The Human Stain: Chapter 4
If you just realized what I just realized
Then we'd be perfect for each other
And we'll never find another
Just realized what I just realized
We'd never have to wonder if
We missed out on each other now.
Colbie Caillat
"Whoa, Max, back up. You're telling me I can't have my car back?"
There was just an edge of frustration evident in Claire's voice. She was pulled over at a gas station along the highway, halfway between home and work. The sun had since set, and the only light came from streetlamps and headlights. The Datsun with the WASH ME on its rear window was currently parked before the gas station's storefront, and the interior lighting gave Claire's face a sickly pallor.
"Sorry, Claire," buzzed a young man's voice. Claire readjusted her cell phone against her ear and frowned. Max was the youngest of the three Boyds, and apparently he was the only one at the garage at the moment. He was a product of Mick Boyd's second marriage, and was a half-brother to John. The kid was in his late teens, and she felt a momentary pity for him. Holding down an auto garage alone for a day at that age had to be tough. The two older Boyd men did most of the heavy repair work. Max could do oil changes and top off your coolant, but he seemed to do more duties focused around keeping the garage clean and ringing up customers after their car was repaired.
"Sorry? Max, where's Mick?"
"He's with John. Both of 'em are out. We were working on this new Beamer and…"
"He mentioned that," Claire nodded.
"Yeah, so it turns out there was a coolant leak. The guy who owns it needed it fixed today, and he brought it in before you."
"What does that have to do with anything?" she postulated.
"Dad and John had to go find a replacement tube for the coolant hookup. You can't drive a car when the temperature gauge is through the roof."
Claire ran a quick hand through the hair on top of her head, smoothing it back into the ponytail. "Why did it take both of them to do it?"
"It's not exactly easy to get parts for a BMW out here," Max replied, as if stating the obvious. His gravely voice became more patient and slow, and Claire started to take offense. "Dad called around and apparently there are two places in Vegas that might have the part. There's also a shop in Bullhead City that swears they have the part, so John left for there."
"Bullhead is pretty far," Claire said glumly.
"Yeah," Max agreed. "Dad has to check out both places in Vegas and doesn't know if he can get back in time. John won't be back until tomorrow."
Claire groaned. "Has any work been done on the Eclipse?"
"Dad started to look at it, but then the Beamer owner called in and started getting nasty, saying he needed his car by tomorrow morning at the latest."
"Ridiculous," Claire muttered into the mouthpiece.
"Tell me… ab-out… it." Max's voice wavered on the other end as the cell phone went through a few moments of bad connection.
"Is there anything you can do?" She poked moodily at the rearview mirror, adjusting it incrementally.
"Trust me, I would if I could. As it is I've been barely holdin' down the fort. It's just me. I got the last guy here an oil change and closed half an hour ago. 'Sides, Dad needs to look at your car. I tried to figure out the problem myself once they left, but I'm stumped."
The blonde woman sank in the driver's seat in defeat. "They will be back tomorrow, you say?"
"Should be. I'll tell them you called. Dad told me to tell you he's real sorry. He also said to tell you, 'just keep it for now', whatever that means."
Claire paused a moment, ran the words by herself internally, and then made a sound of frustration. "I hate this thing."
The radio flared to life, drowning out Max's next sentence. It sounded like something by Ice-T.
"Don't hate the player, hate the game…"
Reacting like she'd been slapped, Claire reached over and rotated her wrist swiftly to turn off the radio. The rapper's voice died abruptly.
"What was that!?" she heard Max say with surprise. He sounded slightly rankled.
"Sorry," she finished lamely, "this loaner your dad left me has a problem with the radio. Actually, it has several problems." She shifted in her seat, shooting the radio dial a pointed glare.
"I was wonderin' about that. I checked and it says that all our loaners were out today. How did you get one?"
"Uh…" Claire grated her jaw nervously. Mick obviously hadn't let Max in on the events leading up to her 'loaner'. If he hadn't told him, she sure wasn't. The fewer people that new, the better – even if Max was Mick's son.
"He borrowed me a friend's car," she sputtered.
"Oh. Which friend?" Max sounded suspicious.
"Forgot his name. Anyways, it was okay by your dad and his buddy, so…"
"I guess…"
"Hey, Max, have your dad call me when he gets back tomorrow, okay? I should be getting home."
"Sure thing."
The call ended on that note, and Claire heaved a weary sigh before tapping her fingers along her thigh.
What a day. Now I'm stuck with this thing for the night. Lucky me.
She put away the cell phone, tucking it into an interior pocket within her purse. After plopping her bag back down on the passenger seat, she mulled over her bad luck once more.
Without warning, the radio was back.
"Wash
Wash me clean
Mend my wounded seams…"
"I AM NOT WASHING YOU!" the young woman cried indignantly, and once more slapped at the radio dial. There was a brief second after where she pondered the dire consequences of addressing a car, mainly out of concern for her sanity. The car was definitely getting creepy. It was starting to go through different music genres, which meant it was tuning into different stations. It would have been easier on her mind – more logical, that is - if it kept flipping on to the station it had been shut off to, but that wasn't the case.
Not only that, it was getting freaky. It was almost like it was trying to communicate with her.
I must be more tired than I thought. Yeah, that's it. I'm going home.
Claire glanced into her rearview mirror, saw it was clear, and pulled out of the parking space. Maybe her radio was haunted. She gave a tired laugh.
Haunted – yeah, sure. It wouldn't be the only thing, if it were.
o..Before she existed here, she existed before, in memory..o
"Claire."
She hears her name, and turns toward it.
"Claire."
It resounds in her head, and it is real, as real as the light in her skull, as real as the fabric she grips tightly between her fingertips.
She opens her eyes.
The voice doesn't speak at first, nor needs to.
Then, it does.
"It's over."
"Why?" she asks, her voice quiet and the silence deafening.
"Because it never really was," he replies.
He does not sound sad. There is no room for it. There were fissures of sorrow that existed before in between the happiness, but they grew into cracks too large and too deep…
…and then they couldn't walk the path anymore because there was too much stumbling…
"Simon," she says his name, and pulls herself upright on their bed.
"It's over," he repeats.
Her heart sinks and pain consumes her. She hurts, but not because she is sad. She hurts because she was wrong. She wants to ask why again, but she already knows why.
She knows why just like he knows why, and the realization sinks in her like a stone.
Because it never really was.
o...o
Claire woke with a start. Moonlight pierced her window, creating rectangular boxes of light across her bed. Darkness filled the rest of the space, and she blinked against the blackness.
The woman was still a moment, paused in animation like a viper the second before the lethal strike. The house was quiet, and the rustle of fabric as she broke her pause seemed unnaturally loud to her own ears. Her legs swung out and around, leaving her propped upon the precipice of the bed. Her back bent, and her head fell to her lap.
Over.
It might have been an opportune moment to cry, but that was thankless work. She had already done much of it years before, the ones following the divorce.
The horrifying thing was discovering that she didn't care. That was the truly terrible thing.
All that sobbing, and it was she that she wept for – selfish creature that she was. She cried for herself because she had been wrong, and she had married him for the wrong reasons. He had saved her life, and for that she was eternally bitter and grateful at the same time.
She forced herself to think she loved him in spite of himself, and that had been the biggest farce of all. He had thought he loved her, and while in the spotlight following attack maybe they had convinced themselves this is how it happens, this is it.
It wasn't, however. It was just a big stage show that covered the news. He saved her life, he stayed by her side, they fell in love, they married, and they would live happily ever after. It was the perfect fairy tale, but fairy tales only existed in dreams and stories. Not real life, never there.
Somewhere along the way they were so swept along in what they thought they should do that they forgot to do.
It never worked, because there was no work being done.
They floated along, carried by a wave of perceived success so strong that they just let themselves ride it. In the end, they were thrown harshly upon the shore like so much driftwood and left to pick up the fragments.
Never again.
Sliding out of bed, Claire put all her weight on her good leg and hopped around the berth of the bed without her prosthesis. She kept one hand on the bed frame to steady herself, and then took one last leap before planting both hands against the sill of the large picture window that overlooked her front lawn.
Her gaze perused her property, noting the dry birdbath ringed by shrubbery before moving to the driveway.
Her brow dipped low and she frowned.
The car was missing.
The lighting wasn't the best, admittedly, but she could clearly recall leaving the Datsun parked on the drive where she had left it. The streetlight at the end of the drive cast a sickly glow on everything, and she quickly glanced up and down the block. There were no other cars in sight except a neighbor's Ford Explorer, which was parked up the street.
Panic for a car she didn't even own set in.
Hopping back around the bed in a fevered manner, Claire dipped once she reached her nightstand and groped along the edge for her prosthesis. She was only in her striped cotton pajamas, and barefoot. The silicone liner was laying upon the nightstand, within arm's reach. She rolled this onto her stump first after pulling back her pajama pants with all the practice of a seasoned amputee, and then rolled on the prosthetic sock next. She did this all while working in the dark – she could do this blindfolded. Her left leg had been removed just below her knee, so there was just a small section of upper calf that had been spared.
The prosthesis itself was next. Lining up the pin that protruded out of the silicone liner, Claire pushed down and heard the satisfactory 'click' that let her know the pin was locked in place at the bottom of the socket. Smoothing her pajama pants leg back down, Claire stood and took a few irregular steps before developing a comfortable stride that allowed her fluid motion.
Down the hall, into the kitchen and out the front door, the woman scanned the area cautiously before turning back at the first urge to call the police. Something stopped her however – the vehicle itself hadn't been reported missing from the first moment they discovered it at Boyd's auto garage. If she reported it now, she would jeopardize not only herself but the Boyds as well.
You were driving a car without knowing the owner, without insurance, and you expect the police to not think you didn't steal it?
The voice in her head was right. She couldn't call the police over this one, or she would be in hot water. It still left her with the irrevocable issue at hand, however – the Datsun was missing, and somebody had stolen it.
Just be glad. You'll get your car back tomorrow. You can call the garage, tell Mick the whole story, and no one will be the wiser.
She flinched and braced herself against the doorjamb as the cool night air rushed past her temple.
Think, think, think!
A familiar hum came from up the street, and Claire looked up.
The headlights… a familiar shape. As it rattled closer, she realized it was the Datsun.
The thief is bringing it back…?
The vehicle slowed as it approached her drive. It was so dark that she couldn't see into the car, but there was definitely someone in the driver's seat. A shadowy figure was outlined briefly when the car ambulated slowly forward, and then the angle was such that the interior of the car was blocked from sight.
As if noticing her in the doorway, the thief ceased to slow and instead gunned the engine. The car was off like a shot, and Claire was too.
"COME BACK HERE!" she cried after the stolen car.
Maybe I should call the police.
Her legs were cycling beyond her own volition, arms pumping as she raced down the sidewalk after the Datsun.
What am I doing?
It was a good question. One bare foot smacked smartly against the concrete, ignoring the pebbly texture, and the prosthetic made a tinnier sound as it propelled her forward.
Her lungs were heaving, and she briefly realized she hadn't run this fast sincethat day.
The car with the '38' decal continued to put more and more distance between them, hit the brakes once it reached the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. Tires squealed as rubber met road, and it nearly did a smart 180.
It was now facing her. The engine revved once, and then the high-pitched whine of wheels began anew.
Claire faltered, slowed, and tried to ignore the stitch in her side before realizing the folly of her ways.
It was coming back, full hilt, in her direction.
The blood drained from her face.
Idiot.
Her mind was a very pleasant companion, truly. It didn't seemed too concerned to say more when her self-preservation instinct kicked in, overriding the panic and temporarily bravado (aka insanity) that had gotten her into that position. She spun on her good heel, made a strangled sound, and fled the way she had come.
The roar of the Datsun was fast approaching. It overcame her senses, drowning out her heart rate and she scrambled away from the sidewalk and over a neighbor's garden gnome. Her prosthesis caught, and her own frenzied momentum drove her into a row of hedges separating property lines.
"Ooooph...!" she yelped. A mass of thorny ridges dug into the cotton nightclothes, leaving her with miniature chicken scratches. Her fingers clawed against numerous branches and other bits of foliage as she grappled to get away.
Can't die, can't die, can't die, her mind repeated resolutely. Just as she was sure the thief was jumping the curb to run her over right in her neighbor's garden, she broke free of the hedgerow and sprinted for her own house. Claire didn't have much of a plan short of locking herself inside and calling the police. Risks be damned.
She was just two houses away now. Her dwelling rose up quickly, looking more inviting than she had even recalled seeing it. Her heart stuttered as it dawned on her that the Datsun was now matching her speed, going slow for a car but fast for her. The last thing she wanted to do was to glance over and see her pursuer pointing a gun at her head before blowing it off. If she didn't look at him, she wouldn't see it happen. If she didn't see it happen, it couldn't possibly be a possibility – at least in the way she conceived it.
One house away now. So close…
…and then something stabbed her in the foot from below.
Releasing a strangled howl of pain, Claire's features contorted in anguish and she fell heavily on one side like a downed deer.
Distantly, she heard the car idle.
The world slowed to a crawl.
I'm dead.
She felt faint, and extremely befuddled. Her head swam, and she licked her lips to moisten them. The painful object that had waylaid her was given a quick assessment. It appeared to be a metal sprinkler head left out to water the grass. She must have stepped on one of the rotating arms. Unsure if she was bleeding or not, she grudgingly dragged her attention up to the Datsun.
Claire didn't want to look, but she just had to. It would probably be the last thing she ever saw, after all.
Across from her, separated by a clear-cut line of concrete sidewalk, was the Devil's Datsun. She couldn't see if the driver was still inside due to the fact that she was laying prone on her side, but she heard the car door open from the other side of the car.
He was coming. He was coming to stab, shoot, steal, rape, or any combination of those things. Her fear tasted like a bad salt in her mouth, and her mind ran wild with all sorts of possibilities for her pending demise.
Scream, she prompted herself, he's going to kill you.
She did then, and let out an ear-shattering one at that. "HELP!"
Somewhere, a neighborhood dog barked. Across the street, a light flickered on.
"Shut up!" shouted a muffled man's voice.
Score another brownie point for faith in humanity!
Crab-crawling backwards, Claire's mind went into hyperactive overdrive. This was definitely going to give her grass stains if she survived it.
The light across the street shut off again, and all was silent once more. There were no footsteps from the car, no sound whatsoever of anyone climbing out.
Forcing herself to stand, Claire limped away from the vehicle while watching it with eyes the size of dinner plates. She saw someone in there, she saw the thief.
Now eye level with the cab, she couldn't see anyone inside. The driver's side door on the right was definitely open, but there was no one in or around the car. Had he somehow escaped without her notice?
The tension was horrible, and twice she opened her mouth to speak, but twice no sound came out, so she waited in agony, wondering if the car thief was hiding somewhere along the dark street. When the seconds slipped by and no one appeared, she took one lame step towards the car. It was still idling quietly, and she was in no immediate danger of being run over.
Cars didn't steer themselves, after all.
Her broken gait sped up, and she circled the car until she was on the driver's side, ignoring the pain that shot up her bare foot. She was leaning heavily on her prosthesis now, trying to keep the weight off her injured foot. Peering into the cab, she glanced around for any hiding entities before dropping like a bolt into the driver's seat. She slammed the car door behind her and popped her palm down on the locking mechanism in one fluid motion.
After checking to see if the passenger side was locked too, she let out a sigh of relief. The tension ebbed from her body, and she happened to drop her eyes to the ignition.
There were no keys.
She knew she had kept the thing locked, and last she checked the keys were still secure in her purse, which was in her house…
Was it hotwired?
Her hands floated tentatively to the upper rim of the steering wheel, and then she forced her throbbing foot to comply with her brain. She shifted into first, and rolled the car slowly up past the last house before reaching her drive. The car climbed into the concrete driveway, guided by the frazzled blonde behind the wheel.
God, I can't wait to get rid of this car. Mick is going to love this one.
She vowed never to loan another car from him as long as she lived.
Shifting into neutral, Claire put the car in park and made sure the doors were locked as she exited. She made a hobbled jaunt for her front door, and spent no extra second once inside to lock it behind her. There was a bad moment when she became torn over calling the police or calling Mick or calling anyone or no one at all – and then she decided to simply go to the bathroom to inspect her foot.
She limped down the hall, and into the hallway bathroom. The sudden rush of bright light made her wince, but not as much as the press of her sole against the smooth tile underfoot. God, it hurt.
Glancing down with trepidation, the woman made a face and then let out a sigh of relief that sank her shoulders. It wasn't as bad as she had expected. It stung badly, but that was mainly due to the immediacy of the injury. It was a small puncture wound just around the soft arch of her foot, but nothing a Band-Aid wouldn't fix.
Straightening once more, Claire peered into the mirror, disheartened by her disheveled appearance. She was indeed covered with grass stains and remnants of grass – it clung to her loose ponytail in random spikes. Reaching up to start the long and arduous process of picking them out, Claire paused when she noticed a movement.
Her hands froze in place, and her eyes grew large. Unease crept through her chest, chill and hollow.
There, standing behind her, was the face she wore ten years ago.
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.
A/N: There is Chapter 4! You guys are right about Smokescreen, I couldn't keep him a secret for long. As for one commenter's review about the language in the story – read it or don't, it's up to you. Real people curse quite a bit, unless you are the religious type. As Claire is not, she's prone to having a potty mouth when she thinks she's alone – notice she won't go off like a sailor when she's around acquaintances or strangers. She's keenly aware of their perception of her, just like anyone else would be. People tend to loosen up with their lexicon if they think they are their only audience, and I've tried to keep it in that vein. She isn't randomly swearing in every situation. It's just the way she is - like it or leave it.