by Kim Falconer
Her eyes welled.
I wanted to look away. ‘But?’ I encouraged her.
‘I’ve had nightmares.’
She seemed about to fall apart. I reached out and touched her forearm, and felt the fog roll in. Whoa! It reminded me of something, but I couldn’t think of what. My coffee arrived, and we both picked up our cups for a drink. The smooth, rich heat cleared my head a bit. ‘Tell me about the dreams.’
‘I can’t. They vanish when I wake up, but I’m left with a really bad feeling.’
‘Describe it?’
‘Dark. Empty. Like the floor is dropping out from underneath me and I’m falling.’
Poor chick. ‘You think something more happened that night, and it’s blocked.’
‘Maybe.’ She nodded her head, holding her cup with both hands. There were gold rings on her fingers and a pendant to match.
‘You talk to anyone about it?’
‘I told my therapist, of course.’ She brightened a bit.
‘What’d your shrink say?’
‘The usual. That I was traumatised from my friend’s disappearance, blah blah blah. Her absence had left this hole in my core.’
I wondered how much an hour they charged.
We both ate in silence. Well, I ate; she picked. ‘I’d like to talk to you and Rachel together.’ I got up to pay. Celeste followed me. ‘Maybe that would jog loose a memory.’
‘Rachel’s gone home for summer break.’
‘Before final exams?’
‘She’s a fourth year art major. Her submitted work is hanging in the gallery upstairs.’ Celeste pointed at the ceiling.
We took our turns at the till and headed for the door. ‘It’s disturbing, but then, they all are.’
I looked at the time. ‘Show me?’
Celeste led the way. Kerckhoff wasn’t only a cafeteria and study hang-out, or long-time home to the university press. It was the oldest surviving building on campus. Its Tudor-gothic structure had made it through the Big One — stained glass, students and all — no one and no thing was lost. That was thanks to the base-isolation system upgrade they’d given it, decades before the Big One. Too bad they hadn’t done the same to a few more buildings in the area. Or all of them.
Kerckhoff stood tall, and the second storey held the student gallery, among other things. I didn’t know what the current exhibition was titled, but judging by Celeste’s description, there would be gore. Sure enough, as I walked in the attendant handed me a flyer titled, Nights of the Demonic. Great. Won’t this be fun?
The rest of the flyer was cheerful enough. This series is dedicated to working with student organisations and artists to showcase the weird, repressed and denied images that stalk our dreamscapes. You’d think they were selling Neapolitan ice cream with how delicious they made it sound. Gallery exhibitions aim to highlight the talent of students and local artists in the mission of creating dialogue on relevant social, political, and cultural issues. And, apparently, archetypal and unconscious ones, as well. I scanned down the names and numbers, spotted Rachel’s.
‘It’s this way.’ Celeste strode ahead, leading me through the partitioned maze of surreal and macabre images. Most of the paintings and sculptures were distasteful to my eye, not that I had a refined artistic sense, or anything. Why did every new crop of grads have to keep dwelling on the devastation? Yeah, it was bad. People suffered. The students here had only been kids when the Big One hit, like me. No local could say they hadn’t lost someone. So sure, this shit was embedded in the unconscious, but enough already. Show me some sunshine. Happy days. A little comedic relief? We survived. There are things to be grateful for … I rubbed the back of my neck. That’s what places like Poseidon did. Offered escape. Into what? The darkest world we can imagine? I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept to the middle of the floor, trying not to be engulfed by any of the twisting, gaping-maw images either side of me.
Celeste stopped in front of Rachel’s work. She didn’t look at it. ‘See what I mean?’
I did. It was huge, twelve foot high. Acrylic on canvas according to the card stuck on the wall along with a sticker dot. It had sold? That fast? I made a mental note to find out who the buyer was, then stood ten feet back, taking it in. It was a club, obviously, with tables and chairs, mostly unoccupied, ringing a crowded dance floor. The subject was a young woman, slumped at a table, her head turned away so that only half her face was visible. She wore a skimpy black dress, pearl earrings and a gold bracelet on one wrist. I studied her profile, catching the fine details of her features. The artist had captured a profound sadness there, and as I stared at the eye of the subject, I knew who she was. ‘Daina,’ I whispered.
Celeste froze. ‘I have to go.’
‘Wait!’
She headed down the stairs before I could say goodbye.
When I turned back to the artwork, I saw what Rachel had painted into her ‘night of the demonic.’ Oh, boy, did I see.
The work was titled, Last Dance, with a question mark at the end. The irony was, the girl at the table wasn’t dancing. Couldn’t if she’d tried. The ends of her long slender legs were stubs, the black Spanish-style boots tossed to the side, still containing her severed feet. They were abandoned under the table like a pair of old shoes. That mind-tripping surreal-scape wasn’t what bothered me the most; it was the image that was reflected in the single tear rolling down her cheek. I had to stand at just the right angle to see it, and I wasn’t sure anyone else would pick it up, unless they knew where to look. It rose up like one of those hidden optical illusions that weren’t revealed unless the eyes lost focus, allowing everything to blur. In the tear, distorted like a funhouse mirror, was a man’s arm reaching toward her. In his hand, the largest part of him in the fisheye view, was a bloody knife. His face was nearly blacked out, but there were vertical lines on his forehead. ‘The stalker.’ I shivered, taking in the mini-scene, sure of one thing. This could be the killer, but how the hell would Rachel paint it? Was she psychic? Clairvoyant? Or maybe just having bad dreams?
The minute I was out of the gallery, I rang Rourke. ‘You have to see something. Painting number 129, Kerckhoff Hall. Rachel Paddington’s the artist, and the subject’s Daina Fleming.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Look at the tear rolling down her cheek.’
‘Will do. Where are you now?’
‘Heading for study hall.’
‘I was about to call you.’
Something in his voice made me stop walking. ‘Yeah?’
‘I have the number and last known address of Adel Ruthann Fletcher, your …’
I waited, not breathing.
‘Birth mother. Sending it to you now.’
‘Thanks.’ It’s hard to talk with your heart in your throat.
‘You alright?’
‘I’m good.’ More lies. ‘Talk soon.’
He hung up and I was left staring at my phone.
The adrenaline was pushing my eyeballs out of my head. I needed somewhere quiet. Safe. And I needed to call this number, before I lost my nerve. I went back to Tom’s and bumped into him in the hallway. Shit.
‘Tom.’ That was it. All I had.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have much more. ‘I’m off to study group.’
I nodded. ‘I’m staying at Cate’s tonight.’ Hopefully.
‘Okay.’
‘Um …’
‘Yeah. See ya.’
He walked away, not looking back.
I knew he didn’t look because I stared after him, still speechless. Way to fuck up an excellent friendship, Sykes. I went into the apartment, sat on the couch and typed in the number. My finger hovered over call, unable to tap it.
Whose brainiac idea was it to find my birth mother? Oh right, mine. For medical reasons … suddenly it was not feeling like such a good idea. To compensate for the extreme jitters, I laid on all the supportive self-talk I could manage: Everything will be alright. There’s nothing to lose here. I can’t wind up knowing le
ss than I already do. My health depends on finding out. Don’t be a scaredy cat, Sykes. At least you know she’s alive, not in some underwater tomb! None of these affirmations helped as I stared at my phone. I felt like any minute I would throw up. Just call her, already!
I tapped call.
My eyes drifted out the window as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
‘Hello, Adel speaking.’
Up came breakfast.
I choked it back down. ‘Ms Fletcher?’
‘Speaking.’ She went from friendly to wary in a heartbeat.
‘This is …’ Every rehearsed line went right out of my head. It was all I could do to keep from ending the call and running a mile, or twenty. ‘I’m Ava Sykes. You don’t know me, but I have some questions. About your daughter.’ Yeah, the big brave abandonment case had cold feet. Sub-zero.
‘I’m sorry. You must have the wrong person. I never had children.’
Slap in the face aside, I persisted. ‘She was born September first, twenty-four years ago. There’s a medical condition …’
The phone went dead, and so did my heart.
I was still staring out the window, throat dry, legs shaking, when Tom walked in.
‘I got as far as the parking lot.’ He dropped his pack on the couch and strode toward me. ‘We have to talk.’
‘I … can’t. Not now.’ I pocketed my phone, threw my things back into my pack and shouldered it. ‘Gotta go.’
He started to say more.
‘Later, okay Tom?’ I pushed past, and kept going right out the door. There was only one thought in my mind.
She hung up on me. The bitch hung up! I ran the words through my head all the way down to the parking lot and up the street to the bus terminal. Whatever kind of fervour I needed to face this woman, who had thrown me away like garbage, was coursing through my veins right now. ‘West Hollywood, Willoughby Avenue.’
‘You’ll have to connect downtown.’
‘Fine.’
The driver swiped my bus pass and I took a seat. It was a good forty-five minutes from the city centre, in this traffic. Plenty of time to get my act together … or stew in my juices. The stewing being the only real option, as there was no act, just raw, unprocessed emotion. My heart was in my throat the whole way. Even when the city bustle melted into rolling, hilly suburbs with brown lawns and dusty streets, I couldn’t relax. I focussed out the window instead. Not very uplifting. The only thing that stood out against the desert monotone was the occasional cedar with its dark-side-of-the-forest green leaves and lofty, pyramid contour. Also, the occasional cat sitting on a front veranda. You could tell this neighbourhood was on tight water rations, in spite of the upper middle class zip code.
The ten minute walk from the bus stop to my alleged mother’s home didn’t help matters. I found myself approaching her mailbox, with no idea if she would even answer the door. Then luck hit like lightning. Adel Fletcher was locking up the house, going out. She looked calm, like the call out of the blue hadn’t shaken her. Nothing like it had me. I stopped in my tracks. It was surreal, seeing the woman. Out of body experience surreal. I floated about ten feet above my head, watching the scene like a ghost. My main thought? Boy, am I unresolved.
My mother wasn’t tall. She wasn’t lithe either, or even brunette. Her hair was jet black. Was it the real colour? Her eyes were dark brown in a full and softly rounded face. She looked late thirties, tops. Was that possible? To say she was plump would be a euphemism. My mother was overweight. Could Rourke have gotten it wrong? Was this a friend? Housemate? Time to find out. There was no turning back. ‘Excuse me, ma’am?’ I watched her face go from curious the instant she looked up into terror a split second after.
‘No,’ she whispered and clutched her handbag in front of her.
There was little doubt. The woman recognised me. Or was having a hallucination.
‘Ms Fletcher?’
‘You shouldn’t have tried to find me.’
That’s confirmation, right? But, not really the response I’d hoped for. ‘I called, before. I really need to ask you about …’
Not him! Not him! I’ll never speak of it! God above, she looks just like him!
The woman’s thoughts were buckshot in my head, her mind transmitting like a beacon. I was about to reassure her that my father wasn’t on the list of topics for the day. Ease in slowly, Rourke had said. Keep it simple and to the facts. ‘I wanted to talk about my blood condition.’
Before I could finish the sentence, she ran back to the front door, fumbling her keys, trying to escape. From me. Her thoughts continued to beam into my mind, chaotic and horrifying.
Monster child! You bit me. Tried to suck blood from my breasts!
‘What are you saying?’ I’d been dumped at six weeks of age. Babies didn’t even have teeth at that age, did they?
You wouldn’t die!
I froze. It was like she’d thrown a bucket of ice water in my face.
I left you at the bottom of the pool, and nothing. You just lay there, happy as a clam, looking up. A demon child, waiting for …’
The vision hit me so hard I fell to my knees. I remembered. Waiting for my mother to pick me up. ‘But you didn’t.’ I was moving forward, stalking toward her.
She dropped her keys and spun, back to the door, eyes wide, mouth gaping. ‘You’re just like him!’ she screamed.
‘You tried to kill me.’ I was vaguely aware of hot tears streaming down my face. When I reached her, I slammed my palms into the door, leaving holes either side of her head. ‘You tried to drown me! When that didn’t work, you left me in a back alley. Like garbage.’ I pounded until splinters flew into the air.
She kept screaming. My fists went right through to the screen door, setting off the house alarm. The noise put my teeth on edge. I pulled my hands out of the shattered wood and stumbled back. Who’s the monster now, Ava? The cool thought repulsed me. No, that’s not true. The answer did. Me. I’m the monster.
My mother’s mind was a torrent. Filthy raping bastard. He ruined my life and now his spawn is going to finish it. For a flash, I saw a man’s face. Beautiful. Terrible. Then it was gone a second later and my mother’s eyes stared back at me.
Long buried memories rushed up. I’d seen this expression on her before. I backed from her until I hit the mailbox and knocked it from its post. I watched her stream of relentless images. This woman’s memory of being raped had my hands to my face, screaming as well. Adel swept up her keys and ran, diving into the white Toyota parked in the driveway. She had the engine revved and was out of there like a shot.
My legs collapsed. I hit the pavement, tears running, nose running, the house alarm blaring into the street. In an anguished moment I realised two things: my mother hadn’t been a consenting adult when she conceived me, and I had to disappear before the police showed. I didn’t know how far back Rourke held my surveillance. Shit. I picked myself up and stumbled down the street, fairly certain that the neighbours were crouched behind their curtains and blinds, calling 911.
The upshot? There was no more guessing which side of the family my temper came from. Both. I’d set out to find answers; I came away with more questions. The bus ride back to the city was a blur. I had no certainty about what to do next, except talk to my best girlfriend. I tapped my phone. ‘Call Cate.’
She picked up on the second ring. ‘Hello, beautiful.’
‘Cate?’ Emotion spilled out with my voice. ‘Can I come over?’
‘Ava, what’s happened?’
‘I just met my birth mother.’
‘Are you alright?’
‘Not even close.’
The bus ride to Cate’s took over an hour, plenty of time for more juice stewing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Staying at Cate’s seemed best, but I wasn’t completely at ease, due to Joey’s part of the equation. Still, it was a roof, bed and breakfast, near the university, and I felt reasonably safe. It also felt good to keep moving, as the copyc
at could still be after me. Yeah, I was doing anything to avoid thinking about my ‘mother.’ My phone rang as I walked up Cate’s street from the bus stop. I looked at the display. Daniel Bane. For the life of me, I couldn’t work out why he’d be calling. I tapped reject call. He texted a few seconds later.
Dinner tonight?
I didn’t remember agreeing to that, but I did want to learn more about his connections with City Hall, Teern and the CDC. I went into investigative mode as I headed toward Cate’s door, and texted, Sounds good.
Sticky Rice on S Broadway. 7:30?
C U There. I pocketed my phone.
Daniel Bane made the world seem normal. Food. Companionship. Work. The way he spoke was easy too. Not forced. Almost like we were friends, or more. It would help me forget everything that was happening, like a holiday from the crazy. I decided that was a good thing as Cate opened the front door. Her eyes had a ‘not enough sleep for weeks’ look. She gave me a hug and led me by the hand through the hallway of the two-storey townhouse. ‘Is Joey here?’ I had to ask.
‘Right this way.’ She pulled me into the kitchen where she and Joey had been eating pizza. Garlic, cheese and pepperoni filled my senses. Cosy.
I sat with them for as long as I could stand, nibbling at a sliver. Joey showed no signs of leaving, so I didn’t mention my meeting with mother dearest and Cate didn’t ask. That was for a private conversation. ‘I’m going in early tonight. Can I have a quick shower?’
‘You don’t have to ask, silly.’ Cate directed me to the spare room that doubled as a study, not that either of them were undertaking any coursework at this time. She pulled clean sheets and a towel out of the closet before flopping down on my new bed.
‘Thanks for letting me stay.’ In spite of me and Joey being mortal enemies.
‘Don’t worry about Joey. You’re always welcome.’
‘I didn’t say anything about him.’
‘Didn’t have to, Ava. You telegraph stronger than anyone I know.’
That shut me up. I took a quick shower and dressed for work in clean black jeans, Poseidon shirt and boots. To hell with the skirt this time. When she poked her head in half an hour later, she was dressed for work as well, or rather, undressed for work. ‘I thought you had the night off,’ I said.
