Текст книги "Truth "
Автор книги: Aleatha Romig
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 42 страниц)
The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love, and to be greater than our suffering.
—Ben Okri
Chapter 19
Early 1985...
Marie didn’t want to care this much, not about anyone. Then why was she sitting in her nightgown, at three in the morning, watching Ms. Sharron breathe? It wasn’t like she was anything to most of this family, other than hired help – and she sure as hell didn’t have a family of her own.
The breaths came, inconsistent, with a rattle. If the doctors could just stop the damn rattle.
Marie sat in the high-backed Queen Anne chair and wrapped her arms around her knees. The doctor, who’d been to the estate earlier, said the IV medication would fight the infection. Marie just hoped Ms. Sharron was strong enough to be the battle ground. What good was a strong army if the earth crumbled under their siege?
Marie didn’t have medical training.
Hadn’t that been said, about a hundred times in the past few days? Mr. Samuel and Ms. Amanda made no bones about the fact someone more qualified should be at Ms. Sharron’s bedside. Not only did they express their dissatisfaction with Marie’s medical qualifications, they also didn’t want her to be the sole person with Mrs. Sharron when she moved from this life to the next.
As was the case with everything, the decision wasn’t theirs to make. Marie would remain as long as Mr. Nathaniel Rawls wanted her there. He didn’t argue; he declared, “Sharron is comfortable with Marie. She’ll stay.” It may not be up for debate, but Samuel and Amanda made no attempt to hide their disproval.
Even without medical training, Marie knew Ms. Sharron was in pain and laboring. Everything Marie had read said Alzheimer’s disease was unpredictable. She could pass away today or live another five years. As Marie watched and listened, she felt the need to pray for today. This wasn’t a life she wanted Ms. Sharron to endure any longer. Then again, if she passed, what did that mean for Marie? It meant she would leave this estate and go on her way. Although, it would undoubtedly make Samuel and Amanda happy, Marie wondered about Nathaniel? It surprised Marie to realize she’d actually miss her talks with the stubborn old man.
Marie chuckled softly, old? He was in fact old, at least a lot older than she. In the past eighteen months he looked even older. Nonetheless, for a man with so many concerns weighing him down he was incredibly attractive. And the power he wielded, outside of this room, was impressive. Yet, the part of Nathaniel Rawls Marie would miss was the part no one else saw. Not the ostentatious, narcissistical, tyrant making deals and barking orders. She would miss the handsome, seasoned gentleman who sat for hours, holding a hand that rarely held back. The man who propped himself on the bed, held his wife’s frail body, and watched her sleep upon his chest.
“I thought I told you to go to bed?”
The deep voice startled Marie back to reality. She turned her tear stained cheeks toward the man who’d been in her thoughts. “I tried, but I couldn’t sleep.”
“So, can you sleep better in that chair?”
Marie smiled, “No, but at least I’m doing something.”
Nathaniel pulled another chair beside Marie’s, sat and squeezed Marie’s hand. “I can hire someone else to sit with her at night, so you can get more rest.”
Marie turned away and tried to breathe, her emotions were overwrought. Her question came through with more dejection than she intended, “Do you also think I’m incapable of doing my job?”
“Marie, are you crying?”
“No.” She lied.
His strong hand still covered hers. “I think you are more than capable. I just think you need a break. You can’t be by her side twenty-four hours a day.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You sit here half the night and work all day. You need sleep, too.”
He smirked, “Do I, now?”
“You do. You can’t go on burning your candle at both ends. I suggest some time away from work, or more time sleeping.” His sly smile made her feel self-conscious; was he making fun of her? “All right, now why are you grinning? Are you laughing at me?” she asked.
He tried to hide the smile showing through his dark sad eyes. The smile was a nice change to the solemn expression he often wore while observing his sleeping wife. “I’m not laughing; I’m amused.”
“Fine, be amused. Just get some sleep.”
“I don’t remember the last time someone told me what to do.” Nathaniel sat back and watched his wife. Marie didn’t go to bed; she sat and allowed him to talk. She couldn’t take away his pain. Perhaps, if he felt comfortable enough to express his thoughts, the ache would lessen, in some way. Nathaniel continued, “I do actually.”
They were no longer looking at one another or touching. Both sat with their heads resting on the plush winged sides of the Queen Anne chairs, watching Sharron. Marie encouraged, “You do?”
“Sharron, she was the only person who was ever able to tell me what to do,” he chuckled, “and how to do it.” He went on describing the love of his life, her incredible beauty and tenacious will. “When I came home from the war, it wasn’t over, but my tour was. She’d written to me, and I her. We still have those letters in a box somewhere. I couldn’t wait to see her again, to hear her voice, and hold her.” He reached forward and picked up her frail hand. “I should show you pictures. I know what you see – isn’t what I see. I still see the vibrant strong-willed girl I rushed home to marry.”
Marie didn’t comment. The tears she’d shed earlier now had companions. Her heart broke for this man telling a beautiful love story, one which she knew had a cruel sad ending.
“Did I ever tell you, her family didn’t approve of me?”
That was difficult to believe. After all, Nathaniel Rawls was an esteemed businessman. “No, why not?”
“Well, first her father didn’t like me,” and with a chuckle, “Believe me, the feeling was mutual. But mostly, it was because they had money. Not a lot, but they were comfortable. I barely had two pennies to rub together. He didn’t believe I could provide for his daughter, in the style to which she was accustomed.”
Marie grinned, “You proved him wrong!”
“I did.” His voice didn’t sound triumphant, more melancholy.
“Did he ever admit he was wrong?”
“No. And that’s understandable; real men don’t apologize. Besides, he died before I made my first million. This,” he gestured with his hands, “has all been for her. And now, I have to keep going for her. I refuse to back away from any of it. Even if she isn’t with me, I’m still doing it all for her.”
“She still loves you.” It was surprisingly easy to carry on heartfelt conversations while not looking at one another. “Your voice excites her. Her heart beats stronger when you’re near.”
“Do you think she still knows?”
“Some days, some times. When I first started, she liked to look through old photo albums. I think it was her way to hold on to memories. She’d tell me stories about the two of you, when you were young, and about Mr. Samuel and Mr. Anton. You two had – I mean have – something very few other people are ever blessed to experience.”
Nathaniel looked at his watch, “Marie, it’s after three thirty. You go get some sleep. I’ll stay here until morning. You can relieve me in about three hours.”
When she didn’t move, he stood and took her hand. She noticed the gleam in his eyes. He was thinking about another time and another place. “I mean it. I want you to get some rest.”
She allowed herself to stand, her hand still in his. “Good night, Nathaniel.” While in the presence of others, she addressed him formally. However, during their private talks, the Mr. Rawls was long gone.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t right. Nevertheless, as he stood there holding Marie’s warm soft hand and their chests touched, with only her robe covered nightgown and his robe covered t-shirt separating them, something changed. They both knew it, but neither one uttered a word.
Nathaniel Rawls took what he wanted in life. What he wanted, above all else, was his wife. Life was cruel, and he couldn’t reach her, no matter how long or how hard he tried. He’d worked his entire life to give her the best of everything. However, he couldn’t give her health.
Standing in front of him was everything Sharron had been and had ceased to be. In his hand was energy, vibrant and strong-willed, embodied in a lovely caring young woman. As he looked down into her soft gray eyes he noticed a sparkle only recently doused with tears.
Although he still held tight to her hand and their hearts beat frantically within their touching chests, Nathaniel watched as Marie turned her twinkling eyes away. He didn’t want to lose that vivacity. It was more life than he’d be held in a long time. He gently raised her chin and spoke with a deep throaty voice. In all of their talks, she’d never heard this tone before, “You need to go to your room. May I suggest locking your door?”
His tenor terrified her. Not that Marie feared Nathaniel; she feared the desires stirring within her. After all, she hadn’t been with a man for a long time, and never consensually. For the first time in her life, she experienced consensual thoughts and feelings. How could she possibly be thinking like this, with Ms. Sharron only two feet away?
Her voice also came from somewhere deep, almost unrecognizable, even to herself, “Does everyone do exactly as you say?” She liked the way he smiled. It was so much better than his grief.
“Everyone, who is smart.”
“I’ve never claimed intelligence.”
Nathaniel stood over six six. Marie was about five eight. When she was younger her height made her feel awkward. At this moment, it felt perfect. Her head fit perfectly under his chin. And with her chin tilted, as it was in his hand, and his face inclined their lips were but millimeters apart. The next minutes lasted hours. His lips moved forward and she made no move to stop them.
It could be argued that she moved toward them, possibly lifting herself onto her toes. Honestly, there was such a small space to cover – the who was inconsequential as at the moment was the why. What mattered was the what. What were they doing?
His lips were full, warm, firm, and right. They’d both been overwhelmed by the sadness at Sharron’s recent decline. Perhaps, within a cold gloomy New Jersey winter where hope seemed lost, a glimmer of joy could exist.
“If you don’t tell me to stop – now – I can’t promise I’ll be able to stop in the future.”
Marie remained silent. When he tugged her hand toward her attached suite, she willingly followed. She wasn’t hoping to cure her loneliness as much as his. Could a wrong relationship actually be right, in the middle of this desolate life?
Strength does not come from winning. Your struggles develop your strength. When you go through hardships and decide not to surrender, that is strength.
—Mahatma Ghandi
Chapter 20
Claire licked the spoon, followed by a satisfied, “Yum.” She lifted the pan of creamy cilantro sauce and set it aside to cool. Her empty stomach twisted in anticipation of the appetizing aromas. Amber’s kitchen glowed with warmth and the rich fragrance of baking fish. She pushed the light diagram on the screen of the wall-oven and illuminated the small cavern. Inside, she spied fresh tilapia filets sizzling in a warm bath of liquid butter and lemon juice. Claire reread the clock. Harry should be here any minute, she thought.
Walking toward the stove top, she checked the water level in her sauce pan. It would soon serve as the perfect basin for asparagus to soften to al dente. The mixed green salad, lightly tossed with raspberry vinaigrette dressing, was already on the set table as was an open bottle of cabernet. Claire placed wineglasses next to the tall, filled water goblets.
After her shower, she found her iPhone in the living room and read Harry’s response: DINNER SOUNDS GREAT. WE SHOULD TALK.
Claire wasn’t sure why the word talk sounded so ominous, but it did. She immediately responded: AMBER’S GONE, HOW ABOUT DINNER HERE? MORE PRIVACY FOR TALKING? She finally exhaled when his, SURE, came in reply.
Claire checked the clock again, three more minutes. It seemed as though the world was spinning in slow motion. Claire hit a few buttons on Amber’s whole house sound system and listened as Michael Buble’s rich voice filtered through hidden speakers.
Unlike most evenings where Harry was home by 6:30, tonight he’d sent a text apologizing for unseen delays. Claire didn’t start the tilapia until 7:45; after he messaged he was on his way. With traffic, the short drive could take half an hour. Without traffic it should take less than ten minutes. She looked at the timer, four more minutes.
Clock: 8:17. Where was he?
When the timer sounded, forcing Claire to face the reality of her still lonely condominium, she removed the fish from the oven and placed it in the microwave to stay warm. Her instincts told her to call or text Harry. However, she didn’t listen. Instead, she poured herself a glass of wine and walked aimlessly around the condominium.
In the living room she peered through the large windows into the night sky. The bottom of the vista twinkled with illuminations from the valley, the glow of the street lights, cars and buildings. The top half reminded her of velvet with the mountains intensifying the black sky; only the top quarter lessened the darkness with faint flickers of light. Unfortunately, the city lights overpowered the potential glow of the distant stars.
Momentarily, Claire thought about the stars in Iowa. From her balcony at Tony’s secluded estate she could see millions. Instantaneously, Claire remembered Tony’s quest and wrapped her free arm around her torso. Would he succeed? Would she be back on that balcony?
Still wandering, Claire found herself in the spare bedroom containing her unorthodox filing system. She reached for the stack of information she’d put down almost twenty four hours ago, the information they’d accumulated on Samuel Rawls.
Claire knew she needed to research Sharron Rawls, but it could wait until tomorrow.
She leafed through the documents and found herself staring at the Santa Monica Coroner’s Report for Amanda and Samuel Rawls. It was something she’d put off reading, but as they say: there’s no time like the present. She settled herself on the corner of the bed and began to read.
There were a lot of technical terms discussing the injuries, explaining the trajectory of bullets and the damage that ensued. Claire skimmed the information until she came to the section entitled: Coroner’s Assessment. She cautiously read the opinion of the elected official: It is the judgment of this office Amanda Rawls died of multiple gunshot wounds. While she was struck in the leg, spinal cord, and right shoulder, the lethal shot connected her right ventricle. Death occurred due to rapid loss of blood. A bullet struck the C-5 vertebrae severing the spinal cord resulting in immediate paralysis. It is believed the victim was unable to move during the last minutes of life although she would have remained conscious. Time of Death: based on body temperature believed to be approximately 1600 hours. The trajectory indicates a taller assailant standing at least five feet away.
Claire tried desperately not to internalize the information as she flipped the pages of the report. She found the same section of Samuel’s report. It is the judgment of this office that Samuel Rawls died from multiple gunshot wounds. He exhibited injuries in both legs and his spinal column. The fatal shot occurred with a bullet to the right temple. His right hand tested positive for residue consistent with the placement of the weapon.
The weapon found near Mr. Samuel Rawls has been confirmed to be the weapon used with both Mr. and Mrs. Rawls. Time of Death estimated at approximately 1600 hours.
Claire sighed. She’d put off reading this report, fearing it would implicate Tony instead of Samuel. Although tragic, she found the information comforting. The times of death exonerated Tony, proving he wasn’t responsible for his parents’ death.
Then again, the reports raised new questions: Why would Samuel have multiple injuries? Most people committing suicide don’t shoot themself in the legs or back? What about the neighbor’s statement? What about the other woman? Samuel’s sister? After minutes of scanning, Claire determined the other woman must have been a dead lead. No sister existed or was mentioned in any other reports surrounding the deaths of Samuel and Amanda Rawls.
Finishing off her glass of wine, Claire read the clock, 9:07. Where is Harry? The room wobbled slightly. Her head felt light with wine and lack of food. She left the research on the bed and went toward the kitchen. On the shiny granite countertop, her iPhone sat all alone. Claire reached for the devise and pushed buttons. Immediately the icon for missed calls appeared with the number two. As she changed the screen to see the numbers, she saw a text from Harry:
IM SO SORRY. IM ON HAMILTON AVENUE. ACCIDENT RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. IM FINE BUT STAYING WITH VICTIM UNTIL POLICE AND PARAMEDICS ARRIVE.
She immediately called his number; it went to voice mail. Claire hung up and called again. She felt an unwelcome tightening in her chest as she ran for the door. Hamilton was just a block or two away. She could be there in minutes if she walked fast, sooner if she ran. The phone rang as she threw open the door to her condominium. If she hadn’t looked up, she would have run right into him.
*****
Derek quietly entered their dark condominium. Coming home much later than he’d planned, he placed his keys on the small table in the foyer and gazed down the dark hallway. Seeping from around the door to Sophia’s new studio he saw golden beams of light. He slipped off his shoes and walked soundlessly toward the glow. With each step his anticipation mounted, would he finally find his wife drawing or painting? She’d been on the West Coast for almost two weeks and hadn’t so much as touched a sketch pad. With each step he realized, more than anything, Derek wanted to see his wife lost in her world of creativity.
Of course, over the past fourteen days she’d given every excuse for avoiding her new studio; adjusting to the time change, getting to know the neighbors, learning her way around Silicon Valley – all valid, especially his favorite, getting to know people at his work. When Derek worked in Boston and Sophia spent her days and nights on the Cape, she rarely interacted with his fellow workers. He often wondered if it were proximity or personality. It was no secret, they lived in different worlds. Nonetheless, her lack of daily interaction didn’t hinder her presence at social functions, where she mingled beautifully, being her gregarious self.
Derek often felt a twinge of pride when coworkers noticed his lovely wife. Some of the Boston associates even commented about Derek’s perfect life, a gorgeous wife patiently waiting miles away, leaving his days free to explore what Boston had to offer. Derek didn’t agree. He had more woman in Sophia than he’d ever dreamt; exploring wasn’t on his radar.
Truthfully, it wasn’t just Sophia’s looks, although he approved; it was her uncensored zest for life – her ability to see the world in a way he never would. As Derek anticipated her arrival to their new Santa Clara home, he readied himself for a whirlwind of excitement.
It never happened.
From the moment Sophia stepped into his new office, he noticed the difference. Her beauty never wavered, yet her spark and drive did. The spark which drew him to her, like a moth to a flame, was gone. In the past two weeks, she’s unpacked their condo, shopped, made regular appearances at his office, attended a few business dinners, and waited patiently for his return home. Derek wondered if he’d unknowingly married a Stepford wife.
He longed for the woman he’d left on the Cape, the woman who would paint all night, crawl into bed before his alarm, nuzzle close, and pout when he finally pulled away from their early morning encounter. She filled his fantasies. Yet, of all the sudden changes, Sophia’s lack of art bothered Derek most. She’d made no attempt to organize her new home studio. Even after Derek ordered her a new desk and some of the basics, she’d done nothing to make it hers. Now, as Derek slipped down the bleached wooden planks, toward the light and resonating soft jazz music, his anticipation grew.
He read his watch: 11:27. His meeting turned to dinner, into more discussion and into more drinks. It wasn’t the first time since Sophia’s arrival he’d disappointed her by not coming home at a decent hour.
Leaning around the slightly ajar door, Derek peered into the light at the end of the dark tunnel. His chest filled with love, seeing Sophia’s long blonde hair secured by a big clip and the deep swoop of her nightgown. She was turned the other direction, sitting cross legged on the floor, with her sketch pad on top of an unpacked box. Her hand moved urgently as the charcoal brushed the surface of the linen tablet. He saw his wife’s slender neck all the way down to the middle of her back. Though the room was still in disarray, he noticed a few new bags of art supplies.
Derek fought the desire to break his wife’s trance. He realized the woman before him, on the floor with darkened fingertips and bare feet was the love of his life. And watching her in this state, almost drugged by her own creative muse, was Derek’s favorite aphrodisiac. The scent of her perfume mixed with charcoal filled his senses. Gripping the door jamb, Derek stopped his impulse to nuzzle her sexy exposed neck.
They had a beautiful king sized bed, in a large suite with a magnificent view on the other side of the condo. However, as Derek stood watching, he fantasized about taking his wife right there, right now on the wooden floor. Closing his eyes Derek thought about Sophia’s gaze, as they made love. He imagined her stunning gray eyes clouded with a blue haze as their passion ignited. Sadly, Derek realized, he hadn’t seen those blue clouds since New England.
That realization, combined with the woeful reverberation of saxophone music prompted him to turn silently toward the hallway. He couldn’t disturb her, not for his own desires. Seeing her in her state of euphoria was enough. He eased his way to their room and climbed into their large empty bed. Derek’s only solace, as he drifted off to sleep, was that Sophia was once again drawing.
The linen page filled with different shades of black and gray. Sophia bought colored chalk at the supply store, but charcoal seemed more appropriate. She wasn’t sure what propelled her to the art supplies store in Palo Alto. Perhaps it was her desire to see the numerous art studios in that area boasting wonderful exhibits. After all she’d received a postcard inviting her to one of the exhibits. It wasn’t really to her. It was one of those promotional mailings, but it intrigued her. While perusing the displays, she felt the familiar desire to create. It was so overpowering she couldn’t resist any longer.
It wasn’t that she’d been resisting. It was more like she’d put it away – somewhere. Since coming to California there were more important things to do. She needed to be Mrs. Derek Burke. No, she wanted to be. However, with each passing day, Sophia questioned if she wanted to be Mrs. Derek Burke for her or for him. As an executive in a large and upcoming company, didn’t he deserve that? The pretense was draining. Sophia constantly argued with herself... if she wanted to be what Derek wanted, than why did she feel so unhappy?
While in an art studio on Hamilton Avenue in Palo Alto the curator approached, and they began talking. They discussed the displayed pieces and debated the use of mediums and color. With time Sophia revealed she too was an artist and mentioned her studio in Provincetown and exhibitions in Europe.
The gentleman asked to see her portfolio. It was at that moment Sophia realized it was still in Massachusetts. That realization struck her with unseen force. Her portfolio – her life in synopsis – was back on the Cape. She’d left her life to be with Derek.
Some of her better works were accessible through her website. She typed in the address and showed Mr. George her art. He appeared more than impressed.
“Mrs. Burke, I like your work. It has a fresh raw quality.”
“Thank you Mr. George. Please call me Sophia.”
“I want you to know this is out of character, to offer a position to someone without checking references, but I’ve recently found myself in need of a trusted employee.” Sophia listened, “I have space in the back where you could create, but mostly I need someone to look after the studio a few hours during the day. It would also require the occasional evening and weekend.”
Sophia didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t been looking for a job. Nonetheless, the past two weeks she’d felt like a fish out of water. The idea of being surrounded by art thrilled her. But at the same time, she knew Derek didn’t want her to work. He wanted her to be free to create. She wished she could explain how her new found freedom felt stifling.
“Mr. George, I’m honored. I really should discuss this with my husband. And you should know I plan to make some short trips to Provincetown during the summer. I hate having my studio closed throughout the busy time of year.”
“I understand. We can meet again to determine if details can be worked out. Would you consider shipping some of your work here, for display?”
She couldn’t help beam. It would have been impossible to hide the smile. “I’m truly honored. I’ll give it all serious consideration. Could I please contact you tomorrow?”
They made the necessary arrangements and Sophia took his number. The renewed excitement gave her the strength to purchase new supplies. She couldn’t wait to tell Derek. However, he called and told her he wouldn’t be home for dinner. Then there was the text message explaining his meeting was going longer than expected. She tried to busy herself while she waited.
Sometime during the evening Sophia found herself in the room he’d planned as her studio. Looking around she knew it needed to be organized. However, as she began removing the new items from the bags, she gave in to impulse. Although new, the charcoal felt smooth and amazing under her fingertips. Without thought or provocation she surrendered to the desire, and began to draw.
When the white page was no longer white, she sat back and looked at the whole of what she’d created. It was a beach with rolling clouds and rough seas, no place in particular and yet – East Coast. Looking around the cluttered room Sophia wondered about the time. Surely Derek should be home by now. Making her way down the hall she found his shoes by the door. Sadness swelled in her chest, a muffled sob escaped her lips when she discovered him sleeping alone in their bed. Why didn’t he come down to her?
Softly she shut the door to their bedroom and went back to the other hall. Next to her studio was another room, a spare bedroom, decorated with light colors and natural textures, for visiting friends and family. As she eased herself into the cool sheets and inhaled the fresh newness surrounding her, her thoughts traveled across the country to their cottage on the Cape. No matter how hard she worked to eliminate the scent of age, it lingered below the surface. It probably was a combination of sea, moisture, and mildew. The ingredients sounded foul, yet it wasn’t. Lying on the new bed, in the newly painted room, she longed for that fragrance. Allowing quiet tears to escape her eyes and moisten the soft pillow case, she drifted into a restless sleep.
