Just as speculated, Moschella, my editor at the Gazette, had fired me. He didn't even wait a week, before he had my desk cleared, and gave it to a new young journalist. Everyone now acted as if I never existed there in the first place. When I walked in the office, at the first clicking of my heels, their eyes flew to me. Their jaws dropped. Most of them showed unapologetic curiosity, as journalists should. Some of them exhibited strong disapproval, curling their lips, as though they abhorred my audacity to come back.
Perhaps, if it had been someone else, Moschella had shown more compassion and understanding. But I was a woman, with ambition and no feminine softness, as the sexist pig loved to put it. We were like a lion and a hyena, always had been. From the very start, when I began to work under him, he'd thirsted for a chance to get rid of me.
It was around noon, and Moschella was not there at the editor's desk. I could not decide if it was a good thing. Only one thing was clear.—If I had seen him, I would have given him a punch or two in the greasy, haughty face.
"Your stuff is in a box in the storage," said one of my ex-colleagues, without any compassion.
I headed for the dusty place. On my way, I saw Samuel the janitor. His astonishment mirrored that of my colleagues, but after that, he smiled from ear to ear. I greeted him. I offered him a cigarette, as I used to do. But he waved his rugged hand.
"I'm tryin' to quit now," the black man said. "My wife now believe in science and call 'em cancer sticks. Gives me lectures and all that jazz."
I laughed in awkwardness, as I drew back my cigarette case.
He leaned on his mop. "So, what brought you back here? I heard you got a job at another publisher or somethin'."
"Who said that?"
"Your boss. Said you sold yourself."
I didn't find that surprising at all. It sounded like something Moschella would do with great joy, while snickering with his stupid cigar between his thin lips.
"No, I was just . . . taking some time off," I said.
He gave a calm nod, as though he had never bought Moschella's lie for a second. "Everythin' okay, I hope? You've lost a whole lot of weight, haven't you?"
I admitted it, but said everything was fine.
"How's your—" He gave a gentle, suggestive look. "—darlin' friend? I seen her once in town a lil' while ago. Couldn't say she looked happiest."
"She's fine also. I'd tell her you were worried."
Then, at last, he seemed satisfied a little. "Are you goin' to chase the woman killer again? Bloody Face?" He leaned in, his eyes curious behind the frames of his glasses. "You know they haven't had a trial yet."
Poor Kit. This town— The whole country still had no idea about his innocence. They remained blind, and continued to believe in the man of insane brutality that never existed.
"Well," I said, "I am going to chase the case, because they got the wrong guy. The true manic is still somewhere out there."
Just as I said this, one of my ex-colleagues walked by, and let loose a snort. "And here we thought you were still writing about America's best pie."
I glared at his back, as he walked away.
"Don't listen to him, miss," Samuel said. "I'm no man of education, but I've worked here long and seen many journalists. And you're sharper than most of those white men. If you got a hunch that they got the wrong guy, then you find the right guy."
I felt the burden on my shoulder got a little lighter. Until this moment, I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear those words, from someone that believed in me, in what I did. And I thought it a great responsibility, for his sake too, to get the truth out in the open.
I found the small box with my stuff in it, and with it, I walked out of the building. Before Briarcliff, I'd always dreamed of this moment. In countless daydreams, I had descended the front stairs with exhilaration, with my hair fluttering in the triumphant breeze, like in the movies. I'd thought I would feel the same kind of thrill I felt at the night of escape. Elation for the newly gained freedom.—But I did not. As I sat in my car, speechless, I stared down at the box in the passenger's seat. Then at last, it dawned on me that I had no job, and how unpredictable my future would be from now forward.
When I came home, I told Wendy all about this. The first thing she said was,
"Did you kick him in the balls?"
She had never met Moschella in person. She just hated the concept of him, as I always complained about him one way or another.
"No. I will do that at the Pulitzer," I said.
I sat on the floor of the bedroom with the box, sorting the things out. They had confiscated my notes and drafts. Someone definitely had stolen my pens. I never had a picture of Wendy on my desk to begin with. So, all I had left was some out-of-ink pens, and three cooking books that helped me write cooking articles during my less-than-successful career. Although I thought I had a pack of Marlboro hidden in my drawer, I couldn't find it in the box.
"At least, it saved the trouble." Wendy picked up one of the books, flipping through without a hint of curiosity. "You were going to quit anyway. And you got to do it without seeing his face."
"At some point. I don't know if we could afford this right now."
She put the book down. With a sigh, she looked to the wall that divided out room and Mary's. The color in her eyes made my heart sink.
But we could not keep ignoring the issue of money. "Maybe I can work from home," I said. "I can write at the same time."
"Make her work from home. You don't have to do everything yourself."
I bit my lip. Her tone still had the remnants of distaste from last night. The only reprieve, perhaps, was that she now kept her voice low.
"She did everything for me before," I said. "It's my turn. And, hey— I just remembered, we have some savings, don't we?"
"That money is for emergency, in case something happens to one of us."
"That's right, she's one of us."
Wendy fell quiet. It did not convince her, but whatever thoughts swarmed her mind, she chose not to vocalize. Instead, she gestured towards the bed, without casting a glance. On the edge of the mattress lay my dress and the coat with a sewn-back-on button, wrapped in plastic dry cleaning bags. Mary's pocket watch sat on top of the pile.
"I didn't know where you wanted to put them," she said. "In the closet?"
I lifted the watch, closer to my face, and followed the second hand as it ticked. This seemed to be the only thing that never changed. This rhythm of time.
"Yeah, in the closet," I said. I gave the coat a home in the back of the closet, and the pocket watch in the nightstand. They would be safe in there, and close to me.
After the tidying-up, I lay on the bed. With open arms, I gestured for Wendy to come lie with me, like we always did when one of us was upset. She acted unimpressed by it. But I saw a tiny smile, as she climbed into the bed, climbed onto me. Her hand came to cup my cheek. She stroked my bottom lip with her thumb, kissed me, and covered our bodies with the blankets. We could hear the faint chirping of birds from outside.
I could fall asleep like this. But as I listened to my heartbeat, the tranquility grew heavy, and turned into something unsettling. I found myself straining my ears, to listen to something beyond the silence and the birds.
"How's Mary Eunice doing?" I asked.
Wendy lay still for a moment, then buried her face into my chest. "Hasn't come out of the room as far as I know."
I craned my neck to see the clock. It was past three. Quite a while since the rather late breakfast we'd had this morning. She should be hungry by now.
"Maybe she's asleep," I said. "I should've let her rest yesterday. "
At first, I felt at ease believing that. That Mary was winding down, in peace, and that it was not her intention to lock herself up like that. She'd spent the last five years pushing herself, allowing herself only a minimal amount of sleep. She deserved to make up for all the deprived sleep, I told myself.
But even when Wendy prepared dinner for three, there was no sign of her ever coming out. I became restless, and at last, I gave in the urge to knock on her door. I could've sworn I heard some noises inside, but still, no response came. After some seconds of contemplation, I reached for the doorknob, and tried to pushed it open.—It did not budge.
It was only half an hour later that she finally appeared in the living room. She didn't seem to hear or see me, as she walked straight to where Wendy sat. On the table, she put the rest of the money Arden had given her, and begged Wendy to let her stay.
ooOooOoo
Mary now spent most of her time in her room. She only ate little, just enough for her heart to keep pumping. Under her puffy red eyes were dark circles, her blonde hair dishevelled, her skin almost translucent, as though no blood ran through her veins. Watching her these days was like watching a flower wilt. Everytime I got a glimpse of her, it frightened me how twiggy she looked. And no matter how much I tried to water and nurture her, tried to bring her in the sun, her eyes would always look at the ground.
"Talk to me," I would say to her. "Let me help you."
She would give me a forced smile, then. "I just need some time to think about stuff," she'd say. She only gave me lies lately.
Sometimes, I would hear her open the window of her room at night. She would sit on the windowsill and spend the entire night there. On nights when unease robbed me of sleep, I would place myself on the sill of my bedroom, too. I'd rest my head against the window, and imagine that we sat next to each other, hand in hand. We would look at the moon, then, the way we used to do in the chapel. Instead of shivering in the cold, we now had blankets to cover ourselves up. We wouldn't have to fear that someone might catch us anymore. The dawn was no longer the end of the ephemeral salvation. When we left Briarcliff, we left behind those things that used to torment us, too. But on our way home, something else had come along with us, without our notice. Something equally cancerous. It ate away at her. It grew inside her.
I no longer knew what she wanted, or who she was. The last vestige of the nun who'd saved my life many times was fading away, as quickly as rain washes away dirt. Nobody would've believed that only a week ago, it was her that coaxed me to eat an apple, to keep on living. My caning wounds stopped aching. And I felt like, when they became mere scar tissues, Mary too would slip through my fingers.
Wendy chastised me for worrying too much. "Let her sulk as much as she pleases. There will be time when she gets tired of it."
She said it out of bitterness. Still, I couldn't deny the wisdom of an elementary-school teacher in her attitude. Leave her be, and concentrate on my own writing. And when I saw Mary on rare occasions, she told me the same. It was never as easy as they made it out to be, though. I could not seem to sit at my desk for half an hour, without Mary occupying my thoughts, without feeling the temptation to knock on her door.
I would've done anything to get her to come out, to see her face and feel her skin. But most of the time, all I received was a feeble repetition of 'I'm okay,' from the other side of the door. So, a couple of days after the New Year's, when I told her I was going to the police again, she took me by surprise with her demand to accompany me.
"I'm just going to pressure them," I said. "I don't even know if they've read my complaint form."
"It's fine," she said, opening the door wider. "I'm going with you." She then walked back in to get a jacket.
I thought I saw a hint of sparks back in her eyes. "Okay. Maybe some fresh air will revive you, too."
As I drove the car, however, she could barely hold her head up in the passenger's seat. Her body looked so frail. I feared that a simple turn of the car might snap her neck, the seat belt might bruise her.
I asked her if she was alright. She gave a heavy nod. I asked if she wanted to eat something. She gave a shake of her head. And before my questions got redundant, she interrupted me by asking how my writing was coming along.
"I'm still in the process of organizing the information," I said. "My memories are sort of fuzzy, and— Are you really sure you don't want any food?"
"If I could help you in any way, I'd love to."
"Thank you— How about a bottle of Cola? Orange juice?"
"I might know things that you don't. I know about other patients, and the staff."
I gave her a look, but it had no effect. She continued to look ahead, with her ghostly gaze. Such emptiness she held inside her.—I'd seen that face before, not of Mary, but of the many people I'd met at Briarcliff.
"Could you tell me, then," I said, "about the creature in the woods? You knew about it. That's why you knew not to go in there, isn't it? What is that thing? It chased us, Kit, Grace, and me, trying to kill us."
Seconds ticked. And as my words reached her, her face gained color. The color of hesitation. The familiar part of her resurfaced a bit.
"Four people went missing during the short period of time I was there. Does it have something to do with it?"
"I'm—" She, instead of a crucifix, fidgeted with the tip of her hair. "Dr. Arden— I—" She took a shaky breath once, and bit her lip.
It was neither an answer nor denial. Although I felt my impatience grow, I could not press her, in fear of pushing her back into her shell. Her hesitation filled the inside of the car. But the air did not feel as thick as it used to be. If that was the best I could get, I had to be happy with it.
"There's plenty of time," I said. "Just know that I will never judge you. All I want is the truth."
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