Convicted by Aleatha Romig
Tony pulled Claire into his embrace. “I’m not leaving. I spoke to Agent Jackson. He’s the one I talked with in Boston. I told him that I’d make him a deal; I’d tell him about someone who I’ve helped over the years and confess my wrong doings—if the bureau would agree to allow me to turn myself in—in January of 2015.”
Claire pulled back and looked into Tony’s eyes. “2015—why?”
“We have a child coming in January. I asked for one year.”
“Did he agree?”
“He said it wasn’t in his power, but that he wanted to know what I knew.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Only the tip of the iceberg—I told him about Simon’s plane and that I knew for sure who killed my parents. I told him there was more, but I needed my deal first.”
Claire lifted her brow.
“I’m supposed to call back on Monday”—Tony added—“Today’s Saturday, but it’s still Friday in Boston.”
Claire grinned; it was difficult to keep track of days. She leaned into his chest and listened to the strong steady rhythm of his heart. “One year?”—She felt him nod—“I hope it goes very slowly.”
There is no greater misery than to recall a time when you were happy.
—Danté
September 12, 2016
Shit! It’s the only word that keeps coming to mind! I have a meeting in two days with the Vandersols! I’ve done everything to avoid this—minus quitting my job. I’ve had sick children, dead grandparents—none of it real. I think I’ve finally run out of personal tragedies. Ever since Claire started making progress, they’ve wanted to meet the “aide” who works “so well” with her. That’s according to Ms. Bali.
I’m about to go in for my shift, and Ms. Bali will be there. I’m sure she’ll ask if I’ll be there Thursday. The truth is—I’ve run out of ways to avoid it. I don’t want this to end. Lately, I’ve gone beyond mentioning Tony’s name. I’ve done homework; at night I’ve read—my book and my notes. I tried listening to audio recordings of Claire’s recollections. Hearing her voice, full of emotion, was too difficult; however, reading has helped refresh my memory of Claire’s life.
Then over the past month, whenever we’ve been alone, I’ve shared my research. I’ve recounted the stories she told me. I started with good memories, talking about her wedding and honeymoon. Over time, as I talked, I watched the stress leave her body. She’s even started eating by herself—as long as I talk. If I stop—so does she. I have no idea what results the doctors are getting.
After not liking Claire’s initial reaction to this new regime, I was afraid the Vandersol’s were going to stop the new protocol. Ms. Bali said they almost did. Apparently, there was some big blow-up between them and Dr. Fairfield. She said that Claire’s “wanting” to go outside with me was the small sliver of hope which persuaded them to allow the treatment to continue.
I don’t know if they’re seeing the same positive results as I am. She goes to therapy four days a week, and I have no idea what they do there. Whatever it is, when she returns, she’s tired. I’ve tried to learn what it entails; however, the answer I continually receive is, it’s a “need to know” thing. I’ve suggested her fatigue affects her eating; therefore, knowing would help me. Sometimes I forget my job description—aides aren’t supposed to question policy. Long story—short, I still don’t know what they do.
After Thursday—it won’t matter.
I don’t know if I should go to the meeting and let Emily call me out, or if I should jump ship. It’s no secret—I don’t want to quit. Well, I need to go. As the weather has continued to stay nice, I’m hoping for a little walk outside and time to tell Claire more stories.
Meredith told Ms. Bali she’d be in Thursday morning to meet with Ms. Nichols’ family. The woman looked like she was about to burst with relief. For the last month, at the end of each shift, Meredith has been required to complete a patient assessment. It’s a simple computer form asking what she did and what the patient did. Ms. Bali said the Vandersols and Dr. Fairfield wanted to discuss some of her entries.
Meredith suddenly wished she’d kept copies for herself. She knew she hadn’t been completely forthcoming. She also hadn’t padded her reports with false hopes. Everything she’d reported was true, minus the preceding stimuli.
Trying to keep the impending meeting out of her thoughts, Meredith went on with her daily duties. After Claire finished dinner, she helped her with a light jacket, and they went for an evening walk. Although each night seemed cooler than last, Claire didn’t seem to mind. As they traveled the paths of the facility, Meredith talked about the changing leaves. They were just beginning to turn with the start of golden and red hues infiltrating the normally green landscape. The air held the slightest scent of autumn filling Meredith with memories of Claire’s story. It was fall of 2010 when they had ran into each other in Chicago.
The meeting had been planned. The other reporters had posted pictures of Claire and Mr. Rawlings in Chicago. Even though Meredith lived in California at the time, she couldn’t pass the opportunity to get the story everyone wanted. At the time, she was so proud of using someone else’s story to further her quest. Another article had said Mr. Rawlings was spotted at Trump Tower with the mystery woman—Claire Nichols. It was sheer luck Claire decided to get coffee that evening. Meredith had been lurking with her photographer when they saw Claire enter—the rest was history.
Perhaps it was Meredith’s concern about the impending meeting that caused her to speak without a filter; whatever the cause, she did. Soaking in the impending autumn and feeling Claire’s hand on her arm, Meredith felt the unrelenting need to repeat the apology she’d voiced to Claire years ago in California. Of course, that time it was combined with shock at the consequences of her actions. Today, it was more heartfelt and thought out. After all, it’d been festering for years. “Claire, I know I’ve told you before, but I hope you know how sorry I am about your accident. I know you loved Tony, but what happened to you—because of me—I can never apologize for enough”—She didn’t expect a response. It felt good to say this out loud, and honestly, saying it to someone who may or may not understand, but wouldn’t interrupt, was comforting—“As a reporter I wanted nothing more than to get the big story. It’s no secret—you and Tony were big news. I hoped to use our familiarity to learn what you’d been so careful not to reveal”—Tears came to Meredith’s eyes as she realized her time with Claire was about to end—“I had no idea why you’d been so careful, and you didn’t say anything to me, but having you there—a picture of us—I could use the clues to infer what you wouldn’t say”—Sobs erupted from somewhere deep, somewhere that doesn’t exist in a truly hardened reporter—“How could anyone have suspected what you were living through? I mean, never could anyone know what was happening. Claire, he did such terrible things. I don’t know how you survived. I don’t know why you survived; most people couldn’t. I don’t think I could.”
They were deep into the wooded path, and the setting sun caused shadows to loom in every direction. Removing her sunglasses, Meredith wiped her eyes with her sleeve and pleaded, “I hope someday you can forgive me, as you forgave him. You may not realize it”—she snickered at herself—“I’m sure you don’t, but your ability to love him after all of that—well, it has been inspirational. I mean, my God Claire, the man almost killed you!”
“Stop.”
Meredith’s feet stopped moving by command. As if on cue, so did Claire’s. Inhaling her emotion, Meredith stood still, wondering if she’d imagined the one word. When she heard only the sound of leaves rustling in the gentle twilight breeze, Meredith questioned, “Did you just talk?”
Still wearing Meredith’s sunglasses, Claire’s face was downcast. Meredith couldn’t resist. She removed the sunglasses and lifted her friends chin, revealing tears streaming down Claire’s cheeks, overflowing her unfocused eyes. “You spoke,” Meredith whispered. “I heard it. Oh God! Claire, tell me I didn’t just imagine
The silence grew. With each second, each minute, Meredith’s excitement diminished. She was so upset about the meeting and losing this connection to Claire, she must have imagined the whole thing. Finally, she reached in her pocket, produced a tissue, and wiped Claire’s tears. The sky was now closer to dark than light. Surely, someone would reprimand Meredith for having a patient out past dark. She smirked again, it won’t matter—I’m getting fired in two days anyway.
Lightening her voice, Meredith continued her monologue. The apology was done—she’d talk—because, until they fired her—that was her job. “Let’s get you back to your room. I’m sure they won’t be very happy that I kept you out so late.” Waiting for Claire to turn around, she continued, “I’m sure I’ll hear about it.”
Securing Claire’s elbow, Meredith felt her tremble. “Claire, are you cold? I’m sorry. Let’s get you back.” While Claire stayed steadfast, Meredith remembered the night of Claire’s accident. She’d been out at the lake, and it got dark. “Oh shit, I’m making this worse. You’re fine—no one will be upset with you. Don’t worry—there won’t be any problems—no accidents.”
“Stop.” Claire’s whisper was so low that Meredith had to strain to hear her above the sounds of the country night. Keeping her eyes downcast, Claire continued, “I lived it.” “I don’t want to hear it.” “I want to hear the good times.”
It was against protocol, but what the hell—at this point, what harm was there in breaking another facility rule? Throwing caution to the wind, Meredith wrapped her arms around her long-time friend and cried. The sobs of earlier, the anguish over the last six years, the fear of losing her job—everything came out.
Slowly, Claire’s arms encircled Meredith, and she whispered, “Shhh, I’m sorry.” “Please don’t cry.”
The absurdity of Claire consoling her hit hard. Meredith’s tears turned to laughter.
At first, Claire thought she was imagining it. Then again, she wasn’t sure what was real. Tony’s visits were becoming less frequent. The bland room with one window was becoming more real, and she didn’t want it to be. With Tony, life was filled with colors of varying intensities. This reality was not only colorless, it was lifeless. She yearned for more time with him and longed for his touch; however, day in and day out, the drab room and the people who talked about nothing filled more and more of her hours.
Sometimes she’d focus and see her sister. It was Emily—although, she looked much older. Then again, so did Claire. The people with plain faces and colorless eyes often combed her hair into a ponytail. It was the hairstyle of a young girl—Claire didn’t feel young. The reflection she saw—if she focused in the mirror—didn’t look young. As a matter of fact, her hair was wrong. There was a time it was blonde—because, he wanted it to be. Now the highlights weren’t blonde, they were white. How could she possibly have graying hair? The last thing she remembered was...
That was so difficult. She tried to remember. In that room they took her to, they asked her to look at pictures. Sometimes those pictures would trigger something. When that happened, she tried with all her might to keep the emptiness out. Sometimes she’d cover her eyes or her ears.
There were other times where they asked her to do simple tasks like picking up things and putting them in the right places. They didn’t tell her what was right. She didn’t know if it was acceptable to ask, so she avoided their tasks until they insisted. Claire didn’t like to hear people tell her what to do, especially if they sounded upset. Finally, one day, she picked up the miscellaneous items and put them in the small little compartments. Instead of releasing her from the room, they came up with more things for her to do.
The constant that Claire began to anticipate was Meredith’s visits. It was only recently she realized who the woman was. After all, even with saying her name, the context was wrong. Why would Meredith Banks be feeding her? Then Claire realized—it wasn’t meant to make sense—it just was, and Meredith did what no one else would do—she talked about Tony.
Since his visits had lessened, when Claire tried to think of him, she felt waves of sadness. He was gone. He had to be gone. Why else wouldn’t he visit any longer? Meredith’s stories of happy times brought him back. The memories were difficult for her to recall on her own. Meredith’s recollections gave her sustenance that no food could. She’d replay the words over in her head and remember. She couldn’t feel his touch as she once had, but she could picture the scenes as Meredith spoke.
It recently became obvious that the stories flowed more freely outside. When they walked and were alone, Meredith’s stories took on a life of their own. As she went on about dinners or engagements, Claire pictured her dress and Tony’s tuxedo. When she talked about trips, Claire’s mind saw the snow of Tahoe or the crystal blue waters of Fiji.
There were some memories Claire didn’t want to remember. When Meredith mentioned the bad times or the bad Tony, she tried to stop the visions in her mind. She didn’t want to feel the fear resurrected by those stories.
She questioned the reality of everything, yet in life or fantasy, Claire had promised Tony she’d keep their private life private. That’s what made Meredith safe—she already knew their private life. Claire had disobeyed Tony a long time ago, she wasn’t telling Meredith anything—no, Meredith was telling Claire, so she reasoned, telling her to stop was acceptable. After all, Tony wouldn’t want Meredith telling someone else these stories. That was why Claire had to stop her.
She didn’t mean to make Meredith cry. Claire didn’t want her sad. She was the only person willing to help her remember. “Shhh...I’m sorry”—“Please don’t cry.”
Suddenly, Meredith laughed.
Claire was sure she was having another delusion—people didn’t cry then laugh. Maybe Claire wasn’t really on a walk with her old friend. Maybe she’d soon feel that too familiar sharp pain in her arm. Settling to the ground, Claire waited. The people would come and then she’d wake up somewhere else. Closing her eyes, she hoped when the sharpness came, Tony would be waiting...
“Claire, you need to stand. You’ll get cold out here on the ground.” Meredith’s voice had regained the composure it momentarily lost.
Claire looked up, then side to side. Where were the people?
“I know you heard me. You spoke to me. Don’t worry, you won’t be in trouble, but we need to get back.” Meredith put out her hand. “Please, let’s go back.”
Claire reached up—the sensation of her hand in Meredith’s was real. At least, Claire believed it was.
You must stick to your conviction, but be ready to abandon your assumptions.
—Denis Waitley
Harry stared at his notes and relived his recent conversation with Agent Jackson from the Boston field office. Jackson was very specific—Anthony Rawlings was cooperating with the FBI and would not be apprehended at this time. When Harry questioned the attempt on his own life and the threat to his family, Jackson reminded him that there was no proof of a connection to Rawlings.
He was right—there was no proven connection. Could Harry’s gut be telling him he wanted Rawlings guilty, instead that the man was guilty? Maybe the whole beat down in the back alley accomplished the exact opposite of its intention. Since it occurred, Harry was more focused and determined to close the case. He needed assurance that everyone he cared about was safe. Surprisingly, that list of people—people whom he cared about—really cared about—was more static than he’d previously realized. Harry had family who’d been there for him and friends he could count on. Those people deserved his attention.
Everything became clearer the other day when the deputy director allowed Harry to speak with Ilona. Although he wanted to be assured of her safety, he was prepared for her tirade. The call progressed much differently than he’d anticipated.
“Ilona, are you all right?”
“Harry?”
“Ilona, I’m so sorry. I never imagined there’d be a connection from me to you. I thought you were safe.?
“I know...Ron knows.”
Harry couldn’t believe Ilona’s resolve. If only she’d been that strong when they were married; then again, maybe strength came with the love and support of a devoted spouse, something she now had in Ron. “Is Jillian all right?” he asked.
“She is.” Ilona chuckled. “She thinks we’re on vacation.”
Harry smiled.
“Do whatever you need to do, Harry. I have no idea who you’re after or what this is about—but if there’s a connection to us—please take care of it.”
“The threat was meant as a warning for me to back off.”
Ilona’s voice rang through the field office’s telephone. “I think I know you better than that—at least, I hope I do. You nail this person, whoever it is who’s threatening us. I know you can!”
“Thanks, Ilona. I expected you to chew me out for getting you into this.”
“You’re a few days late. I would’ve, but I’ve had time to think. Someone feels very threatened. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t resort to this. I’m fine and Jillian will forget this vacation as soon as it’s over.”
When they hung up, the indecision that had been looming like clouds around Harry since he’d re-entered the case evaporated. Claire was where she wanted to be—her message said so. There was a time he’d let his personal feelings get in the way. Now, it was strictly business. Claire Nichols was an informant and the granddaughter of an agent who’d been murdered. If the Boston office was confident in her safety then Harry would concentrate his talents where they were better utilized—interrogation and research. Currently, with his ability to communicate with Rawlings severed, research was his mode of operation.
Harry looked over his recent findings. An inspection of the bureau of motor vehicles for the state of New Jersey found twenty-two thousand plus blue Hondas registered in 1989. The search could be considerably refined if Harry could enter a year or model for the Honda—he couldn’t; however, thanks to Claire’s phone call, he had a name: Catherine Marie London. When he ran her name, he hit the jackpot—1987 Honda Prelude registered to Catherine Marie London. Further scrutiny of the registration revealed the color: blue.