My father died two years later. I'd never fully understood the phrase "untimely death" before, but, at twelve, it became suddenly, horrifically real.
Stage four inoperable brain cancer.
The words sounded like an overplayed, deadpan script recited by an overacting, handsome soap opera doctor. That's exactly what I thought when the doctor—who, at a stout sixty-eight, was not at all handsome—delivered the news in a sterile waiting room. I'd blinked, something cold and tingling sliding over my skin, unable to process the news.
This is another nightmare, I'd thought, Or a television show. This doesn't happen. Not in real life. Not to Dad.
True, I'd known he'd been ill. His usual robustness and zest for life had withered beneath several months of debilitating headaches. He'd lost a frightening amount of weight, and rarely laughed in those days; it was literally too painful, as the frequent vomiting had raged a war on his abdomen and throat. But a fourth grader doesn't chalk those symptoms up to cancer. I'd figured it was a particularly aggressive cold of some sort. A lot of orange juice, a few of those gummy vitamins and my daddy would be back, good as new, playing Scrabble after dinner and doing cannonballs in the pool.
I have very little memory of my mother. The only proof I have of her existence lies in stacks of my father's photographs and a handful of hazy memories. A tall, willowy body looming far above me, red nail polish, the smell of an unnamed flowery perfume, freckles. "Happy Birthday" sung in the kitchen. I had her lips exactly, Dad always said. Her nose. And her hands. But not her hair—thin, straight and blonde. The absolute antithesis of my dark mane of wild curls. My father's curls.
Her ashes were scattered in the Östersjön, east of the Swedish village where she was born and spent her childhood before moving to France in her teens. I remember looking at the vast expanse of water, my small hand clutched tightly in my father's shaking one.
"Where's Mommy going?" I'd asked after several minutes of silence.
His dark eyes crinkled in unison with his sad smile as he explained, "Mommy's on her way to Heaven."
"She had to come here first to go to Heaven?"
"She wanted to come here first. Remember how much she loved the sea? The beach? Well, the sea is the train that will take her to Heaven. To God."
I'd thought his explanation was so romantic, so lovely, that I'd been seized by an uncontrollable urge to hug my father with all my might. At three, I'd accepted his quiet, patient reasoning as fact. Mommy was in the sea, in the sky, with God now. In nature. A very palpable thing—whenever I saw the sea or the clouds, the rain, I thought of it as her way of waving hello. She was not gone, not truly. I could not see her, but she was there.
At twelve, however, I knew this had been Dad's way of lessening the impact of losing a parent. I knew she was not waving hello. She was dead. Gone, like countless others before her.
Like my father.
It never really registered that I was an orphan. The word sounded ludicrous, foreign. All I knew is that my rock, my idol, was gone. Shock gave way to blinding, all-consuming anger. How could he leave me alone? When I hadn't a friend in the world, another living relative? How could he be so cruel?
His ashes, unlike my mother's, were buried in an old cemetery in Perros-Guirec. But, like my mother he, too, overlooked the water in death. I've no idea how many hours I spent next to the simple white stone that was all that remained of such a vibrant soul, the ocean breeze weaving through my hair and rubbing my cheeks raw. I spoke to him, pleaded for his return, shouted at the heavens for wrenching him away and dealing him such a miserable, painful death. One night, I even slept beside the stone, absolutely empty and numb to the core.
It was beyond loneliness. It was compete and utter isolation.
I'd died right along with him.
Antoinette took me in immediately, without question. She and Meg were the two beacons of light in my shattered life. Meg was the sibling I'd never known with her wicked sense of humor, her mature sense of empathy. Antoinette was the very image of a saint, rubbing my back during those endless, sleepless nights, offering an endless stream of soft, comforting words. Making me chamomile tea, holding my hand as we sat on the porch and watched the rain. I thought wryly of my father's dying promise: that he, like my mother, would send word from heaven, would never forget me.
But the rain was just rain, and nothing more.
The management had made it explicitly clear that the door to room 3327 was not to be opened except by the select members of the staff who had been trained to deal with what was behind it. It was an unassuming thing, bedecked with a single silver plaque that held a yellowed slip of paper on it. The plaques on subsequent floors were meant to bear names, some newly penciled in and others permanently stamped on. Occasionally, the nametags would also have little pictures next to their legends: base scribbles that occupants had happily crafted in order to further cement their individuality. Some of the doors themselves had even been embellished with pieces of notebook paper that showcased quotes or poems, or construction paper upon which several Polaroids had been taped. All told some sort of story, and while the stories were not all pleasant, they hinted at lives once lived, barely-there but commendable ambitions, distinctive personalities.
The door to room 3327 was bare, and there was no name on the plaque.
Whitewashed, sterile, its aloofness was only exacerbated by the numerous locks and bolts that glistened beneath a thick pane of glass suspended before the wood. The staff doubted that such precautions were necessary anymore, but refused to take any chances. They had been necessary once.
The man inside was quite simply the biggest mystery any of the employees had ever—would ever—encounter. Those who had never seen him frequently marveled at his almost folkloric status, while those who had didn't dare relate their experiences. It was altogether too bizarre. Headache inducing.
He was intruded upon twice a week at the most. A veritable battalion of able-bodied staff still restrained him upon entering, though such measures were hardly needed, had not been needed for years. Still, the risk loomed large in their minds. They'd heard the stories, and dared not allow them to repeat. Those stories now seemed a tad ridiculous to the staff, however, as he hardly posed a threat in their eyes. He never spoke, never moved unless prompted—and on occasion, the workers were even forced to lift and relocate him themselves, as he remained apparently deaf to their entreaties to sit up. As limp and as unsettlingly light as a ragdoll.
He did not eat. His meals were given to him through a slot in the glass. The food would vanish, always, but security tapes did not reveal why. He certainly had not touched it. He never did. Residents had stopped trying to figure out how he was still alive.
There was still the odd therapist that attempted to establish some sort of rapport with him, delve into whatever was left of his mind. They left either muttering angrily to themselves or completely silent, baffled beyond words. He was an enigma in the truest sense. Absolutely unsolvable.
He had no name. There was not a birth certificate, passport, driver's license or mailing address that he had once claimed as his own. The military did not identify him as a former soldier. Governments of other countries were contacted in the hopes of securing some sort of lead, but to no avail. His initial raving had even been looked into, the names mentioned researched, his sentences analyzed, his incoherent curses picked apart, but his slate remained chillingly blank. As far as anyone knew, he did not even exist.
Something that he had insisted upon the moment he'd entered the building all those years ago. It hardly made sense, was quickly dismissed as lunatic, but I knew it to be very true, indeed.
He did not exist. None of us did.