Truth - Romig Aleatha - Страница 21

Opening her eyes she looked at the clutter. The pounding in her head and twisting of her stomach told her to walk away. She placed the coroner’s reports in a manila folder, closed the folder, and allowed her hand to linger on the smooth cardstock. The information wouldn’t go away. She could read it another time. In more of a dream state, she continued to fight the visualization of Amanda Rawls lying on her kitchen floor, a dark red puddle of thick liquid surrounding her form.

By the time she and Emily were asked to identify the bodies of her parents, they were cleaned, laid on cold silver tables, and covered with clean white sheets. The coroner reported they both died instantly; their deaths were quick and painless.

Claire often hung to that information. Losing people you love is difficult. It wasn’t a conscious thought process, but those who remain often contemplate the final moments of their loved ones lives. Claire imagined her parents driving down the dark country road, talking jovially, laughing about some story her mother was undoubtedly telling about one of her students. Her mother often dominated the conversations. Claire’s father didn’t mind, actually he seemed to enjoy the sound of his wife’s voice. The endless chatting created a melody which sang continually throughout Claire’s childhood.

The wet roads combined with wet leaves made the road slippery. As physics would prove, their tires lost their grip. The moisture and wet leaves widened the separation. Within an instant, the car slid and the automobile connected a royal hundred year old oak. Due to force and speed, her parents didn’t have time to regret their drive or worry about their children. They just transcended from a loving, happy discussion, directly to a heavenly sleep. Many times in the months and years that followed, this story, this fantasy, gave Claire peace. She never shared this account with anyone, even Emily. Truthfully, she’d compartmentalized the entire momentous event away. Nonetheless, it occasionally decompartmentalized.

Groggily, she got up and walked into the warm kitchen. Amber stood near the counter cutting vegetables. When she looked up from the bright red, yellow, and green peppers, she saw Claire’s tears. “What’s the matter?”

“I just read the 911 call from Samuel and Amanda’s crime scene. I feel bad for Tony.”

At first Amber stood silently scanning Claire’s face and expression, finally she spoke, “Do you remember saying you thought I might have a halo?”

Claire nodded.

“Well, I think you’d be a better candidate.” Amber rinsed the vegetable juices from her hands and dried them on a towel. Empathy no longer evident in her voice, “I find it very difficult to feel compassion for the man who’s caused you so much distress and could – according to your theories – be responsible for my fiance’s death.”

Claire walked to the kitchen table and looked out at the street. Long shadows from the trees covered the ground as the setting sun neared the western horizon. Watching the pedestrians four stories below, she saw people wearing only light jackets. It appeared the temperature had indeed risen. Maybe she needed air.

“I think I’m going to go for a walk.”

Amber exhaled, “Claire, I wish you’d talk to me. Tell me why I should feel compassion? I don’t get it?”

To be honest, Claire didn’t get it either. Nonetheless, she was mad. Involuntarily, her neck stiffened and shoulders squared. Intellectually she knew this was ridiculous. Why would she be mad at Amber? Why did she feel the need to suddenly defend Tony? “I think I’ll get something to eat at one of the cafes. I’m sorry if you’re cooking me dinner.” Claire turned to leave the kitchen.

Focused on her light jacket in the hall closet she stepped into the living room. The swirl of emotions combined with her pounding head and queasy stomach stymied her footsteps. She became mesmerized by the tall floor to ceiling windows. Flooding the luxurious room were hues of red and orange; the panoramic expanse radiated colors of the setting sun as it reflected off the purple haze covered mountains. Momentarily she became awestruck by the beautiful view.

Amber switched on the lights, filling the room with sudden brilliance and taking away the outside. Claire turned from the now dark window back to reality, which now included the glare of her roommate, accompanied by an unfamiliar angry tone, “Don’t you get mad?”

Claire stared at Amber’s expression. She’d met more intimidating expressions before. Slowly she responded, “Yes, I get mad.” Nonetheless, her true emotion remained concealed by her calm tone.

“Then show it!” An eternal silence pursued. Eventually, Amber huffed and returned to the kitchen.

The sound of cabinets closing too loudly declared Amber’s ability to show her emotion. Claire knew she should talk – she had no idea what to say. So instead, she reached for her jacket, grabbed her purse, and walked out the front door.

Palo Alto had many small cafes on University Boulevard, only a short walk from their condo. Most were open during the early hours, with all kinds of delicious coffee. While many of these establishments closed their doors in the evening, other street fronts brightened with dining choices as the sky darkened and the lights of the city came to life. When she opened the door and walked from the brightly lit foyer of their building, the cool dusk air hit her face. The street lights illuminated the sidewalk, and people hustled along the pathway. Suddenly, Claire realized it was Saturday night.

She didn’t want to go to a real restaurant. She didn’t want to sit and watch happy patrons chat and eat. No, she wanted time alone, time to sift and consider her thoughts and feelings. Without thinking, she turned toward the northeast, away from the setting sun and toward the water.

During her first week in Palo Alto, Harry showed her a beautiful park along the San Francisco Bay. Perhaps she’d lived too long on private property. Her desire for fresh air and nature overtook concerns for the descending darkness or abandoning side streets. With each step toward her goal, the tension in her head and neck eased.

Could it be possible to hate and love someone too? Claire wondered. The overpowering compassion back at the condo wasn’t just for a young man in a tragic situation; it was for the young man who grew up to become the husband she had loved. She blinked her eyes against the breeze and remembered good times. Theirs was a heated passion. She contemplated the man who made her hate her own existence one moment and love it the next.

As her unconsciousness flooded with memories, feelings stirred deep inside. Concurrently, her consciousness screamed for her to remember his atrocities, the cruelties which outnumbered the kindnesses. However, her heart ached and argued – perhaps, his positives could overtake his negatives. After all, doesn’t everyone have a good and a bad side?

This is why I’m not ready to face him. This is why I can’t face anyone right now.

Claire knew her thoughts and feelings were wrong. He’d given her every reason to hate him, seek vengeance, and aid in his destruction. So why was this so hard? She tried to push Tony back into his assigned compartment.

Her thoughts moved to Amber. Instead of crossing Middlefield Road, Claire should be back at the condo talking to her friend. However, after spending so much time alone and years hiding her true emotion with Tony, Claire wasn’t comfortable sharing her feelings.

She couldn’t control the way she felt. Apparently her mask wearing skills were rusty.

Hopefully a walk along the shore will help me sort out my feelings and revive my energy. Then maybe I can face Amber. She deserves that. 

*****

Parked near a four story stucco condominium on Forest Avenue, Phillip Roach compiled his information for Mr. Rawlings. Although Claire Nichols hadn’t used the phone with the number he’d determined was hers since she received the calls from Mr. Rawlings, Phil believed this was her place of residence.