I walked, boot heels click-clacking along the concrete floor.
Then I saw a shadow.
Just up ahead of me, the shadow projected itself onto the concrete floor, as though coming from a man concealing himself behind a concrete column.
I stopped.
I opened my mouth to speak. But no words would come.
The shadow moved.
It moved backwards, forwards, the person behind the column shifting position.
That’s when I found my voice.
“Who is it?”
It came out as a shout. So loud and adrenalin charged, I startled myself.
“Who’s there?” I shouted again, voice echoing inside the concrete garage.
I felt the blood leave my head, sink down my neck, pour down the insides of my body. I felt the blood spill out the bottoms of my feet. Fear blinded me like a black hood pulled over my head. I stumbled, my balance shifting from one side to the other. I’m not sure how long I stood there exposed, eyes closed, body swaying, breathing hard and fast.
I closed my eyes.
But when I opened them, the shadow was gone.
I could only guess that whoever had been behind the column was gone now. That is, if there had been someone there in the first place.
Had I imagined the shadow?
Was my imagination running away with itself?
God, get me out of here.
I made a mad dash for the car, at the same time pulling the keys from my knapsack. I dropped Franny’s painting as I thumbed the unlock button on the key-face. The car came to life, door-locks unlocking, headlights flashing.
Bending at the knees, I picked the painting back up, ran for the Cabriolet. I threw open the driver’s side door, tossed in the bag, tossed in the painting. Jumping in behind the wheel, I fumbled with the ignition key until I managed to slip it into the lock. Pumping the gas I turned the engine over until it started with a resounding roar. To the immediate right of me was the concrete column that had hid the figure of a person. A person who’d been watching me. A man. Or so I imagined.
I pulled out of the spot, the tires squealing against the smooth concrete floor. I made for the area designated EXIT. For a quick moment I thought about looking into the rearview.
But I resisted the urge.
Better not to see what was behind me; what might have been stalking me.
Chapter 15
I didn’t enter my apartment so much as I burst through the back door.
The sudden intrusion was enough to make Michael jump out of his chair.
“You scared the crap out me, Bec!”
I dropped the art bag to the floor, leaned today’s ‘See’ painting up against yesterday’s ‘Listen’ painting, then made a beeline for the kitchen. I made it back into the living room along with two open bottles of Corona, set one of them down besides Michael’s laptop.
“Work’s over.”
“Yes ma’am.” He grabbed hold of the bottle. “Nail officially bitten.”
I took a long pull of the beer and felt the cool carbonation against the back of my throat, the magic of the alcohol calming me.
Michael closed his laptop and sat back in his chair.
“Explanation.”
I put myself back beside the ‘See’ painting. “This happened.”
Stealing another sip of beer, Michael got up from his desk. He approached the painting with squinty, focused eyes, the fingers on his right hand smoothing out his mustache. After a time, he nodded, cocked his head toward one shoulder, then the other as if to carefully choose his words.
“This is what I see,” he said. “I see Franny’s version of a rural landscape.” He tossed me a glance. “But I’m guessing you’re seeing something inside the landscape that I’m not.”
I took another drink and bit my bottom lip.
“Yes,” I said. “And no.”
“Which is it, Bec?”
I gazed down at the painting, used extended index finger to point to a specific area of tall grass that appeared to be swaying in the wind.
“There’s a word in there,” I said. “See… S-e-e.”
He stood back as though to gain a different perspective. It was not unlike the way someone might look at their own image in a funhouse mirror. He dug into his pocket for his Chapstick. He uncapped it, ran it across his lips, capped it back up and returned it to his pocket.
“Ah, don’t you think you’re stretching it a little?”
He thought I was bonkers. No two ways about it.
I started to cry.
Setting the ‘See’ canvas back down against the ‘Listen’ canvas, I stormed into the kitchen, pulled a paper towel off the rack, dried my eyes, and blew my nose.
I heard Michael doing something out in the living room. Was he looking at the ‘See’ painting? I could only guess that it had to be the case.
After about a minute, he met me in the kitchen and placed his now empty beer bottle in the sink. He stood over me, looking me in the eye.
“In the tall grass,” he said. “The rays of sunshine, burning patterns into the grass. You look close enough, you make out the word ‘See.’ It’s not completely obvious, but it’s there.”
I felt a spark of hope. But then, maybe he was just playing along with me. Making me feel better.
“No kidding,” he said. “You have a keen eye. That’s your job after all. I see it. More than I saw the word ‘Listen’ yesterday.”
He leaned into me, wrapping his arms around me. First time in a long time.
“You’re not nuts,” he said. “But…”
It was one of those ominous dangling ‘Buts.’
“But what?”
He released me and looked into my wet face.
“We’re not married anymore, but I still love you. Because I love you and still want to be near you, I also know you’ve been holding out on me.” He crossed his arms over his chest, brown eyes peering down at the floor. “Truth is Bec, I’ve sensed for a long time that you’ve been holding out on me.”
Drying my eyes again, I bit down on my bottom lip. Oh God Mol, what do I do now?
I wanted her to talk to me, send me a sign, let me know it was okay if I revealed the secret to Michael. For a second or two I waited for my cell phone to chime. But that was stupid. There would be no text messages from heaven. The decision to tell Michael everything would have to come from me and me alone. It had been thirty years since the assault on Molly and me. Thirty years that I-we-had held onto a secret that by now had bored a hole in my heart. Now that secret was consuming me with paranoia, making me nuts.
Molly was gone now.
So were my mother and father.
Who would it hurt if I spilled everything to someone I trusted?
No one.
