Unlocked Page 7

  She ate in solitude, which was generally okay with her. She enjoyed time spent alone, though this time, she wished Dylan had joined her to celebrate their milestone. When she returned to the apartment building after filling her belly and people watching, she stopped at her mailbox in the lobby, not because she thought she would have mail yet, but because she was polite and wanted to be sure the previous tenant didn’t have any residual mail being delivered.

  As she located the number H5 on the metal grid in front of her and turned the key, she heard shuffling and agitated mumbling behind her. When she spun around to investigate, she saw a man, presumably in his late fifties, though she wasn’t sure since his back was turned, and he was digging through a rather large potted plant. His face was buried in the fanned leaves as he pushed them this way and that in search of lord knows what.

  “Excuse me sir,” Lydia announced, “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but can I help you find something?”

  “What? Huh? Oh, no. No thank you. I’ve got it handled. I’ve got it all handled. It’s best if you don’t get tangled up in this mess too. Carry on, young lady. Carry on.” He spoke in hurried sentences and nervous phrases.

  “What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find it.” She offered again.

  “Oh, no, no, no. No need for you to get yourself into a mess. I’ll have to find it on my own.”

  Lydia watched him and he dug and muttered, muttered and dug. His dingy trench coat stretched tight across his shoulder blades, limiting his movement a bit. She decided to check the mailbox and leave. She slid the key into the lock and turned it, and when she opened the small square door an official looking envelope greeted her. Much to her surprise, it was not addressed to the old tenant. Across the top line, it read: Dr. Lydia R. Lindenhurtz, and below followed her one-day-old address. She studied the return address. It was from Breemont Medical Facility located at 417 Canal Street. Just before she had packed up her old apartment, she had sent out resumes to every hospital, doctor’s office, and clinic in a fifty mile radius of her new address, and this one was just across town. Thank God, she thought. My savings is running thin, thanks to Dylan, and I definitely don’t want to waitress again. Ever.

  As she began to tear open the envelope, the rustling behind her faded. “EUREKA! I found it!” the man shouted and he pumped his closed fist in the air. Lydia, shocked by the sudden commotion, dropped the envelope and letter she had opened but not yet had the time to read, and it fell to the stained carpeted floor beneath her.

  The hallway was dim and musty. When Lydia had first visited this building with her real estate agent she almost didn’t make it past the lobby. She told Rhonda, an agent with Loughborough Real Estate, that this was not quite the building she had in mind. The fountain outside was beautiful, but this lobby was awful. The agent urged her on as any good agent would, and Lydia was glad she did. When she opened the door to the vacant apartment on the fifth floor, Lydia was sold. It was bright, airy, and had the open concept she had been dreaming of. It was a stark contrast with the dank lobby below.

  When Lydia circled in the direction of the triumphant shout, she chortled in amusement. The man, whom she had only seen from behind with his face buried in a plastic plant, was now facing her, trenchcoat-clad over his button down shirt and rumpled brown vest. He wore crinkled khakis and with his fist skyward, he couldn’t have looked more “Breakfast Club” if he had wanted to. Unless of course, he was tall, thin, and young, and not short, squat, and old.

  “Found what?” Lydia, still snickering but intrigued, asked. Of all the interesting introductions she’d ever been a part of, and there had been quite the lengthy list of interesting introductions during her time as a psychiatrist, this was the pick of the litter.

  “This!” the man exclaimed proudly and opened his fist into the shape of an “okay” symbol, holding a small white pebble. Lydia, confused, looked at the potted plant. Under the leaves she could see an entire layer, perhaps an entire pot, filled with those same small pebbles.

  Hoping not to get drawn into whatever was going on here in this weird lobby with this weird man, Lydia congratulated him on his “find” and bent to pick up the papers she had dropped on that awful carpet.

  “Oh me, oh my. Where are my manners?” cried the man. “Please, allow me to assist you.” Before she knew what was happening, he was in front of her retrieving her mail. He stood up and as he handed the letter back to her, he caught a glimpse of who it was from.

  “Oh no. No, no, no. This will never do.” He had not yet let go of his side, and he tried to pull the letter back. An appalled Lydia would not allow it.

  “Excuse me, sir. Please let go.” Lydia ordered in her professional voice. She was clearly dealing with someone who at least should be a patient, so she would speak to him as such.

  “With all due respect, madam, please don’t read this. Please remove yourself from having anything to do with these “people”. His voice tightened on the last word.

  “Sir, this is none of your business. This letter, addressed to me, in my mailbox, is mine. It’s my business. Now, please let go.” She tugged again, this time freeing the envelope.

  “Madam, you don’t understand. This place is bad. You don’t want to get involved with them. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t. See?” He held the rock out toward her. See? See what? A rock, she thought? The normal, everyday, apartment tenant who was beyond drained from a weekend of moving wanted to ignore him and pretend this exchange never happened. Unfortunately, the doctor in her was intrigued and wanted to help in any way she could.

  “Sir, I’m sorry. That’s just a rock. It doesn’t have any bearing on this situation.”

  He began rolling the pebble quickly between his hands as if he were building a fire with a stick as he began to speak, quickly and efficiently: “No, madam. This is a recording device. They’re everywhere. I knew they had planted one here.” He paused, and snorted amused by his words, “Ha…planted.” When his speech ceased, so did the palm rubbing.

  “Sir, I’m very certain that that isn’t a—“

  “Eh-eh-eh,” the man cupped the pebble in his hand and shook his finger at her as he said this. He began rubbing his palms again. “Now, what were you saying?”

  “That’s just a rock. Look, there are others just like it.”

  “No, not just like this. This one records. Those don’t.” he responded triumphantly. “Let me get rid of this.” He ran outside, where the decorative fountain cheerily and misleadingly greeted tenants into the building, tossed in the pebble, and scurried back inside through the less than inviting lobby.

  “There. Now we can speak freely. My name is Oliver John Ragsdale. But please, Madam, call me Ollie. I’m not for formality, and my name is just too formal for its own good.” The man, Ollie, cheerily extended his hand in a friendly gesture. Lydia, raised with decorum, was unable to deny him.

  “Lydia. Lydia Lindenhurtz. It’s nice to meet you.” I think, she added in her head.

  Chapter Nine—Thursday Afternoon

  Lydia entered her office, and in her fax machine lay a heaping stack of papers. When she rounded her desk, she saw that the tray had overflowed and several papers lay on the floor. Surely this isn’t Clara’s file, she thought as she bent to collect the stray papers. She inspected them as she picked them up. Sure enough, it was. She wondered why on earth she needed so much medical attention since she was in perfect health, other than her mind of course, for a fourteen year old girl. She straightened the papers and placed them on her desk. She sat down in her rolling chair behind her thick, stately mahogany desk and then, before reading the file, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

  What a trying couple of days it had been, and there was no end in sight. Thinking of the enormous stack of information waiting for her, she grabbed her phone, held it up over her face while she remained reclined, opened her eyes, and dialed Dylan’s number. No answer. Instead of leaving a voicemail, she hung up and sent him a text: I’ll be late
again tonight. There’s leftover Alfredo on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Again, no answer. Lydia put the phone down and peered at the ceiling. In the solitude of her office, Lydia spoke aloud: “Clara. Clara, Clara, Clara, what is going on with you?” She closed her eyes again and let out a long exhausted sigh.

  A small voice crept into the darkness, “My name is Clara Louise Marcel, and those people are not my parents.”

  Lydia bolted upright in her chair and her eyes shot open. What the hell was that? she wondered and then angrily reprimanded herself, Jesus Christ, Lydia. You’ve been on the job for four days and you’re already trying to screw it up! Don’t you remember what happened with Stanley? God help you. Lydia hated when people spoke in the third person, however she felt this time it was warranted. She couldn’t believe she had let her mind go there. She pulled the stack toward her and began to read.

  #

  It had been hours since Dr. Lindenhurtz had left Clara alone in her room. Clara showered, took the pills the orderly brought, and ate lunch. Today’s special had been chicken tenders and baked fries with fruit and green beans. She actually liked it, so she scarfed it down, feeling satisfied, at least where her hunger was concerned, for the first time since she had arrived. Someone came back to take her tray, and as he did, he noticed her nightstand. “Cool book,” he said cheerily, nodding toward it.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Clara replied.

  “What’s in it?” He asked.

  “Not sure. I haven’t opened it yet.” She shrugged.

  “Looks like it might be worth checking out,” the young man, whose nametag read Jamil, suggested as he was buzzed through the door.

  Clara was sitting in the extra chair that had been brought in at Dr. Lindenhurtz’s request earlier that day. She stared over at the book that lay where Dr. Lindenhurtz has placed it. The book itself seemed chaotic. It fanned upward instead of closing neatly and naturally due to how overstuffed it was. Clara knew her mom and knew that Melanie Marcel was orderly and precise: “A place for everything and everything in its place,” Clara recited one of her mother’s many mantras aloud. Still, though, she wondered what secrets that book held and if it would help her remember. “Knowledge is the key to unlocking the past,” Clara spoke another mom-ism.

  Clara sat eyeing the book for much of the afternoon. It’s not like she had anything better to do other than to look out the window. She really hoped that Dr. Lindenhurtz would be able to get her out of this room or get her a television as quickly and as easily as she had procured the extra chair. Finally, after working up the courage, Clara stood and dragged her seat noisily to the nightstand. She touched the outside of its smooth, leathery surface, but did not open it. She wasn’t ready. She was afraid of what was inside. Unable to look, she carefully ran her fingers along the outside edge of the overflowing pages. She felt some of the items that overlapped the pages. Items that her “mother” had placed within the pages, not pictures, hard things, soft things, jingling things.

  Clara tentatively pulled at a loose item which was jutting out from the bottom corner. It caught about halfway out, so she had to force herself to look down at it. It was purple and she knew it well. It had been her favorite blanket turned handkerchief, and she’d had it since before she was born. She held it up to her face. It was softer than ever due to years of wear and tear and softening of the material. She pulled it away from her face and caressed it between her fingers. Her mother had told her that as a baby, she and that blanket had been inseparable. She couldn’t sleep a wink without it. She said it wasn’t so much that she snuggled with it, it was that she wrapped the corner of it around her index finger and rubbed it gently back and forth under her little button nose. Her mother said she wasn’t sure if it was the scent of it, or the fuzzy tickle, or a combination of both that soothed her, but whatever it was, she’s glad it did the trick.

  Clara didn’t remember which it was either, she had just been a baby, but she did remember carrying it around with her as a toddler and a young child. It was soft and cozy and smelled like home. She raised it to her nose and sniffed. It smelled musty, and it should. It had been packed away since Clara was about ten. Clara remembered how she cried when her parents told her at five years old during the summer before she started kindergarten that she was too old for a blankie and would need to learn to sleep without it. They felt guilty for threatening to take away such a huge part of their baby’s life, and mostly, they just didn’t want to accept the fact that she was growing up either, so they worked out a compromise. Clara had agreed that they could cut her blankie down to the size of a square handkerchief. Her mother wasn’t super crafty, and really wasn’t an expert seamstress, but this job was simple enough, so she cut and sewed a pocket-sized blanket for her baby girl.

  Upon entering kindergarten, she was able to tuck her hankie-blankie away into her backpack so that the other kids wouldn’t see or make fun of her for it, and at night, she pulled it out and fell asleep with it pressed into her Cupid’s bow. As she reminisced, Clara folded the hankie-blankie in half catty-cornered so that it made a triangle. She folded it over itself a few more times until it was about an inch or two wide. She held one end in each hand and pulled it around her head and tied into a Rosie the Riveter headband. Finally, some flare. The gray sweats and t-shirts just weren’t doing it for her.

  She remembered everything about this treasured possession, except the person who claimed to have given it to her. Clara still believed that when she finally did look at the pictures, she wouldn’t recognize the people in them.

  She ran her fingers around the edges again and felt something small, thin, and cold. She tugged at it, but it wouldn’t move. Clara delicately ran her fingers along the threadlike object which disappeared about halfway…on the page? Through the page? She felt the back of the page. It was there too. She started to think she knew what it might be, and if she was right, she was desperate to get it out. She turned her attention to the front of the page again and followed the thin line down until, yes! She felt a metallic oval! She steadied the book and holding it partially open with her left hand, and ripped the page out of it with her right hand. She clutched the page to her chest and felt her heart racing. When she pulled the page away, holding it with both hands, she cried. It was the closest she’d felt to her mother since she had last seen her before babysitting Friday. In her hands, threaded through the page was a locket her mother had given her seven years ago after Aunt Karen had found it in a flea market for Clara’s mother who collected old lockets. Other than to shower, Clara hadn’t removed that locket for those seven years and she had felt naked and alone without it for the past week. She unclasped it and pulled it through the holes it was threaded through on the scrapbook page. Written on the page were the words “Plunder Palace, Pennsylvania. Karen, Mom, and Clara, age seven.”. Above where the necklace was attached was a picture. Clara was reluctant to look at it, but made herself do it anyway. It was not a picture of her mother, not even the fake one. It was a harmless photograph of Clara sitting on Aunt Karen’s lap wearing the locket. Clara thought she remembered when that picture was taken. It was the same day her mother had bought the locket. Her mother, Aunt Karen, and Clara had gone to eat lunch after hitting the flea markets, a “family” tradition between Clara, Melanie, and Melanie’s best friend, and while they were waiting to be seated, Clara had crawled up into Karen’s lap to thank her for finding the locket. It was so sweet that Melanie just had to snap a photo, so she did, and that’s what Clara was looking at now. Clara placed the chain over her head and clasped the oval in her hand feeling as if her mother was right there with her. The locket itself had never opened, and that was okay. Clara figured some secrets were meant to be kept.

  So far, so good, thought Clara. I remember both of these things, happy to be wearing two comforting memories. And the picture was a picture she remembered too. She wondered where Aunt Karen was, and if she saw her, would Karen look different too? Maybe this photograph was playing tricks on her just like
this picture of her parents had. Clara cringed at the thought. Clara gathered her courage and opened the cover of the book.

  “Mom!” She screamed, unable to contain her excitement. “Dad!” There were three photographs adhered to the first page. Her eyes darted back and forth from one to the next while she laughed. “Oh my God! It’s you!”

  When she was finally able to focus, Clara studied one picture at a time. The first picture was of Mark and Melanie at home. The caption beneath the photo read Delaware, eight months pregnant with you. Daddy hugging both of his girls. Clara noted the joy on her parents’ faces. Melanie was standing near the refrigerator in the kitchen, round with maternity, and Mark was standing behind her with his arms around her belly. Melanie’s arms rested on Mark’s.

  The second picture was of Melanie being pushed in a wheelchair by Mark holding what looked like an oversized burrito. On our way home with Clara Louise. Finally a family! Clara wondered who took the picture. Aunt Karen, probably. She wouldn’t have missed the birth.

  The final photo on the bottom was blurry, but she could make out a baby Clara lying on her blankie, the hankie-blankie she now wore on her head, and the woman she assumed to be her mother, lying on the floor face to face with Clara. Tummy-time, 3 weeks, so strong! Clara remembered her mother telling her she rolled over early, walked early, talked early. Clara sometimes wondered if because her parents had waited so long for her, or if they exaggerated her abilities sometimes. Regular parents did that all the time. She figured parents who waited years for a baby would do the same, wanting that long-awaited baby to be spectacular, extraordinary. She smiled, feeling a bit of comfort amidst all this turmoil. She turned the page, and all was lost.

  Clara’s eyes widened in horror and the muscle in beating in her chest seized. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came forth. What she saw on the page destroyed any sense of well-being she had built up in her mind over the last several minutes. The pictures on page two were of Clara, but her parents were once again strangers. She immediately flipped back to the previous page: real parents. She flipped to page two: fake parents. She continued back and forth: real parents, fake parents, real parents, fake parents, until finally, the scream that had been lost somewhere in the depths of her being roared out of her gaping mouth. She swept the scrapbook off her nightstand, and it thudded heavily to the floor, sliding a few feet before stopping. She ran to the door and reached for the knob before remembering there wasn’t one. She beat on the door until her arms ached and screamed until her throat was raw. The last thing she remembered was the door swinging open, the face of an orderly, and an increasingly familiar sting.