Schasm (Schasm Series) (12 page)

“Marie,” he calls, reaching his hand out to her as if he were a beggar.

He knows her name…

Who is this guy?

My mother freezes at the sound of his voice, and turns to look. I’m studying her face, waiting for her reaction. All the pink in her cheeks drains to white. She shoos him away with her hands. “Tomas, go away," she cries in a whisper. "We had an agreement."

She’s upset and scared, both clearly visible. She speaks to him in a voice too low for me to hear. So I watch her lips to see if I can recognize anything she's saying, but she stops talking and turns to me. Her blazing eyes meet mine, and she barrels toward me as if we are both in some sort of danger.

With a violent grip, she grabs my arm, digging her fingernails into my skin as she drags me behind her. We’re walking so fast that I can't see my feet moving. I would never have thought my mother would be strong enough to drag me through the air, but we’re almost at that point.

It's a relief to see she knows where our van is. She flings the van door open, shoves me inside and slams the door in my face. She then bolts to her side of the van, jumps in, and fumbles for the lock button on her door. She sounds as if she’s on the verge of hyperventilation when she gets a second to breathe. She pulls the key out of her pocket and tries to shove it into the ignition, but misses a few times before she finally starts up the van and slams it into reverse. With her foot pressed all the way down to the floor, our heads jerk forward, and then whip backward when she slams it into drive. Our tires are screeching. We look as if we robbed a bank. Maybe we’ll get pulled over, she’ll get taken to jail, and I can go live a happy, carefree life.

I try not to talk until we get to a point where she’s driving the speed limit. I know it will be easier to grill her when my chances of surviving this car ride are better.

The car slows down, and she’s only going a few miles over now. “Um, would you like to fill me in here?” I ask.

She says nothing. Several painfully silent seconds pass before she clears her throat and speaks. “He just looked like he was dangerous. I wanted to get out of there before he had a chance to hurt one of us.” I can see her knuckles turning white as they grip around the steering wheel harder.

“Mother, he knew your name.”

Rather than acknowledging me, she looks in the rearview mirror. She must think he’d be following us.

I wave my hand around the side of her face. “Hello?” I chime. I’m not letting her off the hook that easy.

I can see her jaw clench. “Just drop it, Chloe. Okay?”

“No, I won’t drop it." I snap back at her. I know what I saw, and I know what I heard.

She removes her hand from the steering wheel and wipes the sweat from her hands onto her leg. She then glances back into the review mirror once more and inhales a deep breath. “Chloe, please believe me when I tell you that I have no idea who that man was. I do not want to hear another word about this. Do you understand me?”

I fold my arms over my chest and throw my head back against the seat with a groan. “No, I don’t understand you. I’m sick of the secrets and lies. So don’t tell me, because I don’t care anymore.”

She peers over at me for a split second, and I see desolation in her eyes. Maybe she wants to talk to me…maybe she’s ready to try. But just as her vulnerability shows through, she sucks all of the air out of the car and up through her nose so she can continue her silent treatment.

This is one of the craziest rides we’ve ever had. I’m so thankful when she pulls into our driveway with both of us in one piece. As the tires crunch through the snow up to the broken garage door, I kick the door open and hop out, slamming the door behind me. My mother shoves her door open just as quick and then heads to the back of the van where the bags landed after she threw them over her head from the front seat. She must think she’s out of my view now, but I can see her throw her back against the trunk. She’s hunched over with her hands on her hips, taking deep breaths.

I walk in past my father, ignoring his existence as he ignores mine. But as I stride down the hallway toward the stairwell, I get an overwhelming urge to inform him of what happened, just enough information to make him curious enough so he will drag the rest of the story out of my mother, in spite of her claims to know nothing.

I stop and turn around to face where my father is standing. “Hey, Dad,” I say. “Just so you know, some random crazy-looking guy was waiting outside of a store for Mom. He started coming after me, but when he saw her come out of the store, he called her by name and asked her to wait. She called him Tomas.”

I finally have his attention. “What?” he asks.

 “Mom more or less had a stroke, whipped me through the parking lot, shoved me into the van, and denied everything that I’d just witnessed.”

He moves in closer to me, placing his hand over the railing of the stairs. “Chloe,” he says. “This sounds a little farfetched, sweetie.”

So he’s going to be of no help, either. “Fine. Don’t believe me. You two deserve each other.”

I leave him with his mouth hanging open, turning at the corner of the stairs. I see him meet my mother coming in with the bags. They walk out of my range of sight, but I hear my father whisper, “Was it him?”

I hear no response from my mother as he walks away. She drops the bags onto the kitchen table. As usual, they both go their separate ways as if nothing happened.

I trail up the rest of the stairs and sit down at the edge of my bed while trying to piece together what could be happening. Everything is circling around in my brain, and I feel as if my life has been turned upside down. All of these new secrets are coming out of nowhere, and I can’t seem to figure anything out.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE WORDLESS LETTER

I STILL HAVE A COUPLE HOURS
before dinner, and I need to occupy my mind so I don’t drift off anywhere.

The box of surprises in my closet has me sitting in suspense, and I’m beginning to feel like I’m a three-year-old sneaking into the cookie jar. I know it’s wrong, but I have so many unanswered questions, and I feel like the answers are all jumbled somewhere amid these letters and photographs.

Instead of pulling out just one letter, I take a handful of them and plant myself on the ground on the side of my bed. I slide a piece of tattered and torn paper out of the first envelope and unfold it, noticing slash marks with red ink blotches running off the edges of the paper. My eyes trace along green pen scribbles formed into repetitive circular patterns. The pen had been pushed so hard onto the paper that it tore little pin-sized holes all over it.

I can't seem to make anything out of the doodle. Eventually, my eyes lose focus and I feel myself becoming wobbly and weak. Flashes of light begin pinging off the ceiling and blazing into my eyes like a strobe light. My vision becomes impaired. I close my eyes to block out the dizziness, and instead I develop a bitter and grainy taste in my mouth.

Something is very wrong here…

My eyes clear. I'm sitting in dirt, leaning against a towering oak tree. I spit the awful taste out of my mouth. I see dust spray out in a cloud of breath. My eyes dart everywhere. I notice a repetitive pattern within a thick tangle of green vines covered with thorns. I grab a hold of the moss from the oak tree and pull myself to my feet, and from this vantage point, there is no exit in sight.

I take a couple of steps over to two side-by-side vines and wrap my hands around both while being careful not to get cut by the thorns. I struggle to pull them apart before realizing that there is only space to separate them a couple of inches from one another. The gap gives me just enough room to look through. There are at least a hundred or more yards of space in front of me, all filled with rows of vines. Why couldn’t I just end up at the beach?

And why do I keep ending up in dark places now?

I drop back down against the tree and close my eyes. I try to envision myself back in my bedroom, sitting on the floor against my bed. I try to convince myself that I’m there.

Twenty…nineteen…eighteen…seventeen…

I peek through one of my half-closed eyes. No such luck. I haven’t moved an inch. Why isn’t this working? It did last night.

Panic sets in again. My limited ideas of an escape have run out. My last hope is to climb the oak tree, just to see if I can tell where I am.

I've never climbed a tree before. I hope it isn't too difficult. The abundance of branches make it appear as if the tree before me was designed for climbing. I place my grip around the first branch and pull myself up. The bark scrapes against my palms, but I continue up a few more branches. It’s easier than I thought it would be…then a fear of heights set in. I breathe harder and hug the tree tightly. I still can’t see anything from where I am.

I have to go higher.

I force myself to climb up another two branches, taking me ten feet off the ground. The knots in my stomach are twisting like the branches above, becoming tighter by the second. I lean my head around the trunk of the tree to scope out the view. I see nothing but more vines. I grind my fingernails into the unforgiving dry bark.

Getting down looks a lot more terrifying than coming up. I inch my feet around to lower one foot down to the next branch. The branch in my hands crackles, ready to give. I reach for another, but my arm is too short. I balance on the branch beneath me, but I have a feeling it’s not strong enough to hold me for much longer. I need to move quickly before…

My thought floats in thin air above my head as I lose my balance. My hands flail, hoping to grasp onto something as both of my feet slip off of the branch. The wind is sucked out of my body as I fall, and it feels as if my stomach has shot up into my mouth. As I fall feet-first, my head hits an outcropping on the tree. I land hard on the not-so-cushioned moss-covered ground.

My head is radiating, and I’m flat on my back, unable to move. The gray sky appears to be swallowing me up as I succumb to the pain. Everything above swirls in a circular motion, like the pen marks on the letter. My vision narrows.

I'm floating into the darkness like a falling leaf…

***

Consciousness is returning. Tiny specks of light shimmer through the blackness. I force my eyelids open, and run my fingertips over my hardwood floor.
Still here, on the side of my bed with this stupid scribbled letter clenched in my hand.

I’m alive.

With shaking hands, I refold the letter and shove it back into the envelope. I’m done with this now. No more letters. The darkness they lead to is too much for me. I throw the remainder of the stack back in the box, cover it up, and place it back on the top shelf, where it will stay.

Relief is settling in when I look down to see a light coating of dried dirt coating my arm. How did I manage to bring dirt back with me? And this sudden alarming sense of pain that’s searing through the back of my head? I run my fingers over the painful area to feel for a lump, down around from the crown of my head to the bottom of my neck, checking for the injury. I pull my hand away and back in front of my face. My fingertips are covered in blood. I must have gashed my neck open on the way down.

The sight of red makes me feel weak and sick. My arms are beginning to tingle, and I feel cool beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I grab the towel lying on the ground next to me and press it against the throbbing wound. The stinging pain travels up my neck into the top of my head. I stand up, gripping the bed for support, and hurl myself over to the bureau, then through the door before making my way over to the hallway bathroom. I open the medicine cabinet, and examine the shelves for any kind of pain reliever. A dozen bottles of prescription drugs line the shelves. Some are in my mother’s name, some in my father’s, and some with my name for something I cannot recall ever needing a prescription for. I see a small container of painkiller capsules and pop a couple into my mouth.

I make my way back to my room, seeing that the sun has started to set. My thoughts are scrambled as I try to figure out what time it could be. It can’t be that late. It was only two when I was reading the letters.

I flip my alarm clock around and see that it's five. How was I gone for three hours?

“Chloe, dinner!” My mother’s grating voice resounds from the dining room.

I steady myself as I make my way out of my bedroom. If my mother sees the wound, it will only be a matter of minutes before I’m on my way to the institution for what she would consider some strange, failed attempt at suicide.

I pull the elastic out of my hair, thankful that my hair is long enough to cover the back of my neck. My injury has made me dizzy, so I take each step downstairs with caution.

I feel a sense of accomplishment when I reach the bottom step in an upright position. I slowly walk toward the dining room table, trying not to show any signs of injury. Both my mother and father just give me a stale look and continue eating their soup. Looks like it’s working.

I take my seat at the table to join them, and another wave of dizziness hits me. I nearly plant my face right onto the table. I need to get through dinner without passing out in front of the two of them. I can feel blood dripping down my neck. I shift my focus and try to ignore the pain. All I can hear is my parents slurping their soup.

My mother brings out the next course, and I somehow manage to force at least half of what she’s given me down my throat. I’m hoping that it will be enough to keep her off of my back.

“May I be excused?” I ask, forcing politeness. My vision is doubling.

Without looking up, they mutter, “Yes, yes, have a good night.”

I climb the stairs slowly, clinging to the banister. Once I make it back to my bedroom, I sit down at my vanity to stare at my pale reflection. There are black shadows under my eyes, and the green of my irises now looks closer to black. My hair is stringy and greasy from my trek in the wild. My head pounds again just seeing it. My chest tightens. I stand and move to my bed before all control is lost. My knees buckle and my body collapses backward onto my bed.