan…" she offered, seeming to sense the source of my hesitation.

  But I didn’t. "No. This is good." I dropped Alayna's hand so I could remove my jacket. I hooked it on the back of one of the dining room chairs, and then sat down, ready to get to work.

  Celia took the cue and sat down across from me.

  "What should I do?" Alayna still stood next to me.

  Celia looked to me to answer. It was my turn to read her mind. Not only could Alayna miss relevant information as she read through the journals, it also somehow fel
t strange to ask her to try. The walls were down between us, she knew my secrets, and I was sure many things I was ashamed of would be revealed during the course of the day. But I didn't have to force her to read through the shock and horror of my former days.

  I could protect her from nothing else, it seemed, but the details.

  "You can do the recording, Alayna. As Celia and I read, we will call out information. If you could track it and sort it, I think that would be the best use of your time."

  She brightened slightly. "I have my laptop. I could build a spreadsheet.”

  I smiled reassuringly in her direction. "That would be very helpful." Which was the truth, but I also knew how much my wife loved making spreadsheets. Hopefully it would keep her mood up as well.

  "Let's get to it, then." I reached for the nearest journal and opened it up.

  Celia took the one in front of her, and began reading as well.

  The journals were small, each five by eight with one hundred lined sheets inside. Celia’s print handwriting was feminine and clearly legible. She wrote in expressive prose, hinting at her love of literature in the eloquent passages. It was much different from the way that I had recorded our experiments before she'd come along. Mine had been like science reports—all data and analysis. Concise. Clinical. I had never thought to include nuances such as the emotional state of either of us throughout the schemes, or the addition of references to outside material to back up our hypotheses and conclusions.

  A few pages in, I realized she hadn't only recorded our history together, but had also revealed deep pieces of herself. These truly functioned as diaries as well as journals. Was this why she hadn't wanted to share them with us? Because the sharing made her vulnerable?

  She couldn't possibly be as vulnerable as Alayna and I were at the moment. Or as vulnerable as my children. Could she?

  I brushed aside sentimentality and forced myself to concentrate on the goal.

  "Monica," I said, reading the first name that came up. I remembered this one—Monica wouldn't be a threat. She hadn't even realized she'd been played. It had been a simple jealousy ruse. A quest to see how long a new woman I was dating would tolerate an overly close relationship with the former flame, played by Celia.

  Monica had dropped me the first time she'd found Celia fresh from a shower, wearing only a robe in my apartment. Good for you, Monica.

  "Graham," I added when I came across her last name. "Monica Graham. No threat level. Nothing that connects to anything in the letters."

  "Timothy Kerrigan," Celia called out a minute later. “And Caroline Kerrigan.”

  I looked up at her.

  “Book one,” she said, holding it up, as though she thought that was why I’d given her my attention. “I picked it on purpose. I like chronological order.”

  “Mm,” I replied, not sure what other response to give. Tim and Caroline had been our first real game together—an attempt to break up a pair of newlyweds in her building. As we had worked tirelessly to try to bring their marriage to an end, I distinctly remember the thrill of feeling like Celia and I had found a new beginning. I had decided I would never be the type of man who could share myself with anyone, but in that single scheme, I had found one part of my life that no longer had to be lived alone.

  Now, at the memory, I felt guilt and shame.

  And regret?

  No, not that. Opening that door to Celia had been the first step in a long journey to finding Alayna. I would never regret that, no matter how dark and twisted the path got before Alayna's sunlight found my world.

  Next to me, Alayna had pulled her laptop from her purse and had already begun developing the spreadsheet. She speedily recorded the information, then asked some follow-up questions—the date, any known phone number or address or email, whether either of us had seen the subjects since the scheme had taken place.

  It was a good system, and the work moved steadily like this through the morning. We decided to wait until all the data was gathered before making any conclusions about any particular subject, but a couple of times I picked up my phone and called Jordan, requesting that he look further into this person or that. It was exhausting and tedious, but it was the most productive I had felt on the investigation since the whole thing had begun.

  We'd been working for almost three hours when a small cry from the other room reminded us that we weren't alone. A moment later, a robust German woman appeared from somewhere in the suite, carrying the baby, still fussing.

  "Excuse me, Mrs. Fasbender. I think she's hungry. She won't take the binky," the woman said, speaking softly as she hovered over Celia.

  "It's about time for her to eat," Celia said glancing at the clock. "I'll take her. Thank you, Elsa."

  I tried to concentrate on the words I was reading instead of watching while Celia took the baby in her arms, and walking with a little bounce in her step, as she crossed over to the living room and sat in the armchair.

  But I couldn't look away.

  She expertly adjusted her blouse and positioned the blanket around her infant daughter so she could nurse while remaining modest. Then she slumped into the chair, her feet propped up on the Ottoman in front of her, and cooed at her baby.

  It was fascinating. And breathtaking. The kind of scene that would make a well-treasured photograph, if someone were to capture the image. It was natural and sweet, and I was reminded of a Celia Werner that I once knew. A young, vibrant woman who only wanted to be loved. To feel love.

  "I remember what it's like to be in love," she’d whispered to me once in the dark. "I'd like to feel that again… someday."

  She had been vulnerable then, and in response I'd been angry and offended. I hadn't believed in the emotion. I had thought her a fool, had believed she'd been ignorant and brainwashed. I'd been the atheist, laughing while she prayed to her God of romance.

  I had been so afraid she would leave me, that I would be alone again in the world of coldhearted manipulation. Then, in the end, I had been a convert. I'd been the one to leave her.

  I wanted her to be changed, I realized.

  I wanted to believe that this Celia that I watched, while she cuddled and caressed her infant, was as geunine and real as she seemed.

  I wanted her to be changed because we’d once been friends, and I wanted her to feel love, the kind of love that can't break through without morphing you into the best kind of person. The kind of love that I had with Alayna.

  I wanted her to be changed because it let me off the hook.

  Because if she wasn't changed, then she was just another victim to count among the others. Another person I had schemed and played with and betrayed.

  Was I seeing, then, only what I wanted to see?

  "Even grizzly bears care for their baby cubs," Alayna whispered next to me. And if I wanted to be judgmental about her spite, I couldn’t for even a moment. My wife deserved to hold her grudge against Celia as long as she felt she needed to. I owed it to her not to try to persuade her otherwise.

  When I turned to her, I expected to find her scowling at me, silently reprimanding me for whatever kind thoughts she assumed were playing in my mind.

  But I found that despite what she'd said, she was also watching Celia, and though I couldn't quite read what she was thinking; her expression was soft and her eyes compassionate.

  “What’s her name?” she called across the room, a question I hadn’t been bold enough to ask.

  I traced her gaze back to Celia who was now holding her baby across her shoulder, rubbing her tiny back.

  “Cleo,” Celia answered, smiling as she said it, as though it were a word that couldn’t be said without a happy countenance.

  "Is she a good baby?"

  My gaze returned to my wife. Trying to read her. Trying to determine if she meant the question to discover something she could lord over her later, or if she was genuinely interested.

  Her expression said the latter.

  Celia hesitated a moment before answering, perhaps tryi
ng to determine the same motive. "She is, for the most part. I have a terrible time getting her to burp though." Her voice grew higher as she addressed the baby. "Too much of a little lady, aren't you?"

  Alayna pushed her chair from the table and stood up. "Can I try?" She started working towards Celia before she got an answer. "Brett's the same way. I swear it's because she's trying to get extra cuddle time. But I learned a few tricks." She held her hands out towards Celia.

  "It’s worth a shot. She gets terrible tummyaches when she doesn’t. Thank you."

  Gently, she handed off her daughter to Alayna, who lit up at the presence of a baby in her arms.

  I stared at them as they chatted easily about burping techniques, and wondered with a sudden tightness in my chest if this was the thing that the two of them might finally bond over. Not any of the other things I'd assumed they'd be likely to share an interest in—books, business, me—but something as simple and universal as motherhood. I couldn't tell if it was a one-off moment, or the beginning of something that could change all of us forever, but it felt precarious, like balancing a tray full of expensive china while walking along a tightrope. The slightest breeze in the wrong direction would send everything crashing to the ground.

  I desperately didn't want to be that wind.

  I shifted my eyes back to the text in front of me, finding the spot on the page where I had left off, but stared at the words for several moments before actually resuming reading.

  A few minutes later, Celia returned to the table, leaving Alayna to rock back and forth on her heels, doting on Cleo. A pleasant, thick sort of hush fell over the room, and I tried not to breathe for fear of disturbing it.

  We were beginning to settle into this quiet, when Celia started to giggle.

  I peered sharply across the table at her.

  "Remember the Pascal sisters? You tried to convince them you were twins." She giggled again as though remembering something particularly funny about the scheme.

  I rolled my eyes. "There hadn't been any point to that game."