11 Remembering

With my fingerprints electronically scanned and verified, I sat alone in an unlocked interrogation room, sipping coffee as I waited for the city detectives to return. When a shadow appeared in the doorway, I turned to see two males dressed in dark suits. Behind them stood Detective Pederson.

The men entered with the senior of the two moving closer to me. "Frederick Clarkson?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please stand. We need you to come with us."

When I stood, the second man grabbed my arm and proceeded to cuff my hands behind my back. I looked to Detective Pederson for an explanation.

With a peculiar sadness in her eyes, she said, "Sorry."

"Who are you guys?" I asked.

"We're with the federal government."

"FBI?"

The man who cuffed me turned to Detective Pederson. "Has he been frisked?"

"No. He came in voluntarily."

Since the men did not answer my question, I again turned to the female officer. "Detective?"

"We did not contact them?" she said.

"Who are they?" I asked

Giving the female detective a warning glance, the senior man said, "She is not to say."

From her expression, I understood who had arrested me.

As the younger agent frisked me, discovering my wallet, the senior of the two agents asked, "Did you tell the local police that you had gone off to a commune in Canada?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where is your passport?"

"You only need a driver's license to go to Canada."

The agent smiled perversely. "That changed 15 years ago."

Just then, I remembered that the border rules had changed with Canada and realized that my harmless lie was no longer harmless. I felt the blood drain from my face.

The younger agent next discovered my gold chain on my person. He lifted large necklace from around my neck and held it out for all to see, whistling his amazement. "Where did you get this?"

"It was a gift?"

"Really? Any gift receipts by chance?" The younger agent dropped the chain into his jacket pocket and began guiding me to the door.

"Don't you have to read me my rights?"

With a hint of boastfulness in his voice, the senior agent said, "No."

The two men next put me into the back of a white van where I sat cuffed to a bench. After every question I posed to the younger agent sitting across from me went unanswered, I began to stare at the floor of the windowless compartment. We traveled for about an hour when I finally felt the van come to a stop and engine shut off. When the back door opened, I found myself in an underground parking garage. Though the men refused to say where we were, a couple cars that did not have governmental plates hinted that I was still in Minnesota.

The agents led me inside, past armed checkpoints, and through a short maze of corridors until we reached a room where they stripped searched me—including my body cavity. Afterwards, they gave me an orange jumpsuit and foam footwear. Once dress, they allowed me to use the toilet before depositing me in an interrogation room that contained three chairs, a table, and a single microphone. On the wall, a simple portrait of a mature woman in business attire hung. They handcuffed me to a thick metal bar that had been bolted to the table and left me to wait.

When they eventually returned, they proceeded to interrogate me while ignoring my injected questions. They refused to share their names or for whom they worked. They wanted to know where I had been and how I travelled to and from Canada without being detected. The only information they divulged was a comment about how my cell phone activity and online footprint during my absence was less than any terrorist's activity they had tracked. They wanted to know how I came into possession of the gold chain, for they assumed it had been stolen.

At first, I tried to answer their questions, but soon fell silent, for I realized the hopelessness of the situation. I was in the hands of people who did not exist, people who made other people disappear. These were the people who had been given too much power after a certain, fateful day in the country's history. These men knew everything I had done online; they knew every financial transaction, every cell phone call. They had recorded every second of my life for over the past decade—not just me, but everyone's; however, they knew absolutely nothing about my life from the past year, and this is what captured their attention.

I could have told them the truth and confess to a special land where people of a different sort lived free from this world's prejudices, but even I struggled to believe that I had been there. I could have told them lies, but whatever I imagined—no matter how simple—that lie could never be verified. To them, I was guilty until proven innocent, and I had nothing that would prove that innocence.

Whether they saw me in allegiance with overseas terrorist or like those of the Oklahoma bombing, I do not know, for they would not communicate anything. I futilely asked for a lawyer—to which they snickered—and knew that a difficult road lay ahead of me. Whether released tomorrow or a year from now, I also understood that my gold was forsaken. With nothing left to say, I dejectedly stared at the table as their questioning persisted. Through all this, I would occasionally stretch my neck and glimpse at the mysterious woman's portrait hanging on the wall. I thought I recognized the woman but could not come up with a name.

The two agents did not play good cop, bad cop. They were two indifferent employees of the federal government who did not have to answer to anyone. They had one goal as they repeatedly berated me with their repetitive questions that I could not answer within reason. They repeated their threats of a long confinement "to keep Americans safe" while offering no enticement. According to them, their job mandated that they monitor and round up people who did not fit into the molds expected by their bosses. Being absent for a year put in the same camp as those who go off for radicalized training. Whether it be a phone call, using the internet, or purchasing something with a credit card, not leaving single electronic mark made me a ghost. And these kinds of ghosts were what these people feared most.

Hungry and fed up with the hours of questioning, I interrupted my interrogators and finally asked for the identity of the woman in the wall portrait. Apparently amused by my question, they asked who I thought the woman to be. When I confessed to not knowing and guessed the director of the FBI or CIA, their smiles flipped to concerned looks as they informed me that the woman was the current president of the United States. I had missed a national election while away.

Taken to a holding cell, I paced the tiny space, rubbing my sore wrists. The insanity of the situation caused me to break out into maniacal laughter.

From the adjoining holding cell, a deep, resonating male voice asked, "What's so funny?"

I stopped and watched a man of a darker complexion sit up in his cot. "Sorry," I said. "I didn't know anyone was sleeping."

"I wasn't sleeping." The man rubbed his face, smiling good-naturedly. "What's so funny?"

"Oh. Um...I seem to have fallen down the rabbit hole and may never see the light of day ever again. I was just laughing at the insanity of it all."

The man took a moment to study me. "What did they pick you up for?"

"I'm not sure," I replied. "They don't share much."

"No they don't."

"If I had to guess, they think I've been radicalized." I quickly judged that the man in the adjoining cell to be a little bit older than me, his accent American. "Why did they grab you?"

"They thought I was funding terrorists overseas."

"Oh." I sat on my rigid cot. "Were you?"

The man's smile grew. "No. I just do the accounting for some overseas pharmaceutical businesses. Nothing bad."

Without thinking, I asked, "Drug trafficking?"

The man gripped the metal bars, peering into my cell. "I'm not telling. How do I know you're not a plant?"

Taken aback by his comment, I returned his suspicious look. "How do I know that you're not a plant?"

After a pause, we both began to snicker at the other's accusation, my cell neighbor appearing quite amused.

The man moved to the head of his cot so he could lean against the wall. "So, you're not a terrorist. I could tell from just looking at you."

"I'm not anything. I'm innocent."

The man eyed me as he draped his arms over his knees. "No one is truly innocent."

"I am. I...just can't prove it."

The man sighed as he looked forward at his cell door. "You know what? I think that I believe you."

I surveyed my surrounding and promptly noticed the video camera hanging from the ceiling outside my cell. "What happens next?"

"More interrogation until you tell them what they want to hear."

"I have nothing I can tell them."

"Then pray that you don't end up on an airplane." The man glanced at me out the corner of his eye. "You know what happens if they put you on an airplane."

I nodded. "A rendition flight: a fate worse than death."

The man nodded. "Only those who believe in fairies are foolish enough to believe that the government stopped those flights."

"I wouldn't call them fairies," I said. "They don't like that term."

The man gave me a confused look.

"The little people, in the forest," I said. "They don't like being called fairies."

Staring awkwardly at me, the man suddenly burst out laughing. "I like you. I hope you stay longer than the last guy."

"What happened to the last guy?"

"God only knows," replied the yawning man as he closed his eyes.

"What time is it?"

"It's somewhere between dinner and breakfast."

Looking upward at the ceiling, I asked, "Do they turn off the lights?"

"No. They don't even dim them."

Unable to sleep under the bright lighting and video cameras, I tossed and turned on my cot as I worried about my fate, wondering if torture lay in my future. I also worried for my friend Dee, for these people that held me probably threatened the local police not to tell anyone that I had been taken. Again, Dee would be left to fear the worst. Despite all this foreboding, mental exhaustion eventually let me fall asleep.

Standing amongst bluebell flowers, I found myself back in the forest, wearing my orange jumpsuit. I began walking the trail, but the terrain remained stagnant, repeating itself as a particular fallen log I had hopped over began to reappear. I began running only to find the entire landscape looping, unchanging. Realizing that I was dreaming, I decided to lay down in the flowers and rest when dark clouds rolled overhead, pouring cold rain upon me. Ignoring the discomfort, I covered my teary eyes with my forearm when a flash of lighting and accompanying thunderclap caused me to sit up. I found myself fully awake in my holding cell as a prison guard in an unmarked uniform kicked the cell bars, yelling at me to take my breakfast tray.

I hopped from my cot and took my tray. Watching the guard walk away, I futilely hoped for any volunteered information from the stranger. When the main door to the holding cells slammed shut, I turned to see my cell neighbor already eating his breakfast.

I returned to my cot and inspected the cold runny eggs, cold bacon, and dry toast. Out of a perverted curiosity, I asked my neighbor, "Did you get bacon too?"

"Yes."

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you Muslim?"

"I am."

"I'll trade you my eggs for your bacon."

"Not a chance, I already ate my bacon."

"You did?" I bit off a small piece of my bacon. "Isn't that against the rules?"

"These people think their tormenting me, but I've always liked bacon. Don't tell anyone, but I don't exactly follow the dietary rules of my parents."

I chuckled as I fiddled with my carton of milk. "Your secret is safe with me." Taking a sip, I set the carton beside me when I began to say, "My name is—"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

The man glanced my way with a furled brow. "Don't tell me your name."

"Why?"

"If they torture me, I might accuse you of something in the hope that they will stop hurting me. That's what happens when the pain is bad enough. You'll tell them anything"

A cold chill passed through my body. "What if one of us is actually freed. We could inform the other's kin of our condition."

The man's solemn stare told me all that I need to know.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"I have no idea. A month, maybe. I started scratching out the days on the wall, but they came in and screamed at me with stun guns in hand when they noticed me doing so." The man nodded to the video camera recording his every movement in his cell.

I bit into my dry toast as I glanced up through the bars at my camera. I then turned to look at the small toilet in the corner and realized that they were going to record even that.

"What were you dreaming about?" asked the man.

"Huh?"

"You were tossing and turning pretty hard in your sleep."

The cool sweat on my neck led me to inspect my pillow, which was also damp. "Huh. I hope I didn't disturb your sleep."

"You didn't wake me. Without anything to do—or exercise, one can only sleep so long." The man bit into his dry toast. "I hope it was a good dream. I'd do anything for a good dream, anything to make me forget this place for just a second."

"I was dreaming about a special bluebell flower that only blooms on rare occasions up north. I was running through a vast sea of flowers. I...I was hoping to see someone."

"A woman?" The man smiled as he chewed on another bite of toast.

I tried to smile. "Yes." I scooped up a bite of cold eggs, and while ignoring the taste, an older dream came to mind, which cause my eyes to widen. "My God, I remember now."

"Remember what?"

"The first time I saw those bluebell flowers. It was about four or five years ago, right after my wife and I separated. I went up north to go mountain biking. While exploring a new trail, I rode through these brilliant blue flowers by chance. I'm not into flowers, so I didn't stop, but I did take notice of their color. That night in the hotel, I had the most vivid dream of all my life."

The man had stopped chewing as he stared at me. "Well, what was it. I could use a good story."

"The dream was similar to the one I just experienced, but the trail of flowers led me to a small log cabin by a lake, a tavern, the kind of bar fisherman used to stop at in the 70s and 80s. Inside, there was a half dozen old men sitting about, drinking beer. Unsure of what to do, I sat at the bar and ordered a soda. I was studying the fishing paraphernalia hanging about the walls when a woman of my age walked into the tavern. She took a seat at the bar, a couple bar stools away. She had long shiny black hair and an athletic physique, I thought her to be..."

My neighbor tapped the cell bars with his spoon. "Hey, are you okay?"

I lifted my gaze. "Ya. She was Indian, Sioux to be specific; I know that now. She ordered a funny sounding drink, and the bartender promptly brought her a glass filled with a glowing green liquid. After she took a sip, she turned to look at me and said, 'Are you going to stare all night or are you going to come talk to me?' I moved to the stool next to her, and we talked. I don't know how long I had actually dreamt, but it felt as if I talked for hours with this woman."

The man in the adjoining cell snickered as he returned to his food. "Just talked?"

"There's more," I retorted. "At the end of the dream, I noticed the stillness in the bar and found that everyone, but the woman had left. The first signs of morning twilight were appearing through the windows. I turned to the woman and confessed that I could talk to her forever, that I never felt more comfortable with anyone in all my life. I even commented that it felt as if there was a special chemistry between us; I promptly blushed and apologized for sounding so corny. She laughed and said that it was not corny, that she too felt it. She then surprised me when she suggested that we kiss, claiming that a kiss can sometimes reveal everything."

As all the details came flooding back, my breakfast tray nearly fell from my lap.

"Why were you surprised?" asked my neighbor

"Um...no woman has ever asked me to kiss her. The significance did not escape me then, or now."

"So, did you kiss her?"

"Yes. She leaned close, and we kissed. It was the most intense feeling that I had ever experienced, dream or otherwise. It was the perfect kiss. We kissed for several seconds, and when our lips parted, we stared intently at each other with mouths agape. She licked her lips and told me, 'You were right. There is special chemistry between us.' I asked if I could kiss her again, and she said yes, but not now. I asked why not, and she told me that our time had run out. She snapped her fingers, and I awoke in my hotel bed all covered in sweat, my pillow stained as if burned in the dryer."

My cell neighbor smiled approvingly. "That's some kind of dream."

The blood drained from my face as the significance became clear. "Shit. She was actually in my dream. She somehow had visited me in my sleep."

The man returned to his breakfast. "This woman exists?"

"Yes. We, um...recently took a trip together. That silly man was right; I had kissed her before. I never realized that my dream was more than that. This is why I didn't remember till now."

"Is this the same woman you were hoping to see while you were sleeping just now?"

Shocked by the realization, my voice wavered when I replied, "Yes. I now know where I belong. I have made a huge mistake."

Recognizing my despair, the man paused from taking his next bite of food. "I try telling myself it's never too late. If you are innocent, and they think you can keep your mouth shut, they may let you go."

Recalling the few releases of prisoners who had been imprisoned secretly—the few actually known to the public—my spirits only sunk further. "Ya, but foreign countries were looking for their citizens. They knew we had them. No one with power will be looking for me."

"True. But if they have released innocent Americans prior to us—and those Americans kept their mouth shut, we would not know about them. There could be dozens, maybe hundreds of us that might have been set free, threatened to keep quiet."

Despite this man's optimism, I could not see a future. A soft, "Maybe," was all I could muster.

As I returned to my breakfast, two nervous looking guards entered the holding room, each taking a post before one of our cell doors.

I turned to my neighbor. "What's going on?"

"I don't know."

I set my breakfast tray to the side and asked the guard standing before my door, "What's happening?"

"Don't speak unless spoken to," he said with a stern tone before resting his hand on his side arm.

The other guard pressed a hand to an earpiece. After a brief second of listening, he then pressed something on his collar and said, "We have the prisoners in sight. We await your orders." Then like the man standing before my door, this one too rested his hand upon his side arm.

Nervously, the two guards exchanged looks before proceeding to draw their weapons.