Embraced by the Shadows

by Mayra Calvani

  As a child, or as a teenager, actually, she had been hardly aware of the world around her. She had lived in a world of spells, in a world of fiction. The human beings, the real world had been unreal. Her only reality had been the unattainable memory of an obsession—Sadash.

  She could blame him for it. For everything. But what would she gain by it? She might as well blame life, or destiny. She might as well blame Whoever was up there in that idealized cave they call Heaven.

  He had seduced her. The devil with no last name. Seduced her.

  She sighed. She would find out the truth, all the truth about her mother. If she gained or lost anything in the process, it didn't matter.

  Resolutely, she stood up and walked over to the phone.

  She picked up the receiver and dialed. Then she waited for the transatlantic connection, her heart pounding hard inside her chest.

  * * * *

  "Why do you want to know ?” Uncle Angelo asked.

  They had been talking for five minutes now. Uncle Angelo had been surprised and delighted by her call, and Alana had felt a sharp pang of melancholy, happy yet saddened by the warm and lively timbre of his voice. But all the small talk had finished, and Alana had begun the real questions.

  "Is it that impossible, asking you if my mother had a lover?"

  "No, it's not that. It's just ... why now? After all these years? You never asked me this before."

  "I don't know, I'm just asking you now. No specific reason. It's just I've been thinking a lot about her lately ... about how little I really knew her. I never came to know her, to really talk to her, you know what I mean? It's just dawned on me how much of a stranger she was to me ... and I to her."

  Uncle Angelo gave a sigh. “No, it wasn't you, don't say that. Laura was a stranger to everybody, even to me. She never really confided in me. I never knew for sure what was inside her mind. Laura suffered a lot because of your father's illness. Those last months.... Jesus, those last months of his life were horrible. Not even the strongest drugs could numb his pain. She never overcame his death, sweetheart, that's what happened. She wasn't strong enough to overcome it, she closed herself into her own cocoon, shutting her doors to the world."

  "But maybe if I would have been closer to her..."

  "Stop this, now. Where's all this coming from? Who have you been talking to? You were just a kid, what could you have done?"

  "I don't know, maybe you're right. But sometimes, when I think about it, I can't help feeling that if I had been closer to her, more affectionate, more loving, more of a daughter, that maybe ... that maybe..."

  "That maybe nothing. I don't want you thinking like this, or talking like this, ever. Do you hear me?"

  She didn't answer him, deeply comforted by the strength and warmth of his voice. It was easier, in a way, closing her eyes, obeying.

  "Now, about what you asked. I never told you before because what would have been the purpose? And also because you never asked me. But since you're asking me now, I'll tell you what I know. There was a man in your mother's life, a man she came to love, but who he was, that I never knew. She never mentioned his name. In a very vague way, she sometimes talked about him. Your mother was very reserved, very private, she kept things to herself. And I guess she didn't want us to know what was going on. Not me, actually, but specifically you. She didn't want you to know, she didn't want you to think she was doing something immoral. This was very important to her."

  "Was he married?"

  "One time I asked her, and she denied it. I believed her. I think she would have told me if he was married. She did mention once that he was rich, and a playboy."

  "Wait a minute, Uncle Angelo, how do you know he was the only man she was seeing? How do you know there wasn't more than one man?"

  "More than one man?” He paused, obviously taken aback. “No, I don't think so. No, no, I would have known that, I think. She always referred to the same man, she was clear with me about that. Anyway, you're mother was not that kind of a woman. I think you must know that."

  "Yes, I know that, you're right,” she mumbled, a bit ashamed. “Go on. What would she say to you?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Little things. ‘Last night we went to a restaurant together,’ or ‘Last night we danced.’ Comments like these. Very vague and general. On a few occasions I caught her talking with him on the phone. Remember when we went to Istanbul? That's the first time I caught her talking with him on the phone."

  "As far back as that?"

  "Oh, yes. She must have been seeing this man during the last three years of her life, at least. She was in love with him, and during her last year she suffered a lot because of him."

  "Suffered because of him?” Alana asked, stunned. “My God, how come I never knew this? Why didn't you ever tell me?"

  "Tell you? What for? What could you have done? And it's not as if she cried day and night for him, no, it wasn't like that, nothing that obvious. But she did begin to drink a lot more during that last year. And it was during that time that she also began to take more and more sleeping pills. And do you want me to tell you something? I think she was getting her sleeping pills from him. Laura always denied this, and I might be entirely wrong, but I always had this hunch, you know, that her secret lover was the one who was always providing her with pills. First of all, she started taking them three or four years before the accident, around the same time that she became involved with him. And do you remember where she kept the pills? In those little pill boxes, never in the containers which they give you at the pharmacy, with the labels on them. I often thought the reason for this was because she was not getting them from prescriptions, but from him."

  "Hmm ... She always told me she hated the pharmacy containers, that they reminded her of all the medicines she used to give my father, before he died. She said the little pill boxes were a lot nicer looking, that they didn't give her the creeps."

  "True,” Uncle Angelo admitted. “She hated the sight of medications. She was neurotic about them, she didn't want them around her. They were her phobia. As I said, I may be entirely wrong. Jesus, it makes me feel so ashamed, but I never knew who her doctors were, even if she had any, for that matter. You know how she hated them, she always handled her own health problems herself with over-the-counter medications. One more reason why I found the origin of those sleeping pills suspicious."

  "And she never brought this man home? You never saw him?"

  "Never. I never knew who the man was. He wanted to stop seeing Laura, he wanted to break up their relationship. Once she said, ‘He doesn't want to see me anymore, he's tired of me, he hates me.’ She became sickened, depressed, even desperate. I could see it, I could sense it. But she didn't want to talk, and I didn't pressure her. I was saddened for her, of course, and I let her know she could count on me for anything. She knew it. But she didn't want to talk. Her confidant was the wine. You already know that. What could I have done? It was her life."

  For a moment neither of them spoke.

  Alana closed her eyes, as if by doing so she could feel her mother's frustration and disappointment. More than ever she wished she could have been there for her, really there for her. Loving her, holding her, listening her, understanding her.

  "Do you know what I thought after she died?” Uncle Angelo said. “I thought that the man would show up at the funeral and from the expression of his face I would be able to tell who he was."

  "And?” Alana said.

  "Nothing. Don't you remember that day? There were too many people, too many relatives, old friends of your father, friends of your mother, friends of mine, some of your teachers. I never thought there would be so many people. Impossible to know. Impossible to study all their faces and know. As if it mattered, anyway. She was gone. What did it matter? I can tell you one thing, though. There were no strangers that day, so either the man never showed up, or he was there and he was someone we already knew."

  Alana nodded to herself. And she remembered the man's face, the deeply sun
tanned face, for a short intense moment contorted with grief...

  "Alana, did you know Laura kept a diary during the last year of her life? I have this diary. I have read it."

  A tense silence followed, but before Alana could say a word, Uncle Angelo said, “Please don't be angry with me, for not having told you before. I found out about this diary less than a year ago, right before we sold the house and I moved to Paris. You were in Boston, remember? I was cleaning up the place and packing everything into boxes, and that's when I found it, hidden between some books in one of the shelves inside her closet. I almost threw it away, I didn't know it was a diary.

  "It was not a real diary, you understand. It was just a little notebook. But when I skimmed through it I realized there were dated entries for each page. Most of the entries were little essays about life, about death, quite philosophical, actually.

  "But I didn't stop to read it then. I put it together with my things and it was much later, here in Paris, that I actually sat down and read it. I was going to send it to you right away, I swear to you I was. But after I finished reading it I changed my mind. Most of the things were too pessimistic and depressing and concerned your father's painful illness. She wrote about death. She wrote about no God, no Heaven, no Hell, no afterlife. She believed in only darkness and nothingness. Dark writings, I tell you. I knew I would sooner or later tell you about this. I was just waiting for the right opportunity. I didn't want to bring you bad memories, I didn't want to bring you pain. But she didn't write a lot, she didn't write everyday. And always little paragraphs, short and to the point. Nothing long or wordy or fancy."

  "Did she write about the man?"

  "Yes, she talked about him, but again, she never mentioned his name or what he did. Mostly she wrote about her feelings for him. That's how I know she cared for him, that's how I know she suffered. Some of the passages are pretty desperate. It seems she became somewhat obsessed with him, insistently calling him up, following him around, embarrassing him. Actually, I was rather shocked, reading this."

  "She didn't write about anybody else in that diary?"

  "No."

  "Not even about any of her girlfriends? Or about any other person?"

  "No. But I don't find this odd. It's not that kind of a diary. It's mainly her thoughts about life and death. You would have to read it to know what I mean."

  "Uncle Angelo, maybe you're going to find my next question strange, but I want you to think about it very carefully before you answer me. Did she mention, anywhere in her diary, anybody who might have disliked her, anybody who might have wanted to ... hurt her?"

  "No...” he said after a pause, obviously perplexed.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. You're putting crazy ideas into my head. Why do you ask me this?"

  "One last thing, Uncle Angelo,” she said, avoiding his question. “Is there any entry on the day of the accident, or on the day before that?"

  "As a matter of fact, there is."

  "There is? What did she write?"

  "On the day before the accident. It's her last entry. Among other things, she mentioned she was going to meet him the next day. Jesus, I get goose bumps, talking about this.” Then he added, abruptly changing the subject without meaning to, “Your phone bill's going to be high. Why don't you hang up? I'll call you right back."

  "No, no, don't worry about that. Go on, tell me."

  "There's nothing else to tell, really. She was going to meet him the next day. That's all."

  Alana stiffened, somewhat breathless. “Did she mention when or where she was going to meet him?” she asked.

  "No..."

  "Is it possible he was going to come and see her ... at our home ... while you and I were out at the skating rink?"

  Silence.

  "I don't think so...” he finally said, sounding deeply puzzled by the eagerness in her voice.

  "Uncle Angelo, please, I want you to get that diary. Now. I want you to read me that last entry."

  "Alana, you're scaring the hell out of me. Is there anything you know that I don't? Why are you asking me all these things? What are you implying ?"

  "Uncle Angelo, please! I need to know. Just get that diary. I'll tell you all about it later ... maybe."

  "Not maybe. You will tell me. I'm going to get the diary, hold on a minute. You're going to have one hell of a phone bill."

  "Oh, money's not what I have to worry about anymore."

  CHAPTER 13

  A few minutes before dawn Alana leaped into the empty coffin. She whimpered softly, wondering where Sadash had sought refuge from the sun this morning. Definitely not under the ground—he detested creepy crawlers. In a hotel room? But perhaps he had other hiding places in the city which she didn't know about. There were so many things about him she felt she still didn't know.

  A few blood tears trickled down the outer corners of her eyes and she wiped them off with her fingers and licked her fingers clean, just as Sadash had done to her that first night when she had drained to death her first victim.

  She licked her lips, feeling angry and miserable and lonely.

  The idea that her mother's lover—Antonio Curet, Humberto's father—had somehow been involved in her death chilled her heart. Had Antonio been at their house and seen Laura on that dreadful day, while she and her uncle had been away to the skating rink?

  She considered the possible scenario.

  Antonio, tired and bored of their affair. Laura, refusing to finish the relationship, insisting, pleading, then making threats. Antonio, fed up, wanting to get rid of her...

  But commit murder because of this? He wasn't even married; it's not as if he'd had something to lose. No, it didn't make sense.

  But what if Antonio had accidentally killed her?

  Alana was rambling on. She didn't even know for sure if he had, in fact, gone to see her that day. For all she knew her mother could have been supposed to meet him in a club later that night, after the barbecue.

  She needed to talk to Valeria. Valeria had been roller skating in front of Alana's house that day. Was it possible that she had seen him entering her house?

  But then, surely Valeria would have said something. And yet, hadn't Valeria stayed silent after seeing Laura and him in bed?

  Yes, she had to talk to Valeria.

  And, of course, she had to confront Antonio himself. Only by doing this would she learn the truth. Then she would permanently cut the thread with all these mortals and get away from this island.

  Before the slumbering darkness engulfed her, she had one last thought.

  If it's true Antonio killed my mother, what am I going to do about it?

  * * * *

  Well, she wasn't going to look for Sadash anymore. She had been roaming the city in her Firebird for hours. Old San Juan, the hotels, the casinos. Why did she persist? It took a mule to continue so. And a stupid one, at that. For all she knew he might very well be on the opposite side of the globe, or on the moon.

  Whatever happens, I'm on my own now.

  Restless and filled with anticipation, she paced back and forth in front of her old apartment building. It was after ten o'clock and she was beginning to feel hungry again. She had drank a little from a drunk who had fallen asleep on the street, then, quite boldly, she had drank a little more from a beautiful teenaged boy who had been strolling on the beach at one of the hotels. After last night, when she had killed the junkie, she had not wanted to kill again. But when she didn't kill them, when she didn't drink them whole, her thirst only came back stronger. Insatiable hunger—the curse of the newborn. For a moment she remembered the junkie who had tried to mug her. Nobody talked about it anymore. The murder had remained unsolved, just as countless others in the city.

  Impulsively, she clutched at the crucifix on her throat. Tilting back her head, she looked upwards to the seventeenth floor.

  Valeria ... Where are you? The apartment was dark, empty. Valeria hadn't arrived yet.

  After a few more minutes pa
cing back and forth Alana decided to go upstairs and wait for her inside the apartment.

  She hastened through the lobby and into the elevator, and into her old apartment, opening and closing locks with her telekinetic power, which never stopped amazing her.

  Once inside, she walked around it for a while, going from room to room looking at every wallpaper, at every piece of furniture as if for the first time. Oddly, she didn't miss her things. What she felt was more like a rush of incipient melancholy.

  Her room had been perfectly cleaned and organized ... by Valeria. She could sense it. She could smell Valeria's womanly softness, her vulnerability, her warm presence in the room. Closing her yes, she inhaled deeply. Wonderful smell.

  She put her favorite classical music cassette in the stereo and sat down in the armchair by her bed, propping her feet up on the mattress. A distinct sensation of deja vu ... Yes, she remembered. She had been sitting just like this and listening to the same music when Sadash had appeared to her that fatal night.

  The Mickey Mouse clock on the night table read ten forty-five. Where the hell was Valeria? And she was hungrier now, more restless. Alana tried to catch a vision of Valeria somewhere. No luck. Sadash could have done it. But she knew she needed to be patient. It wasn't possessing the powers, but controlling and learning how to use them what mattered.

  On the other hand, she did catch a vision of someone else approaching the apartment. A mortal man. Walking down the carpeted corridor, a set of keys in hand, approaching the door.

  Miguel, the Pirate.

  What was he doing here? Had Valeria given him a copy of the apartment keys, told him to meet her here tonight?

  "Valeria...” Miguel called, coming in and closing the door behind him. Hearing the stereo, he evidently believed Valeria was in the apartment. All the lights were off, but Valeria often enjoyed playing hide and seek in the dark.

  Miguel switched on the living room lamp.