Convicted - Romig Aleatha (читать книги полностью без сокращений .TXT) 📗
The silence grew. With each second, each minute, Meredith’s excitement diminished. She was so upset about the meeting and losing this connection to Claire, she must have imagined the whole thing. Finally, she reached in her pocket, produced a tissue, and wiped Claire’s tears. The sky was now closer to dark than light. Surely, someone would reprimand Meredith for having a patient out past dark. She smirked again, it won’t matter—I’m getting fired in two days anyway.
Lightening her voice, Meredith continued her monologue. The apology was done—she’d talk—because, until they fired her—that was her job. “Let’s get you back to your room. I’m sure they won’t be very happy that I kept you out so late.” Waiting for Claire to turn around, she continued, “I’m sure I’ll hear about it.”
Securing Claire’s elbow, Meredith felt her tremble. “Claire, are you cold? I’m sorry. Let’s get you back.” While Claire stayed steadfast, Meredith remembered the night of Claire’s accident. She’d been out at the lake, and it got dark. “Oh shit, I’m making this worse. You’re fine—no one will be upset with you. Don’t worry—there won’t be any problems—no accidents.”
“Stop.” Claire’s whisper was so low that Meredith had to strain to hear her above the sounds of the country night. Keeping her eyes downcast, Claire continued, “I lived it.” “I don’t want to hear it.” “I want to hear the good times.”
It was against protocol, but what the hell—at this point, what harm was there in breaking another facility rule? Throwing caution to the wind, Meredith wrapped her arms around her long-time friend and cried. The sobs of earlier, the anguish over the last six years, the fear of losing her job—everything came out.
Slowly, Claire’s arms encircled Meredith, and she whispered, “Shhh, I’m sorry.” “Please don’t cry.”
The absurdity of Claire consoling her hit hard. Meredith’s tears turned to laughter.
At first, Claire thought she was imagining it. Then again, she wasn’t sure what was real. Tony’s visits were becoming less frequent. The bland room with one window was becoming more real, and she didn’t want it to be. With Tony, life was filled with colors of varying intensities. This reality was not only colorless, it was lifeless. She yearned for more time with him and longed for his touch; however, day in and day out, the drab room and the people who talked about nothing filled more and more of her hours.
Sometimes she’d focus and see her sister. It was Emily—although, she looked much older. Then again, so did Claire. The people with plain faces and colorless eyes often combed her hair into a ponytail. It was the hairstyle of a young girl—Claire didn’t feel young. The reflection she saw—if she focused in the mirror—didn’t look young. As a matter of fact, her hair was wrong. There was a time it was blonde—because, he wanted it to be. Now the highlights weren’t blonde, they were white. How could she possibly have graying hair? The last thing she remembered was...
That was so difficult. She tried to remember. In that room they took her to, they asked her to look at pictures. Sometimes those pictures would trigger something. When that happened, she tried with all her might to keep the emptiness out. Sometimes she’d cover her eyes or her ears.
There were other times where they asked her to do simple tasks like picking up things and putting them in the right places. They didn’t tell her what was right. She didn’t know if it was acceptable to ask, so she avoided their tasks until they insisted. Claire didn’t like to hear people tell her what to do, especially if they sounded upset. Finally, one day, she picked up the miscellaneous items and put them in the small little compartments. Instead of releasing her from the room, they came up with more things for her to do.
The constant that Claire began to anticipate was Meredith’s visits. It was only recently she realized who the woman was. After all, even with saying her name, the context was wrong. Why would Meredith Banks be feeding her? Then Claire realized—it wasn’t meant to make sense—it just was, and Meredith did what no one else would do—she talked about Tony.
Since his visits had lessened, when Claire tried to think of him, she felt waves of sadness. He was gone. He had to be gone. Why else wouldn’t he visit any longer? Meredith’s stories of happy times brought him back. The memories were difficult for her to recall on her own. Meredith’s recollections gave her sustenance that no food could. She’d replay the words over in her head and remember. She couldn’t feel his touch as she once had, but she could picture the scenes as Meredith spoke.
It recently became obvious that the stories flowed more freely outside. When they walked and were alone, Meredith’s stories took on a life of their own. As she went on about dinners or engagements, Claire pictured her dress and Tony’s tuxedo. When she talked about trips, Claire’s mind saw the snow of Tahoe or the crystal blue waters of Fiji.
There were some memories Claire didn’t want to remember. When Meredith mentioned the bad times or the bad Tony, she tried to stop the visions in her mind. She didn’t want to feel the fear resurrected by those stories.
She questioned the reality of everything, yet in life or fantasy, Claire had promised Tony she’d keep their private life private. That’s what made Meredith safe—she already knew their private life. Claire had disobeyed Tony a long time ago, she wasn’t telling Meredith anything—no, Meredith was telling Claire, so she reasoned, telling her to stop was acceptable. After all, Tony wouldn’t want Meredith telling someone else these stories. That was why Claire had to stop her.
She didn’t mean to make Meredith cry. Claire didn’t want her sad. She was the only person willing to help her remember. “Shhh...I’m sorry”—“Please don’t cry.”
Suddenly, Meredith laughed.
Claire was sure she was having another delusion—people didn’t cry then laugh. Maybe Claire wasn’t really on a walk with her old friend. Maybe she’d soon feel that too familiar sharp pain in her arm. Settling to the ground, Claire waited. The people would come and then she’d wake up somewhere else. Closing her eyes, she hoped when the sharpness came, Tony would be waiting...
“Claire, you need to stand. You’ll get cold out here on the ground.” Meredith’s voice had regained the composure it momentarily lost.
Claire looked up, then side to side. Where were the people?
“I know you heard me. You spoke to me. Don’t worry, you won’t be in trouble, but we need to get back.” Meredith put out her hand. “Please, let’s go back.”
Claire reached up—the sensation of her hand in Meredith’s was real. At least, Claire believed it was.
You must stick to your conviction, but be ready to abandon your assumptions.
—Denis Waitley
Harry stared at his notes and relived his recent conversation with Agent Jackson from the Boston field office. Jackson was very specific—Anthony Rawlings was cooperating with the FBI and would not be apprehended at this time. When Harry questioned the attempt on his own life and the threat to his family, Jackson reminded him that there was no proof of a connection to Rawlings.
He was right—there was no proven connection. Could Harry’s gut be telling him he wanted Rawlings guilty, instead that the man was guilty? Maybe the whole beat down in the back alley accomplished the exact opposite of its intention. Since it occurred, Harry was more focused and determined to close the case. He needed assurance that everyone he cared about was safe. Surprisingly, that list of people—people whom he cared about—really cared about—was more static than he’d previously realized. Harry had family who’d been there for him and friends he could count on. Those people deserved his attention.
