Convicted (3 page)

Claire remembered every word—every syllable he’d ever said. He told her the offer of a psychiatric facility was to protect her. Now, whether she deserved to be or not—she was protected.

Sometimes people asked her questions. With each inquiry, she’d hear his voice, “
Divulging private information is still forbidden...
”

She no longer questioned what constituted
private information
. Whether it was her memories, their history, or what she wanted to eat, she wouldn’t divulge. In an effort to refrain from revealing anything she shouldn’t, Claire chose to not speak. With time, that decision became easier and easier—the faceless people’s words rarely penetrated her bubble.

Then without warning, the people before her would morph into other faces, and she’d forget her vow of silence and speak. After all, it was so exciting to see long-lost friends and faces, yet as fast as they’d appear—they’d fade away. Most of the time, it didn’t matter—whether real or imagined—the people with her rarely understood her conversation. Whenever this occurred, she’d remember her disobedience. The overwhelming sense of shame instigated an internal turmoil that according to the voices
threatened her well-being
.

That internal turmoil would manifest in ways Claire couldn’t control. She wanted to stop—to behave—but sometimes she couldn’t make her body do what she wanted it to do, and then the faceless people would restrain her. So many images would race through her mind—she hated restraints. The faceless voices would tell her the restraints were for her own protection—so she wouldn’t hurt herself. Claire would still fight—after all, she’d never hurt anyone—but wait—she had.

Her history of violence had been well documented, and since she had the capability, it was better to be safe. Then when things seemed lost—when she least expected it—relief would come.

Claire would hear his voice.

She couldn’t predict when it would come; she couldn’t encourage it, or even beg for it. No, Tony appeared on his own schedule and of his own volition. His voice would come in—a word, a whisper, or a long rambling speech. The deep baritone melody could soothe her like no drug.

When Claire first arrived at Everwood, the faces and hands that took her outside encouraged her to garden. They’d put tools in her hands, but she wouldn’t grip—she couldn’t. It was too painful. It reminded Claire of the gardens on the estate or those in paradise. In time, the faces gave up. That was Claire’s assumption—she didn’t ask. No matter the why, they no longer asked her to comply.

On the occasions, when she tried to remember her life—she couldn’t. It all blended into the same grayness—the place where dark became light and light became dark—the place between places. There was before—earlier—long ago—once upon a time—when life had color, and there was
then
—the time when all life disappeared—when the grayness won—the time after the dark.

Her efforts to contain the grayness were useless, and with time, she no longer tried. It seeped from every compartment, leaked into her thoughts, and filled every void. Her world—her reality—was gray—colorless.

Then, unexpectedly, like his voice and without reason, hues of color would infiltrate her world. It was the color of unsolicited memories. She was powerless to stop them. Usually, they’d begin well enough with greens of spring and the blues of waves upon a lake. Without warning, an overwhelming pain—a demobilizing sense of loss would stop her. Worse than the gray, this was nothing—not white—not black—NOTHING!

This void wasn’t only brought on by the loss of Tony. Oh, Claire knew his ways; he’d return long enough to rekindle the passion, ignite her need, and disappear again. This nothingness was something else—an emptiness she couldn’t identify—one that even the gray couldn’t penetrate—one that clawed at her heart. If she allowed her thoughts to linger in the nothingness for too long, it tore her soul to shreds, and she felt every slash—fleeting memories of a baby and a fire. It was the most agonizing pain she’d ever experienced, and without a doubt, Claire was a veteran of pain. She’d endured loss, undergone tragedy, and withstood physical suffering—hell, she’d braved death itself.

Without warning, this emptiness would approach—rattle her soul—and bring her to her knees. When it did, her body would collapse. She’d hear a primal plea escape her lips—not a cry—not simple tears on her pillow. She’d hear a wail of torment that no one but she could understand. When this happened—the people would come. They’d speak words she couldn’t comprehend and a new pain would come to her arm.

Sometimes she’d scream just to feel the bliss of the sharp prick. The faces and voices didn’t understand...she couldn’t ask—that would constitute as divulging information; nonetheless, the sharp sensation led to sleep—a reprieve from the conscious grayness and suffocating nothingness. Life was no longer real. Perhaps it never had been and it never would be...

Sometimes Claire remembered black voids. Those thoughts didn’t frighten her; on the contrary, the black overpowered the gray—consumed the nothingness and filled her with the promise of intense emotion. Nothing about Tony had ever been gray. There were always colors...blues, greens, reds, and browns. So much could be assessed by the shade of brown. The memory of that brown becoming black made her heart beat faster, pulse rage uncontrollably, and body hunger for the passion only he could provide.

At times, Claire fantasized about Tony’s eyes—starring endlessly at anything, remembering his ability to communicate with a simple glance. The sight of something dark brown or black electrified every nerve within her body, but when she saw chocolate brown, it sent her entire being into spasms.

Claire stopped caring, months or years ago. Time was no longer relevant. She had a new goal. It was to wait until he returned, held her, caressed her, and loved her. Until his gaze filled her being, until he consumed the nothingness and made the grayness go away—until he brought the color back to her bleak world.

Claire had been walking outside with a faceless voice. The voice had been talking, and she’d been walking. The air was warm and the sky was clear. Claire assumed it was blue, although she only saw gray—the way things appeared on black and white television. The woman beside her seemed familiar—yet not—as she spoke on and on.

Claire didn’t try to listen; instead, she concentrated on walking with the talking woman. This obedience earned her temporary exodus from her desolate room. It was a compromise she could sometimes stand. As they entered the building and walked through the cafeteria, Claire peered beyond her bubble, long enough to see someone familiar. The realization sent her back—immobilized her—memories sped by—colors flooded her gray. She couldn’t compartmentalize fast enough.

Before Claire knew what happened, she was on the floor. Shoes and voices were all she saw and heard...

Meredith couldn’t react fast enough. She knew the woman across the room was Claire. Despite her dull, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and her too pale complexion, Meredith recognized her sorority sister. It was her eyes. Yes, they lacked the luster of their youth, but Meredith had no doubt—the too thin woman with emerald eyes was definitely Claire.

Meredith wanted to call out, but if she did, she’d blow her cover. Briefly, their eyes met, bringing a momentary spark of recognition. Before Meredith could move, comment, or anything—Claire fell to the floor as if she’d been struck. Suddenly, she was lying in a fetal position, shaking her head, and mumbling incoherently.

The woman who’d been walking with her calmly knelt beside Claire and made a call. Within seconds, they were surrounded by other members of the facility’s staff. Meredith moved forward in seemingly slow motion as they scooped Claire onto a gurney and slid an IV into her arm.

Meredith’s ragged breath pulled at her chest as the needle entered Claire’s skin. She quietly eased herself closer to the woman she once knew. By the time she was beside the gurney, Claire’s emerald eyes held little sign of recognition. Under the guise of the commotion, Meredith gently touched Claire’s forearm and moved her lips near Claire’s ear. “Claire, it’s me, Meredith. Please help me tell your story.”

The trembling woman before her slipped away. Her last gaze toward Meredith was one of relief as the peaceful calm of medication overtook her body. Helplessly, Meredith watched the gurney being wheeled away.

The pain in her arm was back, but so was the calm. Before the dreams began, Claire tried to process the identity of that woman. She felt an undeniable belief that she should know her, but it wasn’t right. The woman didn’t belong here, not in her safe haven. Claire’s thoughts were scattered...
her
story. No, the story wasn’t just hers.

The story belonged to so many others, so many others, who like her, would never be able to tell the world what happened; so many others, who were now silenced—now and forever, yet Claire knew every word—she’d lived it.

Tell her story? No...some things were better left unknown!

People are stupid; given proper motivation, almost anyone will believe almost anything.

—Terry Goodkind

Sighing, Claire fastened the final clasp on her luggage and turned toward Phil. “I’m glad you didn’t need to fly back to Iowa, to meet with the Iowa City Police Department.”

Golden flecks shimmered in Phil’s hazel eyes as he responded, “Well,
Mrs. Alexander
, it wouldn’t be very
husbandly
of me to let you travel to Venice all by yourself.” Nodding toward her midsection, he continued, “Especially, not in your condition.”

Claire’s hand instinctively moved to her growing baby. With a small smile, she replied, “Mr. Alexander, I certainly appreciate that.”

While Phil spoke, Claire made the final adjustments on her dark wig. She’d gotten good at making the fake hair look real. That didn’t mean it didn’t itch. She was beyond ready to forgo the disguises.

Phil continued, “It seems the ICPD no longer needs my information. The prosecutor’s office said they had
new evidence
to investigate and asked that I keep in touch.”

“Hmm,” Claire hummed in agreement as she placed a few more hairpins. When her lips were clear, she asked, “I wonder what new evidence came their way?”

Stepping behind her, he gazed into their reflection. When their eyes met, he grinned and answered, “Since I heard your end of the conversation, I’d say they were informed of a very—”

A loud knock interrupted Phil’s words. The straightening of his stance told Claire he saw the concern in her eyes. Every contact was suspicious and required scrutiny. Phil nodded silently, stood taller, and walked toward the door.

Claire didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she released it, hearing her husband announce, “It’s the bellhop. Are you ready to leave?”

Allowing her shoulders to relax, Claire took one last look around the suite. The luxurious furnishings paled in comparison to the lovely view beyond the balcony. As the sun rose in the East, hues of blue and sparkling waves danced across the water of Lake Geneva. The unseasonably warm breeze bathed her cheeks as she paused and gazed at the sight for one last time. She knew it was time to go; their things were packed and ready. Exhaling, she replied, “Yes, I’m ready to move on.”