A Flicker in the Dark(36)
Silence settles over the room, and for the first time since I was twelve, I yearn for my mother’s voice. I desperately need her practical yet protective words to drape over my shoulders like a blanket in winter, keeping me safe. Keeping me warm.
This is serious, honey, but just be careful. Be vigilant.
“It feels familiar,” I say, gazing out the window. “Something about it all just feels … I don’t know. The same. It’s like I’m having déjà vu. The police came to speak with me, at my office, and it reminded me of…”
I stop, look at my mother, wonder if she, too, can still remember our conversation in Sheriff Dooley’s office. The humid air, the Post-it Notes flicking in the breeze, the wooden box resting on my lap.
“Entire conversations are bubbling back to the surface,” I say. “Like I’m having the exact same ones all over again. But then I think about the last time I felt this way…”
I stop again, remembering that this memory is one my mother certainly doesn’t share. She doesn’t know about the last time, the time in college when the memories came flooding back again, memories so realistic that I couldn’t separate the past from the present, the then from the now. The real from the imagined.
“With the anniversary coming up, I know I’m probably just being paranoid,” I say. “You know, more than usual, I mean.”
I laugh, lifting my arm from her leg to stifle the noise. My hand brushes up against my cheek and I feel wetness, a tear, running down my face. I hadn’t realized I was crying.
“Anyway, I just needed to say it out loud, I guess. Say it to someone to help me hear how stupid it sounds.” I wipe the tear from my cheek and rub my hand against my pants. “God, I’m glad I came to you before I said it to anyone else. I don’t know what I’m so worried about. Dad’s in prison. It’s not like he can be involved or anything.”
My mother stares at me, her eyes filled with questions I know she wants to ask. I glance down at her hand, at the imperceptible twitch of her fingers.
“I’m back!”
My body jumps as I twist around to face the voice behind me. It’s Sheryl, standing in the doorframe. I lift my hand to my chest and exhale.
“Didn’t mean to scare you, baby,” she laughs. “Y’all havin’ a good time?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. I glance back at my mother. “Yes, it’s nice catching up.”
“You’re just getting all kinds of visitors this week, aren’tcha, Mona?”
I smile, relieved to hear that Cooper made good on his promise to visit.
“When did my brother swing by?”
“No, not your brother,” Sheryl says. She walks behind my mother and puts her hands on the back of her wheelchair, her foot releasing the brake on her wheels. “It was another man. A family friend, he said he was.”
I look at her, my eyebrows furrowed.
“What other man?”
“Kind of trendy looking, not from around here. Said he was visiting from the city?”
Something in my chest squeezes.
“Brown hair?” I ask. “Tortoiseshell glasses?”
Sheryl snaps before pointing her finger at me. “That’s the one!”
I stand up, grabbing my purse from the bed.
“I have to go,” I say, walking briskly over to my mom and hugging her around the neck. “I’m sorry, Mom. For … everything.”
I run out her open door and down the long hallway, the anger in my chest building with every strike of the heel. How dare he? How dare he? I reach the front desk and slam into the counter, panting. I have an idea who this mystery visitor may be, but I need to know for sure.
“Martha, I need to see the guest book.”
“You already signed it, sweetie. Remember, when you came in?”
“No, I need to see past visitors. From this weekend.”
“I’m not sure I can let you do that, honey—”
“Someone in this building let a man in to see my mother who is not authorized. He said he’s a family friend, but he is not a friend. He’s dangerous, and I need to know if he was here.”
“Dangerous? Sweetheart, we don’t let people in who aren’t—”
“Please,” I say. “Please, just let me look.”
She stares at me for a second before leaning over and grabbing the book from her desk. She slides it across the counter and I whisper a thank you before flipping through old pages filled with signatures. I come across yesterday’s section—the day I spent wasting away on my living room couch—and skim down the list of names, my heart stopping when I glimpse the one I was desperately hoping not to see.
There, in messy script, is the proof I have been looking for.
Aaron Jansen was here.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The phone rings twice before that familiar voice greets me.
“Aaron Jansen.”
“You asshole,” I say, not bothering with an introduction. I’m storming through the parking lot in the direction of my car. I had called into my office voice mail the second I handed over the guest book and replayed Aaron’s last message to me from Friday night.
You can call me back directly on this number.