Forgotten Read online

  My own mother immediately runs to him, gently cradles him, soothes him with comforting words. And she stares at me with glaring eyes. “You knew,” she whispers. “You knew Nonna was dead.”

  I instantly cower amongst the large leafy parlor palm that decorates the entrance. “I didn’t, Mama,” I say truthfully. Tears well in my eyes.

  She grunts a few Italian curses and ignores me.

  Remember Nonna.

  And in doing so, it reminded me that the past is inevitably the expert. And that same past now crowded in on me.

  Another icy shiver chilled my veins.

  Shamus noticed, curved a friendly arm around my shoulders. “You okay?”

  Not really. But I nodded, anyway.

  “Clinton and I are going to check out your place,” Shamus added. “You can stay here if you want.”

  I didn’t want; I needed to know. And the old saying – safety in numbers – eased my fear somewhat and stubbornly encouraged me on.

  Shamus strode to the apartment. He pushed open the door and confidently stepped in. Clinton, having never been in my apartment before, trailed behind him. I followed last.

  The swift burst of fluorescent lighting made my eyelids flicker. Shamus tilted his nose slightly upwards and sniffed the air. “I don’t smell anything,” he said.

  I wanted to say, that’s because you hadn’t smelled it before, but didn’t.

  Crazy had its limits.

  “I smell something,” Clinton said.

  I should’ve felt shock. Not simply because Clinton backed me up, but because he usually responded with grunts, not actual words.

  We took a few more steps until the foyer ended and the living area began. Shamus flicked on another light.

  I gasped and instantly clapped my hand over my mouth. The entire area was as immaculate and as orderly as a Saturday open home display causing me to wonder if I was even in the right place.

  “Is your mother visiting?” Shamus sidled up to me with an amused expression.

  I ignored him and moved forward. Something greater than fear wanted to examine this madness further. The kitchen sink was conspicuously shy of the dishes left there that morning. The outdated burnt orange bench tops, the stainless steel surfaces of the oven, the similarly surfaced fridge, all glistened.

  The cream-colored ceramic floor tiles were so clear I could practically see my reflection. Cushions stood like soldiers on the faux leather lounge, plump and perfect. Magazines lay in straightened piles, as did the newspapers. CDs rested in their allotted slots on the black stand. Scores of my students’ essays sat neatly arranged on the glass dining table, the table also a victim, smudge free and dustproof.

  In its center, a glass vase filled with long, olive stems. Their tips snipped of floral life. Creepy now took on an entirely new meaning.

  I spotted the tea towels next. The sight of them religiously folded and hanging in perfect formation made my belly do backflips.

  Troubling pictures of uniformed cans, alphabetized herb jars and parceled packets stopped me from opening the pantry doors. I grabbed Shamus’ hand, noticed his smooth, soft skin. “This isn’t right,” I said. “We have to get out of here.”

  I dragged him past the newly polished twin wooden elephants - I had no idea that Simon’s obsession could look that good - past Nonna’s ancient silver platter of hand me downs, looking very silvery, very un-ancient and a large, second hand ceramic pot, disappointingly seeming no different.

  Clinton’s thundering footsteps trailed behind. Before we reached the exit, Shamus stopped, gripped my arm and made me stand rigidly still. Beside me, an octagonal mirror eerily sparkled. I lowered my gaze to avoid looking in it.

  “Why do we have to leave?” Shamus whispered.

  “Our place is never this clean except in the school holidays,” I explained. Well, not even then. Teacher plus travelling investigative journalist - who has time to clean? And cash for a cleaner? Not at our budding career stage.

  Shamus shrugged his shoulders. “So? A friend helped you out.”

  I scoured my list of friends. Of course, any one of them would, but only if they thought I needed the help.

  I didn’t. And it still didn’t explain the smell.

  Shamus took a few steps forward, stopped, then turned to face the hallway leading to the bedroom. Clinton and I tailed him. The hallway was naturally unlit but it drew enough energy from the living room light. Unwelcomed shadows danced along a mishmash of photo frames and artificial pot plants. The screeching silence pierced my eardrums.

  “I think I can smell it now.” Shamus’ voice was strangely quivery. “Someone’s shit themselves.”

  I hoped not, but I was also glad he finally recognized an out of place smell. The fact that it was more a bodily excretion was comforting. Always better than the dead person alternative.

  “I’m going to check out the rest of the place,” Shamus said, as he centered his club before him. Clinton loyally followed. I wasn’t as brave.

  In the entire commotion, I had completely forgotten about the object behind the door. I hurried back to the foyer. Once there, I skidded to a standstill. Hoisted upright against the wall was a medium-sized, piece of luggage. A silver handle stuck out from its top, a white, plastic nametag angled just enough to catch the foyer light.

  I didn’t need to read the name. The luggage tag was enough. Vividly blue with the inscription Not just another black bag stared back at me. A birthday present from me to him. My fingers began knotting fiercely. Why was he here? A surprise? And if so, where was he?

  I shot a glance in the direction of the bedroom. It was noiseless, no scurrying footsteps, no excited voices shouting as one would expect with a surprise.

  No nothing.

  Just that damn, bloody smell.

  But then, that would mean….

  Blood rushed to my head; its pounding rhythm hammered against my eardrums.

  Oh my god, Papa... no.

  Carino….

  Something strong and fast clenched my chest and squeezed. I doubled over, searched frantically for air. A sharp, blistering pain speared me when that air didn’t come. I gasped, breathed out, gasped, breathed out. But all I felt was a dulling faintness and the rising bile burn my chest. I automatically leaned into the side of the foyer wall.

  It’s just my imagination. Papa, please… let it just be my imagination. Sister… Sister… whatever her name, would tell you so.

  You know it’s not.

  Burning, hot tears scorched the corners of my eyes, as did the mounting bitterness in my throat.

  No, Papa, no… don’t do this to me.

  I didn’t do this, Carino.

  And then his message hit me.

  I had done this to myself.

  Oh my god, no, please no. My world began rapidly evaporating into hazy white dots and rising light-headedness. It tempted me with promises of somewhere more illusionary, somewhere where guilt didn’t devour my soul. I only had to take the next step. So easy.

  But I couldn’t.

  Searching deep for a strength well buried, I placed my shaky hands on the solid foyer wall.

  Carino, don’t do this to yourself; don’t do it to me.

  I have to, Papa. I have to be sure.

  As if in a predestined trance, I slowly but carefully mapped my sweaty palms across the wall until I reached a corner. I took a huge breath and swerved around it.

  I first spotted Clinton scrabbling along the floor. He stopped, gripped his bulging midriff and vomited. Still bent, he lifted his head and glanced at me. His eyes were glassy, filled with obvious dread: his body seemed withered and small. He sluggishly straightened himself just enough to scuttle past me and leave.

  I felt my own stomach fluids not far away.

  Oh my god, Papa, this is really happening.

  Yes, Carino, it is.

  An extra round of chills rippled my skin.

  I saw Shamus next, crouched on the floor only feet away from the bedroom; the golf cl
ub lay at his feet. I staggered towards him and unsteadily dropped to my haunches. My right hand remained glued to the wall. “Shamus,” I murmured.

  No answer.

  I grabbed his shoulder with my free hand, gave him a partial shake. He looked up, but I barely recognized him. His normally readable face was blank, his skin a ghastly grey, his lips bloodless and still.

  I placed a shaky palm on his cheek; he barely responded. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, sensing a genuine urge to hug him. It was pointless, though; he was too lost. I uncurled to a semi-stance and set my sights for the bedroom.

  My feet were like lead, slow, heavy, painful to land… slow… heavy… painful. My heart felt the same. Dragging one beat at a time. Until I arrived at the bedroom entrance.

  The smell was pungent.

  Papa.

  Carino, I love you.

  I love you too.

  I then swung around and entered.

  That’s when I saw him. Stretched out along the bed. Motionless, yet so peaceful. Any prior thoughts of the ‘petal-less’ stems in the living area quickly vanished.

  Here they were.

  Scores of crimson red petals carpeted him like a protective blanket. Agony ripped my insides, guilt riddled my blood and a driving urge to scream this injustice to the world rose in me. How could this happen to someone so beautiful, so gentle, so loving? I crumbled to the floor, let out a wail and yelled at all those unforgivable wrongs.

  Cold had no meaning now. Neither did fear. Strange, I thought. There’s an unequivocal solace in finally knowing the answers. No more guessing… no more what ifs, no more buts and ‘perhapses’. And all I sensed was this incredible necessity to be with him.

  I gripped onto the doorjamb, used it to lift my body. Once semi-balanced, I stumbled to the bed and dumped both of my hands onto the white, thick quilt.

  Tears were now torrents, falling wildly. Tears for him. Every last drop. Love filled my heart; the overflowed memories of his unconditional protection swarmed the marrow of my bones.

  And it hurt so badly.

  I slipped to his side, tenderly brushed several of the offending petals off his forehead. Something viscous glued them to my fingers. I wiped my hand onto the quilt. White quickly became red.

  Blood.

  One look at him, at the purpled-red hole that dirtied the center of his forehead, at the congealed stream of fluid down one side of his head, hardening parts of his soft, dark hair, confirmed it.

  Subconsciously, I knew what had caused the wound.

  Consciously, I didn’t want to believe it.

  “I’m here,” I said. I lifted his unusually flaccid arm and wrapped it around me. “It’s now my turn to look after you.”

  Death has a flavor of its own.

  I know; I had smelt it before.

  I smelt it now.

  But this time was different.

  This time was from someone I cherished.

  My Simon.

  Chapter 2

  Claudia

  Fourteen months later

  December 3, 2010

  3:04 pm

  I FELT LIKE the vacant bag racks.

  Abandoned and alone.

  And for the next seven weeks of the school holidays, probably just as useless. As I slouched against the racks, I swallowed back the rising lump in my throat and sadly watched the last of my students leave.

  How I would miss them.

  It’s been fourteen months, Carino.

  So what, Papa.

  Don’t you think it is time to get back your life?

  Teaching is my life.

  No, a life of your own.

  I knew what Papa meant. I swung a sharp glance to the ring on my left hand. Its diamond was small but the love it signified was indisputably massive.

  I already told you, Papa, not yet. And I concluded our mental chitchat.

  With a heart as heavy as the oppressive air encircling me, I returned to my classroom. As soon as I entered, its painful emptiness and silence encased me. Stripped of the student’s life force, the room was now nothing more than brick and mortar, barren and soulless.

  It was time to go.

  I neared my desk, took in the chaotic mish-mash overcrowding its top, everything from precariously stacked Christmas gifts, strewn stationery to a now redundant planning book. Control, I noted, was already slipping from me, and the holidays barely begun.

  I groaned as a fresh mental weariness took over. Surrendering to it, I landed in my chair with an emphatic thump, so glad the damn thing didn’t collapse on me. I slumped forward, rested my elbow somewhere between a tube of Avon moisturizer and an exquisitely boxed red and green Christmas bauble, and plunged my chin into my palm. With my other hand, I picked up my favorite pen and began clicking it.

  Its rhythmic sound prompted my wretched mind to wander.

  Time to get back your life.

  This time, Papa’s words belonged to a recent memory.

  Papa and I are slouched in a couple of green chaises on the patio of my fifth story unit indulging in a bottle of Italian Chianti and the enchanting views of Nankari Bay.

  The clear, blue ocean mirrors the sky and is unnaturally still except for the slow, muted ripples of a lonely yachtsman sailing too close to shore. A soft warmish breeze toys with my hair, gently caressing my cheeks. I lean back, smile and greedily breathe in the fresh, briny air.

  “Nankari is special,” Papa says.

  It certainly is. It is my hometown. It had also been Simon’s.

  Situated on Queensland’s majestic Sunshine Coast, it rests beneath two rocky headlands that stand like a pair of giant soldiers loyally guarding their most precious jewel. A jewel, deserving of its Aboriginal translation, ‘a beautiful place.’

  “You are ignoring me,” Papa says in his normally gruff voice.

  I take another sip of Chianti. It leaves an odd taste in my mouth as if suddenly tainted. “Time to get back my life. I heard you.”

  And I know he is speaking of Simon. Even after all this time, an abrupt sadness fills me. I close my eyes and silently weep.

  “I know you hate talking about him.”

  I nod and keep my eyes closed.

  “And I know you are going to hate what I am about to say next.”

  I look at him; my muscles immediately tighten and I wait.

  Papa sighs and fiercely rubs the back of his neck. “I think, well… no, I really believe it is time for you to take off Simon’s ring, to move on.”

  I shrink into the lounge like one stung. Is Papa serious? A further study of his worried face tells me he is. I cover my ring defensively and sense a renewed disquiet take over. Take off Simon’s ring? Like for good? The idea has never entered my head. Not once.

  Hot anger instantly burns me. “I’ll remove the ring when I am ready,” I snap, “when I decide it’s time.”

  Papa’s broad shoulders wilt. I know I am hurting him. But I am hurting too.

  “I understand,” he mumbles, and he casts his troubled eyes to the waters.

  But does he understand? I don’t think so. How can he?

  He doesn’t know the full story.

  No one does.

  I change the subject.

  “What a fricking mess.”

  I jumped, causing the perfectly packaged bauble to fly off the table. It smacked against the stained carpet miraculously resettling in one piece.

  There was no mistaking that inimitable tone.

  It was my friend, Melanie Lloyd.

  Her ‘teacher’ voice could have shredded steel but then that was Mel’s talent, if one could consider her voice a talent. Balancing a bright, red tub on her hip, she stopped a few inches shy of the desk. She studied it, studied me then began shaking her mop of flamed hair. It was wild and unruly, much like her fashion sense, much like her.

  “Honestly, Claudia, if your face was any longer it’d soon come with its own carry bag.”

  I feigned a half-twisted smile. “Cute.”

 
“I thought so. So, are you leaving all this crap for tomorrow?”

  I glanced at the clock. I had been pen clicking for almost thirty minutes. “As I usually do.”

  I tossed the pen. It landed amongst the rest of the tabletop jumble. Returning the following day was an obsessive habit of mine. In some strange way, it helped me adjust better to the longer breaks.

  I stood and hunted for my car keys, finally finding them on the whiteboard ledge balancing between a blue marker and some worn out erasers. I collected them. They jangled noisily, felt heavy in my hand. I looked down, only to see an overabundance of attached worn out souvenirs. A faded ‘Tigger’ figurine bounced just like his ‘A. A. Milne’ character.

  I grabbed my basket, slipped on my sunglasses, then headed towards the door. Mel’s clogs clip-clopped behind me. I waited for her to leave, took hold of the sun-hot handle and slammed another year closed.

  “Coming for a drink?” Mel asked. “You know, to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate?” I winced, hopefully to myself.

  “Come on, you don’t want me partying by myself!”

  The image of a jubilant Mel doing the Macarena came to mind, and I grinned. She and herself would party just fine.

  We headed towards our cars. The sight of the almost vacant parking area brought to mind vivid pictures of a ghost town. All it needed were some rolling tumbleweeds.

  I unlocked the door of my green Rav 4 and nestled the basket onto its floor. Mel, as always, was within a breath away. When I finally had enough courage to look at her, I recognized her world-class death stare. I grabbed my drawstring bag, stretched it across my face and playfully cowered behind it.

  Mel pulled a droll face. “Cute.”

  “I thought so.”

  Mel dumped the red tub beside her and placed her hands on her hips. “I know what you’d rather do,” she declared. “Go home and stare out into the waters like one of those stupid zombies from one of your stupid zombie movies and….”

  The constant rumble of a car’s engine caught my attention, briefly muffling out Mel’s voice. A standard white Holden stood stationed in an undesignated area at the other end of the car park.