Schasm (Schasm Series) (9 page)

“What could be so important that you need to wake me up in the middle of the night?” I yell at her with no thought of repercussion.

“You will
not
speak to me that way…do you understand?” She practically growls it. “I wanted to make sure you were still here. When I came to say goodnight, you didn’t respond.” Her rigid hands rest heavily on her hips.

 “Did you ever consider that maybe I was
sleeping
? It’s what normal people do at three in the morning, you know.” I flip over to my side to look away from her.

She raises her voice. “Chloe Renee Valcourt: just who do you think you are?”

 I choose to ignore her now. “Goodnight, Mother. You can leave now.” I shoo her away with my hand.

She sighs deeply. “You’re out of control.” I can feel her eyes daggering into my back until she storms out of my bedroom, leaving a trail of hollow thudding footsteps.

I’m out of
your
control
,
you mean.
I wish I could say it out loud.

Lying here in the dark, with my eyes wide open now, I ponder whether or not Alex is who he says he is. I don’t know why he’d be anyone else, or why he’d have dark intentions for me. But why can’t I remember him? He seems to know so much about me.

He knew me, before I became a prisoner in this house.

But I can’t remember him.

And now that I think about it, I can’t seem to remember anything else from before that time, either.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JAMES

TODAY WILL FEEL LIKE AN ETERNITY
now that Dr. Greene has asked me to limit my drifts to the nighttime hours only. I’m trying to find ways to occupy my time. It's unfortunate that the most exciting thing I can come up with is to clean out my closet.

I slide open the old wooden closet door. It whines as it struggles along the rusted metal track. I stare at the mess that seems to have accumulated over the years, wondering who all of this stuff must belong to. None of it appears to belong to me.

It takes me a few hours to sort through all of the old clothes and shoes that I now realize must belong to my mother. I place a couple of her dresses back on the rack and dump everything else into a large bag. She can take this stuff to Goodwill since she hasn't worn any of it in years, and it isn’t doing us any good sitting in a closet getting older and mustier.

One last thing to put away: my mother’s wedding dress. I realize I’ve never seen it before…I wonder what it would look like out of the garment bag. My parents have no wedding pictures on display, and I’ve never seen a photo album. I have no idea what she looked like on her wedding day.

I unzip the vinyl bag to find a beautiful white gown. It looks as if it belongs on a model sporting teased-up bangs, too much blush, and deep red lipstick. I can't imagine my mother wearing this, as proper as she is. It makes me wonder who she used to be, before she became nothing more than my keeper. I zip the bag up and place it back on the rack, flat against the wall where it has gone unnoticed and hidden for as long as I’ve been living in this bedroom.

I take a couple of steps back to admire my cleaning job and drag in a deep breath while wiping the dust from my hands.

I twist around to look at the rest of my room, in search for another project, and I notice three boxes I had forgotten to put back on the top shelf of my closet. They’re all staring at me, inviting me over.

I pick up the first box and shake it around. Nothing moves inside. I remove the lid, exposing two stacked piles of old and tattered photographs compacted within. Most of them are covered in a yellowish stain. They must be from at least thirty or forty years ago. I flip through the pictures and see photos of my mother and her parents, some of my parents looking abnormally happy together, many of my mother as a child playing with her dog. The final stack of photos show my mother looking very comfortable with another man…a man I don’t recognize.

I have no idea who it is.

Maybe he was just an old boyfriend, though I can’t help wondering if she could have been married before she met my dad. The man is wearing a jumpsuit. I scrutinize the sepia-toned image and see that the name badge on it says “Bonet.”

My mother’s maiden name.

Who could he be? He looks to be her age. If I squint a little, he kind of looks like her. I don’t know of any male relatives on her side, let alone any who would be so close to her age.

I’m even more interested to see what’s in the other boxes now. I pick up the next one. It’s busting at the seams. I slide the fragile lid off the top, and an overflowing stack of letters pour over the sides. I’ve never been a snoop, but I just can’t help myself at this point. This is the most excitement I’ve ever encountered in this bedroom. On top of the stack is a crumpled piece of paper, rolled up in a ball.

I smooth it out on the floor so I can get a better look. I have to tilt my head to the side to figure out what I'm looking at. It’s a crayon drawing of three stick figure people. The first person looks like a girl with brown scribbles for hair and a big smile. The second is a boy with yellow hair who looks to have the same happy glow, and the third is another girl, twice as tall as the other two. Her hair is bright red, her eyes are green with large black eyelashes, and she has a smile that reaches from one ear to the other.

I turn the paper over and find something written on the back:
Chloe, Alex, and Celia, June 2001
. I must have been seven years old when I drew this. Alex really
does
know me.

And even more importantly, I knew
him
.

So what made me forget him? And Celia? I feel like I’ve been locked out of my own memories. I’m angry and frustrated that my own mind won’t allow me access to time in my life that I desperately want to remember right now. Even the drawing hasn’t triggered anything. There must be something in the box that will spark recognition.

I pick up one of the letters and slide out an old piece of notepaper. It’s so worn and soft that if I'm not careful while unfolding it, it might tear into pieces. It feels as if this note has been through the washing machine, or drenched in water somehow and dried again.

Once unfolded, I begin to read it:

Dear Marie,

This will be my last letter. I know what we have talked about, and I know how you feel about my plan. Please understand that this is my only way to be free and to end my suffering. Our parents will never understand what they have done to me or what they have done to you. After a life of solitude and abuse, they will get their wish. They will not have to deal with me any longer. I wish that they had gotten me the help I needed years ago, rather than locking me away in the attic to rot. But after they decided to admit me, my illness took over. I cannot bear to live like this for another day.

I will always love you, little sister. I hope now you will get the love from our mother and father that you’ve always deserved.

Please don’t ever forget me. Love you always.

Your one and only big brother,

James

I wasn’t expecting to see something like this.

Tears fill my eyes. The pain in my heart is unbearable, and the blood rushing through my cheeks is causing my face to feel as if it has been smothered in oil and lit with a flame. Why hasn’t anyone told me that I had an uncle—an uncle who ended his life because of a mental illness? I realize the notepaper looks as if a thousand tears have hit it, and now I’m adding to the stains left there…stains that must have been left behind by my mother. I carefully fold the letter back to the original creased lines and slide it into the envelope.

I sit on the edge of my bed, stunned. I can’t comprehend what my mother went through or how she could have kept it a secret from me, my entire life.

What else is she keeping from me?

Considering how she treats me, probably everything.

I’m starting to understand why she brings me to the institution twice a week: she probably thinks she’s helping me not end up like her brother. But I can’t understand why she would keep me a prisoner in this house, as my grandparents must have done to him.

“Chloe!” My mother is hollering from downstairs. It startles me. “Dinner!”

Now I have to pretend I don’t know about this secret I’ve discovered. I can’t be the one to bring it up…I have no idea what her reaction would be. I wonder if my father even knows about James. Maybe I should ask him. Maybe I’d get answers from him. As henpecked as he is by her, I’m sure he’d tell me nothing. But there are another thirty or so letters just waiting for me to open.

There must be a million more answers waiting in them.

***

It takes less than a second before I’m questioned about my activities. “Chloe, what have you been doing in your room all day?” She clomps her heels over to me and clasps her hands on her hips. “I heard quite a bit of banging and clatter throughout the afternoon, so I know you hadn’t drifted off…for once.” She’s so cynical.

“I was cleaning out my closet,” I say, taking a seat at the table. “The clutter was bothering me.” And I was trying to keep myself occupied.

Her mouth falls open. “You were doing
what
?”

“Is something wrong, Mother?” I ask. I can’t wait to see what her answer is.

“What gives you the right to go through that closet?" she asks, her eyes filling with calm anger. "Nothing in that closet even belongs to you.”

Yeah. Nothing except for my drawing,
I think
.

“I just wanted to see what was in there. That’s all.” I won’t give her anything more than that.

We’re in a nasty stare down, and she’s glaring at me while she wraps her arms around her body, hugging herself. Her lips are firm, closed tight and curled into a sharp point. I feel as if I’m being pinned up against an invisible wall. I can’t seem to move. Keeping my mouth shut right now seems like it might be my best option, next to just disappearing from my weighed-down mind.

“And what did you find in there, Chloe?” Her voice is calm, but I hear the tremble beneath the words. “Anything interesting?”

I shrug. “Some knit sweaters that Grandma made for me, some other clothes that hadn’t been touched in years…I bagged those up for you. I figured you might like to donate them.” I try my best to sound passive and not allude to anything more.

“That’s all you found?” she grits out in a harsh whisper.

Lie Chloe,
I scold myself
.
“Actually, I also saw your beautiful wedding dress.” I attempt to distract her from what she’s really focusing on. “I was also hoping that maybe
I
could wear your dress when
I
get married someday.”

The mood changes again, and her normal punishing demeanor returns.

I get the impression that she’s trying not to smile. “Oh, Chloe…do you really think marriage would be possible for a girl like you? What man would want a girl who can’t keep her mind anchored in reality? You don’t even have a friend, let alone a boyfriend.”

She’s so condescending, so cruel. I feel the anger building. I don’t think I can keep it in. “With a sister like you, it’s really no surprise to me that your brother James killed himself. You’re no better than your parents were.”

In an instant, I wish I could take back every word that just flew out of my mouth. But it’s too late. My mother drops to the ground onto her knees and grabs her face with both hands. She lets out a shriek so loud that I expect all of the glass in the kitchen to shatter.

My mind starts racing from the stress. The clock is ticking louder than a typewriter. The dishwasher sounds like a tsunami barreling toward me, and the teakettle's whistle is shrill and piercing.

A storm of sound that lifts me up and carries me elsewhere…

I clamp my hands over my ears to try to block out the sounds. Just as the horrific feelings hit a peak, everything shuts off like a light and turns black.

Everything is still dark. It’s taken a bit longer than usual for me to come to. I wave my hands in front of my eyes to test my vision, and I see a faint shadow of my trembling fingers. I take a few steps forward as my feet find solid ground. I think I’m walking over some sort of packed, hardened soil.

This isn’t San Diego, and it certainly isn’t Paris.

I feel nothing around me, almost as if I’m stuck in a black hole somewhere. I pull in a shuddering breath, bringing with it a sickly sweet odor. I can only imagine it to be a rotting animal carcass. It’s overwhelming and repulsive. I can almost taste it.

In a panic, I pinch my arm as hard as I can, hoping it will help me escape from wherever it is I’ve gone this time. It doesn’t work. I’m still standing here in the same place, in complete darkness. I breathe in and out, faster and faster, but my mind is locked on the sensation of terror.

I clutch my hand over my cheek. A throbbing sensation travels upward from my jawbone. The pain radiates and my cheek feels like a million needles stabbing me all at once. The pain increases as a light flickers in front of me, and my eyes flutter open. The kitchen ceiling hangs over me, swaying from side to side. I groan from the ache in my face, and I press my palm against my throbbing cheekbone. I must have blacked out.

The rest of my vision returns just in time to see that the pain comes from my mother’s hand.

As always.

She pulls her hand back to slap at me again, but I grab her wrist before she makes contact, and I throw it back at her.

“Don’t you
ever
touch me again. Do you understand me?” My words crackle against my dry throat. “Next time you even try it, I’ll call the police and have you locked away.”

Her face registers shock.

Mission accomplished.

I grip the kitchen table and pull myself back up to my feet. I can feel her eyes burning holes into my back as she readies to verbally attack me again. But before she can spit another vile word, I run from the kitchen and up the stairs to my bedroom. I slam the door hard enough to make framed pictures bounce against the wall. I fall against the inside of my door, clench my eyes shut and let my head drop between my knees as I listen to my mother hurtle up the stairs. She tries to thrust the door open. It thrashes against my back over and over. I am so sick of this—the constant torment is wearing me thin. I wish I were numb to the pain she causes me. It used to just be a smack across the wrists, but as I got older, it turned into slaps across the face, pinching, and hair pulling. I'll never understand her reasoning for it.